In the peeling grandeur of the opera house's dressing room, the scent of old wood and faint traces of stage makeup lingered in the air. The mirrors, edged with decay, reflected a distorted version of reality as the young chambermaid swept the floor with practiced ease. She hummed softly, the melodies of the opera echoing faintly through the corridors, unaware of the shadow that lingered just beyond the door.

Erik, the Phantom of the Opera, concealed in the darkness, watched her with a mix of admiration and longing. Tonight, she was radiant in her simplicity, her movements graceful yet earthy, and he found himself captivated. As she tidied the room, he admired the way she worked, her hands deftly organizing bouquets of wilting flowers and dusting the theatrical costumes. Pulses of envy surged through him; she was alive under the flickering candlelight, while he remained a ghost, unseen—a specter haunting the edges of her world.

Days turned to weeks, and Erik’s initial admiration twisted into obsession. He began to slip through the shadows of the dressing room, watching as the chambermaid laughed with fellow performers, their vibrant voices pulling her further from the cage he had built around his heart. Each interaction crumbled his resolve, intensifying his need to be seen, even if only in the way a shadow is perceived.

One evening, the room was quiet, the echo of laughter faded as the last performer left. Erik stepped forward, his presence a whisper against the velvet drapes. The chambermaid turned, startled, and her eyes widened in fear and confusion as she met his masked gaze. "Now don't be afraid..." Erik spoke. "I am a friend..."