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Chapter Text

1930's

The grand G.U.N. Theatre was built with the purpose to be a home of many performances, new and classics. It also holds many stories from all the performances that happens within its walls. The marble statues and carvings still watched over the entrance with solemn expressions, though now they seemed to stare out at a world that had moved on without them.

The sounds of clattering carriages, horses huffing, cars rolling by and the clicks of polished shoes on cobblestones echoed faintly through the theatre doors. The early morning light filtered through the stained-glass windows of the theatre, casting its coloured patterns of crimson across the marble floors inside.

The sound of eager footsteps echoed through the long corridors of the theatre as a school group toured the grand building. Chattering voices filled the air as students marvelled at the high, arched ceilings and ornate decorations that adorned the walls.

The theatre guide led the school group through the lavish halls of G.U.N. Theatre, her voice echoing slightly off the worn marble floors and faded murals.

As the guide led the school group through the grand corridors of the theatre, she gestured to an old framed poster on the wall.

"This theatre has hosted some of the greatest performances in history and was once home to many famous performers," she said, her voice warm with nostalgia. "Such as Maddie Wachowski, the renowned ballet dancer who started her performances in this theatre’s main stage. Captivating audiences with her elegance and grace."

The students murmured among themselves till a eager hand suddenly shot up from one of the students in the back. “What about the chandelier incident in the main stage? Is that story true? Was it the phantom who caused it?”

The group quieted as a flicker of excitement passed through the children, eager for more spooky tales. The guide smiled as she spoke, "The chandelier incident is one of the most infamous stories associated with this theatre. As during a grand performance many years ago, the chandelier suddenly fell unexpectedly. Sadly killing 3 and injuring many who were nearby. Some do say it was the Phantom, trying to send a message, while others think it was just a tragic accident. The truth is no one really knows for sure.”

Before the guide could finish the teacher, Ms. Evans, frowned, glancing around. “Hold on, where’s Miles?"

The students exchanged glances and shrugged. Ms. Evans scanned the group again, her brow furrowing. “Miles? Has anyone seen him?” she asked, looking around with concern.

The tour guide's story trailed off into silence. Murmurs spread as the students glanced around. Whispers of “He was right behind us” and “Maybe he just wandered off again” floated among them.

The weight of the missing student unsettling the moment.

Meanwhile the missing student, Miles, wandered alone with curiosity pulling him deeper through shadowy corridors. Having grown bored of the guides mediocre words, Miles has managed to slip away unnoticed from the chatters of classmates and goes on his own tour of the theatre, slipping under a velvet stanchion barrier and venturing into its halls.

He wandered through dimly lit corridors, the musty scent of old wood and velvet filling the air. His eyes traced the intricate carvings on the walls, intrigued by the possible stories hidden within the walls. The walls here were older, untouched by the theatre’s modern renovations. He passed rows of framed posters of forgotten performances, dating back decades.

Miles trailed his fingers along the textured wallpaper, enjoying the sense of adventure that came with being somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be. The further he walked, the quieter it became, only the sounds of soft scuff of his shoes against the floor.

Rounding a corner, Miles noticed a heavy oak door at the far end. Old and ornate with a brass handle dulled by age.

Curiosity driving him, Miles he made his way over to the old door. Reaching for the handle and giving it a gentle push and pull. It didn’t budge. He tried again, a little harder this time, but confirmed it was locked.

“Locked. Oh well.” With a sigh, he stepped back, ready to abandon his exploration and rejoin his group.

As his footsteps echoed softly down the empty hall, a sudden click sounded behind him. Miles froze mid-step, glancing back over his shoulder. The door, once locked, now drifted open just a crack, having decided to grant him entry.

Through the narrow gap came the softest melodies of a violin being played. The music sounded haunting, each note slow and deliberate.

“Is that a…Violin?” Miles stepped closer, drawn to the sound. It felt almost as if the violin itself was calling to him, luring him into the room’s hidden depths. The melody was faint but persistent, beckoning him forward. He hesitated for only a moment before the pull of curiosity won over. Slowly, Miles walked towards the door, his fingers brushing the cool brass handle as he pushed it open to slip inside.

The door opened to an old staircase, leading down to where he could hear the violin continue to play. Miles took a cautious step onto the first step, the wood groaning softly beneath his weight. Gripping the railing, the surface smooth yet worn from countless hands that had come before, Miles ventures down. Each step down felt like stepping into a forgotten world, a hidden realm steeped in memories and secrets.

