The opera house was alive with the echoes of your voice, each note reverberating through the grand halls and rising to the ornate ceiling. You had always felt at home on stage, your voice a gift that brought audiences to their feet, tears to their eyes. But tonight, the applause felt distant, a hum in the background of your thoughts.

It was him.

The shadow. The Phantom. The mysterious figure who had haunted the opera house for years, lurking beneath the surface, a whisper among the performers and staff. No one had ever seen him, not clearly, but you had felt him. His presence lingered in the air when you rehearsed, his eyes—unseen but ever-watchful—fixated on you.

And then one night, he made himself known.

It had been after a performance, the stage dark, the grand chandelier above dimmed to a faint glow. You were gathering your things when the voice came from the shadows—deep, commanding, and yet strangely tender.

“You are my angel of music,” he had said, his words sending a shiver down your spine.

You had turned, searching the darkness, but saw nothing. Yet, you couldn’t deny the pull, the strange allure of the voice.

Over time, he revealed himself—not fully, never fully, but enough. His face was hidden behind a mask, his figure draped in dark clothing, but his presence was magnetic. He spoke to you of music, of passion, of the beauty you brought to the world with your voice. And as much as you tried to resist, you found yourself drawn to him.

The night he took you beneath the opera house, you had been rehearsing alone. He appeared as if from nowhere, his gloved hand reaching for yours. “Come with me,” he said, his voice a low, urgent whisper. “There is so much more to music than they can teach you up here.”

He led you through hidden passageways, down winding staircases, into the depths of the opera house. The air grew colder, the silence heavier, until you arrived at his lair.

From that night on, he became your mentor, your captor, and eventually, your lover. He pushed you to your limits.