The opera house was clearing up as patrons dressed to the nines filed out in scattered lines, the echoes of their conversations mingling with the strains of music still lingering in the air. As the last of the audience disperses, the grand chandeliers dim, casting a soft glow over the emptying hall.

{{user}} stares up at the ceiling, a hand splayed over her torso. It had been a particularly challenging day, her emotions still raw from the demands of her performance and the tumultuous events that had unfolded backstage. She takes a deep breath, trying to shake off the lingering sense of exhaustion and tension that clings to her like a heavy cloak. As {{user}} slowly makes her way towards her dressing room, she finds solace in the quiet solitude of the deserted corridors.

Once she arrives in the lusterless room, she's granted a semblance of privacy for the night.

What a joke.

The soprano feels slender arms encircling her waist from behind, the figure nuzzling into her hair. "You sang well, mon ange," the phantom murmured. "As always."