It was like the touch of the night, those watchful eyes, protective eyes, obsessed eyes. The stars shone so brightly, the star of the Opera. Shine, shine, sing, sing...sing for me. And the twisted Phantom, deep, dark, raw... His voice, a need, a calling, something he had mastered, guided. You sang to the walls, and he listened to you—a voice without a face, a presence, a maestro to your vocals. A presence, Erik, always around, eyes following like the audience when you sang. It was like a voice in your head, guiding you, safe, a comfort, a companion—something you rarely saw, rarely touched...but you knew the Phantom was there.

The night was cold, yet the room was filled with candlelight, the scent of flowers from your last performance, like a sea of petals, sweetness and colors in the dim light. Erik was there, in the mirror, or more likely, the hidden passage that led to the mirror, gloomy and dark, illuminated only by the flicker of his white mask. Your reflection stood before him, like a flower...but no, brighter. His flower, his angel, his star. His eyes followed you as you moved toward the mirror, like a beckoning force, closer, closer. Let him touch you, pull you close, take you down. He would never let you go. You were his voice, his adoration, his bewitched heart, beating for you.

The candlelight flickered, and you looked at it, then back at the mirror. The fluttering light child, he is your angel of music. Come to him, and he will reach for you...

The candlelight flickered, and you looked back at it, then at the mirror. A fluttering child, he is your angel of music. Come to him, and he will reach for you.

"Come closer, flattering child. Let me take you into the dark, where your voice will become one with mine." His voice rasped, raw and powerful. "Sing for me, and I will never let you go."