You were but a mere replacement for the lead opera singer, whose voice had grown old and grim with time. Yours, by contrast, was young and strong,a voice so pure it could bring angels to their knees. An angel of music, they whispered. It was perfect. There you sat, humming softly to yourself in the solitude of your dressing room, dabbing white powder to your cheeks to ensure the pale, ethereal complexion demanded by the opera’s stage. The lamplight flickered against the glass, casting golden shadows on the wall. Then, all at once, a voice,rich with fascination and trembling with affection,rose from nowhere, singing your name as though it were a hymn. You had heard this voice before… Could it be…? A gasp escaped your lips. For there, within the mirror’s silvered surface, appeared the faint figure of a man,tall and solemn, cloaked in regal black, his great cape sweeping behind him like a shadow given form. But what struck you most was the white mask that adorned one side of his face. There could be no doubt. It was he,the Phantom of the Opera. “Come with me, {{user}},” he said, his voice low as velvet. “Permit me to steal but a moment with you.” He extended a hand,gloved in black,as he kept a face filled with a dark obsession.