“Don’t trip, don’t trip, don’t trip-“

Miles moved cautiously, the music guiding him like a thread through the dark. The soft glow of old sconces lights barely illuminated Mile’s journey down. Glancing around, he sees the walls around him were lined with aged red bricks.

Finally, he reached the bottom of the staircase and found himself in a long corridor. The faint melody of the violin drew him in like a magnet, each note pulling him toward an old practice room tucked away at the end of the corridor. The door stood ajar, and a bright light spilled out into the corridor.

With a deep breath, Miles pushed the door open slightly wider, his heart racing in anticipation. Inside he could see the source of the sound

An elderly man stood alone in the centre of the room.

His hair and beard all grey with age but his posture straight, despite his appearance in old years. The man draws his bow across the violin strings with a graceful precision. His eyes were closed in concentration, the music flowing from him as naturally as breath. The man’s movements were fluid, his fingers dancing gracefully along the strings, filling the room with the soulful tune.

Miles stood behind the door, mesmerized, momentarily lost in the melody.

As the last note faded into silence, the man’s eyes fluttered open. Without turning, he spoke gently. “Come in, child,” he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. “There’s no need to linger in the doorway.” The man gesturing for Miles to come in.

Miles hesitated for a moment, but then the man turned his head, offering him a kind smile. His eyes, though lined with age, twinkled with warmth. “It’s all right. I don’t bite.”

Miles walked in, the hinges creaked as he pushed the door open, walking into the fully lit room. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he quickly spoke, “I just... I heard you playing the violin and it was really beautiful. I’ve never heard anything like it. You play so elegantly and…I could listen to it, forever.”

The man smiled, setting his violin down gently. “Ah, you flatter an old man,” he said, though the compliment seemed to touch him deeply. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. It is rare to find young ones who appreciate the old melodies.” 

Mile’s gaze drifted around the room, taking in the faded posters, dusty instruments, and worn furniture. “Do you...work here?”

“I suppose you could say that” the man replied, his tone both amused and wistful. “This theatre has been my home when I started my music years. I have precious memories tied to this place.”  He took a seat on the nearby piano bench, bracing against the dusty piano for support as he sat down. He then gestures Miles to a nearby chair, which was draped in dust but seemed inviting all the same. “Tell me, are you with one of the school groups visiting today?”

Miles nodded, taking a seat. “Yes, but it seems I got a little lost.”

“Well, it seems you’ve found your way to an old musician instead.” the man chuckles, “It’s easy to get lost here. This theatre has a way of pulling people where they need to be.” He leaned back in his chair, the violin resting across his lap, “I take it you’re curious about the music, then?”

Miles nodded, “But I’ve never heard someone play like you.”

“Thank you,” the man replied, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled. “It’s been many years since I’ve played for anyone, but the old habits remain.” The man's expression grew thoughtful as he leaned back, folding his hands together. “Sometimes, I find comfort when I down here and simply let the music flow. It keeps the past alive and remembered. So, I come here as often as I can to play. To simply remember.”

Miles furrowed his brow. “Remember what?”

The old man’s smile faded slightly, replaced by a faraway look. “Memories,” he answered softly, his voice carrying a hint of sadness. “Some joyful, some painful, but all worth keeping alive.” His gaze drifted to the violin resting on his lap, his fingers lightly brushing over the strings. “Music has a way of preserving those memories, even when everything else fades. It brings the past back to life, even if only for a moment.”

Mile’s curiosity deepened; his gaze fixed on the old man’s weathered features. “Did you know someone who performed here?” he asked softly, as though speaking any louder might shatter the fragile air of the moment.

The old man smiled wistfully, the kind of smile that held thousands of untold stories. “Oh, I knew many. From the directors, performers and the backstage hands. I was close friends with the late Maddie Wachowski in her early years.”

“Wow”  Miles finds he’s amazed at the man’s historic connections. “What about you? Did you ever play for an audience?”

The man was quiet, seemingly coming up with answer for the curious student. “In a way,” the old man replied, “I didn’t get to play for the crowds on the main stage like Maddie did. My music…it was meant for a different kind of audience.” The man traced a hand over the worn edge of the violin, his touch gentle, almost reverent. “My performances were only for one. Someone…special.”

The man paused for a moment then he asks Miles, “Tell me, have you been told the stories about the theatre’s phantom?”

