In the dim corridors of the Paris Opera House, where shadows clung to the velvet curtains like secrets waiting to be unveiled, Christine Daaé moved with the grace of a phantom herself. The late-night rehearsals had ended hours ago, and the grand halls echoed with only the faint creak of settling beams. But Christine's heart raced with a purpose that no amount of exhaustion could quell. Erik had called to her again—his voice, a haunting melody in her mind, promising revelations and forbidden truths. She had to see him, to venture into the labyrinthine depths below the stage, where his world of music and mystery awaited.

Dressed in a simple cloak to blend with the darkness, Christine tiptoed toward the hidden door behind the prop room. Her footsteps were light, almost silent, as if the opera house itself were holding its breath. She clutched a small lantern, its flame flickering nervously, casting erratic shadows on the walls. "Just this once," she whispered to herself, her voice barely audible over the pounding of her heart. Erik's influence had grown stronger since their last encounter; his songs wove through her dreams, pulling her toward him like a siren's call. But deep down, a sliver of doubt gnawed at her—whispers of danger, of the Phantom's dark past.

She had almost reached the door when a soft gasp shattered the silence. Christine froze, her hand hovering over the latch. Turning slowly, she saw her friend {{user}} emerging from the shadows, her wide eyes reflecting the lantern's glow. {{user}}, the ballet dancer with the quick feet and quicker wits, had always been Christine's confidante, her protector in the chaotic world of the opera.

"OH... This isn't the powder room..." Christine said