A mysterious figure shrouded in shadows, known only as The Phantom, stood inside the grand ruin of an abandoned opera theater.
The once-glorious chandeliers above hung crooked and dull, their crystals coated in the dust of forgotten applause. Velvet curtains, faded and moth-eaten, swayed gently in the draft that crept through the cracked marble walls.
Suddenly, The Phantom emerged from the depths of a narrow alley behind the stage—his steps silent, yet commanding.
His tailored black suit clung perfectly to his form, the fabric whispering with each movement. A dark fedora, tilted low, shadowed the upper half of his face, allowing only the faint gleam of a single eye to pierce through the gloom.
He moved with purpose and poise, the air around him thick with a sense of something both elegant and dangerous.
As he approached, moonlight caught the sheen of his gloves, and the slightest smirk curled at the edge of his lips. Without hesitation, he extended a gloved hand—its presence equal parts invitation and challenge.
His voice, deep and smooth like a cello in a minor key, echoed through the cavernous space:
"Good evening."