Disclaimer: Even if I had the entire cast chained up in my basement, I still wouldn't officially own The Phantom of the Opera.

Title: Peccata Mundi

Summary: The history of a man lies behind his white mask and his devotion to those in need. Through the shadows of his past and the light of the future, he seeks to right the wrong.

Assignment 1: The Nightingale

Summary: With his night terrors growing steadily worse, Erik must find the strength to locate a kidnapped woman. Will he be able to discover and protect her before it's too late, and will he be able to correctly distinguish between the past and the present?

Author's Note: Pardon the wait. I have been incredibly stressed the last week, and have had no free time to update. Three exams and midterm papers will do that. I've also been feeling rather under the weather. So I hope you enjoy this next chapter even if it is not as up to par as those before it. And please forgive the lack of length. The next chapter will, hopefully, make up for it.

P.S. Sorry about that weird change from "section" to "chapter". It shouldn't happen again.

Section 8

- The All-Consuming Beast

Erik had taken up roost back on the familiar lamppost. He had gone twice around the building, and after being satisfied that there were no other possible exits, he had resumed his stake out. It seemed the farther and farther he claimed interest in this Monsieur Richeleau, the more and more twisted this case became. True, he was used to the strange and unusual. He, and most others, even categorized himself as strange and unusual. The only aspect that he disliked of such projects, though, was the inability to see what lay ahead. Anything could happen, and it always did.

He uncharacteristically rubbed the hazel eye that was not abstracted by the white mask adorning his face. The vision of the instrument house had been dancing in front of him for a while. His sight had seemed to grow a bit fuzzy and out of focus ever since he had returned to his station. The shot of adrenaline he had undergone in the back alley had quickly dissipated, leaving him wearier than he had initially imagined being. He even assumed, with a slight smirk, that if it were not for the metal pole running up along his spine, he might just fall over.

Erik was not one to admit weakness or defeat, though. He would never intentionally give in to either. However, Madame Giry's warning came back to him time and time again as he waited, watching and listening. Perhaps he should have paid more attention to how he was getting by. But he always acted like this before and nothing serious ever occurred. This reassurance quelled his worries for the time being. He just had to keep reminding himself that nothing was going to happen. He was going to be fine. Nothing was going to happen.

A loud bang echoed off of the sleeping buildings. Erik's posture straightened at the sudden noise. His eyes widened, and he stared harder at the instrument shop. Where had that come from? What had caused it? Erik wanted to know. The inability to act was unbearable, but if he made any move now, it would all be over. Monsieur Richeleau would win. The girl would be lost forever. His promise would be bust. He would lose.

Seconds. Minutes. An hour or two. Finally he observed the posterior interior lights starting to extinguish. The owner was finally leaving. The actual time was unfamiliar. Erik could just picture what Monsieur Richeleau was doing. Or at least what any other normal closer would be doing. He would recheck every cabinet and case, and make sure that the floor and counters were spotless. He would test the front door to ensure it was locked. In the back, he would straighten up slightly and pack the belongings he needed to take home. Then, with one last glance over the room, he would turn out the lights and lock the door.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary when Monsieur Richeleau emerged from the back minutes later. There was a briefcase clutched in one hand and the other was adjusting the top hat adorning his head. The large overcoat he wore hid his husky frame. He looked completely normal—completely unsuspicious. He stopped as he reached the opening of the alley, and glanced up and down the street. It should have been apparent that no one would be out at that hour-whatever hour it was-but he insisted on checking both directions. After turning onto the main stretch of road, he kept a calm, casual pace.

What was Erik to do? What else: stalk his prey.

Erik kept a very safe distance. He made sure his footsteps were light and undetectable. His body was going away with him again. He hardly knew how he had gotten there. His mind continuously questioned his reasoning and his actions, but there were no answers available; and still, his feet moved in front of him.

His senses began changing on him. His vision leapt psychotically from one thing to the next. His hearing turned into a tunnel. Every little sound seemed near enough to touch, even Monsieur Richeleau's heartbeat. The smell of bakeries and restaurants he passed seemed to linger in front of his nose. His taste buds prickled his tongue, hungry for a savory flavor. His pace quickened unconsciously.

