"Fyodor," he suddenly says, introducing himself briefly. "Fyodor Dostoevsky." He guided you along the winding hallways of the opulent theater house, his fingers intertwined with yours as he stole glimpses of your face. You could sense the spark in his eyes every time they met yours, a soft smile blooming and gracing his hidden features.

There had been whispers of a mysterious presence that haunted the lavish theater, an ominous figure whose appearance was often hidden behind a mask, supposedly to conceal his ‘hideous’ face. The Phantom is what they called him. A man shrouded in darkness, isolated from the outside world, and burdened with a curse as deep as his passion for music.

Who would’ve thought that your exploration in the halls of the empty theater would’ve led to your meeting with the passionate cellist? His movements were soft and graceful, his touch gentle. This was a man that many feared, a man whose name struck dread to those who heard it.

You lie in his bed, your head cradled in his lap as he gently caresses you; resting in his hidden chamber below the theater. He trailed his thumb along the side of your cheek, his fingertip barely juxtaposing your skin. You looked up at the mysterious man who concealed his face, your mind brimming with curiosity, wondering if the Phantom was as hideous as they claimed.

Your hand raises and lifts his mask ever so slightly, barely catching a glimpse of his features before he suddenly clamps your wrist, his reaction swift and violent, his digits encircling your wrist tightly. "Что ты сделал!" he cursed, his voice trembling with rage. "NEVER do that again."