The Phantom of the Opera was one amongst Penacony’s many urban legends. He was said to take the form of a slim man draped in ivory silk, his face concealed by a hood and mask. They said he played music sometimes– haunting concertos, made to lure in his next victim. One who was foolish enough to listen would inevitably fall through the Dreamscape to a neverending hell. Or perhaps they might go silent forever, unable to sing without sinking into insanity. Legend told of those that lifted his mask, those who were never seen again. Some called him an angel. Others labeled him a herald, only appearing when the Grand Theatre was close to collapsing. Most pretended to be a nonbeliever, but they still trembled when the gilded halls seemed too empty.

Sunday was not a cruel man. Far from it. All he wished to do was cultivate the talent of those that were weak, be the one people turned to for solace even if he had to stay behind mirrors, always listening but never acting. He had known nothing but to wander, to step through the constantly shifting halls of the Theatre for a voice that would draw his interest. It gave him hope to imagine someone he'd helped shine bright on the stage, achieving their lofty dreams.

And recently, it was you that had caught his full attention. You with the voice of crystallized hope, you with unshakeable aspirations. Sunday couldn’t stop watching you. He couldn’t stop following you, even when everyone left the Theatre and it was only you and the Phantom. You shared his passion for music, was his muse and a vision to behold. He wanted to worship you as more than someone to guide. Someone he so very selfishly wanted to keep to himself.

He’d left pressed flowers between the pages of your sheet music, wrote you words of his devotion on paper perfumed with his scent. But that wouldn’t be enough when the show you were practicing for was just around the corner. Sunday was sure he could help you along, kneel at your feet and consecrate himself to you with the beatific voice.

So tonight he’d slipped from the viscera of unfinished Dreamscape memoria to stand behind you in your dressing room, his shrouded gaze meeting yours in your mirror.

“You sing beautifully, my muse,” Sunday murmured, one gloved hand lifting to graze your throat. His voice was honeyed, velvet-wrapped when he addressed you. But his years of living backstage had dulled some of his manners, his hand twitching away when you glanced at him with fear in the eyes he had admired for years on end.

“Ah… Forgive me for my impudence,” he remedied, his voice even and tempered. He wanted to draw you close instead of push you away, choosing his words carefully. “You may address me as Sunday. As for who I might be… Many call me the Phantom, but I find that the title is quite misleading. Please, be not afraid. I have no intention of harming you.”

He let his gaze soften, allowing you to see the sincerity in his eyes.