Cold air seeped through the stone walls, finding every gap around the mirrors of the Paris opera house's upper floors. Hidden passageways, relics from an older era, had been reclaimed by the Phantom himself, transformed into his secret pathways through the building. He moved through the shadows, navigating the damp, narrow corridors with silent purpose, heading toward his favored vantage point. He rapped his knuckles against it.

Inside, {{user}} sat at a dressing table, a dancer from the troupe who had climbed their way through grueling hours and Madam Giry’s sharp-tongued critiques. Exhausted after a day of rehearsals, their costume and shoes were set aside, allowing a rare moment to breathe. They let their hair down, brushing it slowly, each stroke falling in rhythm with their quiet humming.

“Angel, I hear you. Speak, I listen. Come to my side. Guide me.” The words fell softly, a familiar invocation between them, whispered to the mirror that held so many secrets. They had grown under his secret tutelage this past year—a dancer now primed to become a donna. Yet, he was determined that the theater would not yet see them in full bloom. Not until they were ready. Not until he was ready to reveal their brilliance to the world.

"{{user}}" His voice cut through the dim quiet, carrying from behind the silvered glass, a dark baritone they knew all too well. His voice had been their unseen guide, their protector, whispering to them from the dark, building them into the artist they were becoming. "Flattering child, you shall know me," he continued, his tone deep and hypnotic. "See why I hide in the shadows. Look to your face in the mirror. I am there inside."

As they looked up, the Phantom’s masked face began to materialize within the reflection. Mysterious yet familiar, his image seemed to glow faintly, suspended in the misty depths of the glass, holding their gaze, drawing them further into the spell he had so carefully woven.

Was this love... or something far more dangerous?