Erik could hear Monsieur Richeleau's pulse quicken. He knew that he was being followed. There was always a suspicion that kicked in when one was being followed. It was like a sixth sense. Now the owner's was telling him he was not alone. This assumption merely caused Erik to move faster.

Every nerve in his body ached as his assumptions of Monsieur Richeleau's guilt flooded into his mind. He wanted to wrap his hand around the man's throat and squeeze until the veins popped. He wanted to see the horrified expression that always appeared right before the end. He wanted to see the life flutter out of this man's eyes. He would bring swift justice down on the guilty. They would taste redemption through death. The notion brought a crazed grin to his face. He was losing his mind. It was taking over. He was drowning once again.

The transformation from civil man to primitive, instinctual beast actually took minutes upon minutes, but only seemed like seconds to the inflicted. He had no way of fighting against the ravenous creature. It was too strong, too hungry. It was coming out with a vengeance, and all Erik felt like he could do was sit back and watch helplessly as it fulfilled every hidden desire he himself was afraid to bring forth.

Soon Erik was right on top of Monsieur Richeleau. That was the point when the man turned to encounter his worst suspicions. Upon first seeing the disheveled, raging being, Monsieur Richeleau's manner immediately turned frantic. His expression dropped in horror and a tremor continuously plagued his body. In a swift motion, Erik had him against the wall of one of the buildings. His arm was up at the man's throat and the other held his jacket untidily.

"W-What do y-you want?" Monsieur Richeleau stammered. Even in the dim street, it was quite obvious all the colored had drained from his face. He was as white as a ghost. "W-Who are you?"

"People like you don't get to ask questions," Erik rasped in a deep, throaty voice. It was different from his original. If it wasn't for the white mask adorning his face, still, there would have been no possible way to relate Erik and this creature to one in the same.

"Y-You're t-that man f-from the s-shop!" Monsieur Richeleau gasped.

"Ding, ding, ding!" Erik congratulated sarcastically. "You're prize is a final request."

"A f-final r-request?" It was like he hadn't caught what was just spat into his ear.

"Going once! Going twice!" Erik returned.

"Why!" Monsieur Richeleau screamed to the night, stopping the countdown.

Erik glared satanically at him. His jaw protruded in anger, revealing threatening fangs. "Why? Why?!" he called. "You dare to even ask that damn question?" He paused, looking over the man's sweaty face. "If you really want an answer, ask Mademoiselle Daaé or Monsieur Daaé, you filthy pig!"

Erik was literally spitting and foaming on his face. Monsieur Richeleau closed his eyes tightly, tear streaming from the edges. He was sure he was doomed now, Erik could tell. However, something caused the adrenaline to run cold in his veins. He stopped, getting that frustrated look in his face again. He looked over his shoulder at what horizon could be seen beyond the towering buildings. The sky was slowly being painted with reds and pinks: Sunrise.

Suddenly he fell to his knees, clutching his head in agony. His eyes were clenched and a shrill cry was escaping his throat. It was animalistic and foreign. There had never been anything like it before. Monsieur Richeleau, luck being on his side, took the chance to run away. Erik was too involved in the feeling of his body being torn into two to even give the man a second thought.

The pain, the agony, the fight.

There was still resistance left. It wasn't going to be that easy to fell him.

Somehow he managed to get to his feet. The cry continued to emanate from his lips as he bounced off of each building down the street. There were no directions in his mind. His feet did the navigating. He tugged and pulled at his hair. He became even more disheveled and mad looking. Meanwhile, the sun continued to slowly rise in the sky.

The sun, the light, the day.

Anything, but that!

Erik's vision swam, but he recognized the street. One foot in front of the other. Another step, and another, and another. He swayed and tottered dangerously. Right ahead, just a little farther ahead. Each foot weighed as much as a cement block. He eased his way forward, though. The tunnel was getting tighter and tighter. The day was dawning, but he was slowly sinking back into the darkness. He just couldn't give in. He had to keep fighting…

The first rays of the new day stretched across Erik's unconscious form, strewn out on the sidewalk.