Erik walked among the city’s bright lights and roaring engines, the world around him a blur of noise and color. Neon signs screamed above him, the streets alive with people who rushed past without noticing the cloaked figure in their midst. His black cloak brushed the pavement, his mask gleaming faintly in the artificial glow, and still he moved like a shadow no one cared to see.

He stopped.

Ahead, a group of youths laughed, their clothes torn and neon, stitched together like some carnival parody. From a speaker in one of their hands, a thunderous bass erupted, crude words echoing through the air, vulgarity strung together and called music.

Erik’s chest tightened. Once, music had lifted men to heaven, had brought tears to eyes, fire to hearts. Mozart, Verdi, voices that made the soul tremble… all of it replaced by this hollow pounding. He stared, unblinking, as though watching the desecration of a sacred altar.

One of the boys glanced up, met his eyes, and smirked. “Cool costume, old man. What are you supposed to be?”

The Phantom said nothing. He merely raised his chin, gaze cold and unyielding. His silence was sharper than any rebuke, his presence heavier than words. The boy shifted uncomfortably, forced out a laugh, and moved on.

Erik remained where he stood, watching the crowd ebb and flow around him like a tide that had no place for him. His hands curled beneath his cloak, not in anger but in grief.

This world is not mine, he thought. The beauty I bled for has been buried beneath vulgarity. The opera houses are silent, the voices stilled, and in their place—emptiness. A joke of an age.

He turned away, his cloak trailing after him like a fading echo. The mask caught the light once more before he disappeared into the shadows of the city—alone, unseen, and unheard, as always.