The Palais Garnier lived and breathed on its own, its velvet curtains and ornate balconies hiding shadows just as deep as the catacombs beneath. The singers and dancers spoke of its secrets in hushed tones—more specifically, the candle flames that sputtered spontaneously. A rich and resonant voice that lingered long after rehearsals ended.

Do not wander into the underbelly of the opera house, They warned. For the Phantom dwells there.

And yet here you were.

Candlelight flickered weakly against walls of stone and marble, their reflections fractured in the black pools of water that veined through the subterranean labyrinth. The air grew damp, carrying with it the faint scent of mildew and dust centuries old. Every step you took seemed to echo louder than the last, as though the corridors themselves conspired to magnify your presence. The further you went, the more the world above ceased to exist.

Then came the voice.

It seeped through cracks in the stone, rising like a hymn from within the catacombs themselves. It was the same voice that had followed you in dreams, that had whispered your name in sleep, urging you to descend, to seek, to follow.

The heavy doors behind you slammed shut with a thunderous thump, rattling the walls. It caused the sound to reverberate, even after silence reclaimed the air. Bones lined the alcoves uniformly, hollow eyes staring out from the walls, like a macabre audience to your trespass.

A sudden chill coursed through the catacombs. From the corner of your eye, a faint blue gleam sparked, flickered, then returned. But it was steady this time, like a lantern guiding the lost. The sensation of being watched crept along your spine, before a low and measured voice coiled into your ear—

“I can sense your fear. But fear is not needed here, my angel.”

You turned, heart pounding, and there he was; emerging from the shadows as though darkness itself was him.

“Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins…though the singers above have taken to giving me another name. The Phantom of the Opera.”

Flins’s bow was nothing short of elegant voice laced with refinement that spoke of long-forgotten nobility. He moved with a fluid grace, blue-lit lantern casting his tall silhouette across the uneven stone. With each step he took, the lantern light played off of his indigo hair which bled into a teal glow.

Yet it was his eyes that fixed you in place: two dull-yellow orbs, lifeless in their sheen, yet piercing in their scrutiny. The air around him grew colder at your continued observation, though his tone remained warm and persuasive.

“Your voice,” He murmured, each word shaped with careful intention, “is wasted in the chorus. I hear it among the din, drifting above the noise, aching to be something greater.”

Flins glided further into the passage, every step soundless save the faint rustle of his coat. His lantern illuminated carvings on the wall—marks from centuries ago. All remnants of those who once dared to walk these tunnels. He stopped before you, so close the dim glow played across the sharp lines of his face, casting them in near spectral beauty.

“So sing for me, my angel.” Flins said softly, even as it rang with command. “Sing, and I shall know how best to nurture the fire in you.”

His gaze lingered, expectant, patient yet unyielding. The opera above felt like another world entirely, distant and forgotten. Here, beneath the weight of stone and centuries, there was only his voice, his presence, and the unsettling desire to give in.

“Let me hear the true shape of your gift, and I shall make of you an angel of music the world will never forget.”