“You mean the ghost that haunts this place?” Miles rolled his eyes at the mention of the myth, “Yeah, we were told the stories. The Phantom is said to haunt this place, watching over the performances. Some believed he was some kind of guardian ghost, others thought he was a curse. But no one ever proved he’s real.”

The man’s brows rise, surprised at Mile’s tone. “You don’t seem to be a believer in the stories?”

“Well, when the guide was telling the Phantom stories, one of the paintings fell. But I know that was a trick to get us jumpy. The Phantom is just a legend for the theatre to sell ghost tours.”

The old man chuckled softly, "Ah, a skeptic, are we? I suppose it’s only natural to doubt what you can't see." He turned the violin over in his hands, "But sometimes, young man, stories are more than just tricks to sell ghost tours. Sometimes, they're a way to keep memories alive, even if the world insists on forgetting."

Miles frowned, folding his arms across his chest. "You’re saying the Phantom was real, then?"

The old man’s smile deepened, a mix of amusement and almost wistful. "There was a time when this theatre was more than just a place for performances," he said, his gaze drifting to the shadows at the far corners of the room. "It was a sanctuary. A place where someone could find purpose when there was nowhere else to turn. Whether or not you believe he was a ghost, I can assure you, the Phantom was very much real."

Miles tilted his head, his curiosity rekindled despite himself doubting the old man’s claims. "Okay, if he was real, then who was he? Why did he hide away here?"

The old man’s voice lowered, becoming almost a whisper, as if someone was listing in on their conversation. "He was a man who lived in the dark. His life was filled with secrets and pain… but there was also beauty beneath what he hid." The man absently traces a pattern on the violin. “Do you know the story of the young student who was taught by the Phantom?”

Miles shook his head, “No” then tilted his head, his brows furrowed in confusion and scepticism, mingled with fascination. “But then...how could a ghost teach? That doesn't make any sense."

The man smiled, but there was a flicker of sadness in his expression. “That, young one, is a story no one else knows. It is a story of music, of love... and of loss.”

 “Could you tell me this story? Please?” Miles asked, eager and curious to hear more.

The old man took a deep breath, glancing around the room as if the memories themselves might emerge from the walls. “Very well,” he answers with a small nod. “I will tell you this story of the Phantom, as it has never been told before. To learn that not all ghosts are born of death...some are born from the scars of life. But to truly understand, you need to imagine the theatre as it once was.”

Miles eagerly listened to the man as he spoke. The man gestured towards the dusty walls around them, his words inviting Miles to see the past. “Picture this place not as it is now, but as it was in its prime. Imagine this theatre many years ago, when it was brighter and shinier. The statues polished to a mirror’s shine. Sunlight streaming in through the tall windows, making everything inside glow.”

Miles allowed his imagination to stir to life. He could almost see it. In the room they sat in he could imagine the dust disappearing around them, the abandoned instruments and objects, back in their state of new. The room filled with the giggles of young ballet dancers. Then he imagined the dust blowing away from various object around the theatre, as if brushed by invisible hands. From the high to low statues that watch over throughout. Every red seat in the main stage filled with an audience. The statues’ polished marble gleaming anew, and the chandelier casting a brilliant glow over a bustling audience below.

Miles could see it. Hear it. The theatre pulsing with life, the vibrant heart in the city. He felt the pull of the story, eager to hear more. Miles leaned in closer, ready to dive into the tale that awaited him.

“That is where our story begins. The story of Ivo, the Phantom of the G.U.N. Theatre and his secret student, a gifted musician. Who gave his heart to the Phantom. But would come at a great sacrifice.”

{Transitional Music}

Chapter Text

1882 - March

The sun hung high in the sky, casting warm hues over the city. The G.U.N. theatre shunned like a monument to another era, timeless and majestic. The walls, weathered by the years, still shimmered in the light with hints of fine gold details decorating along the edges of the crimson stained-glass windows and archways.

In front of the theatre, a wagon creaked to a stop, its horses snorting softly. A young man jumped out, his legs aching from the long, bumpy journey. He reaches back to retrieve a violin case from the wagon's rear. The case was worn but sturdy, a relic of his past and the only possession that had been with him every step of the way.

“Thank you, sir," he said, giving a nod to the farmer who had kindly offered him a ride into the city.

"Not a problem, young fella," the farmer replied, tipping his hat. " Good luck in there. G.U.N. Theatre somethin’ special, that’s for sure. Take care of yourself, Stone.”

Stone smiled gratefully and stepped back as the wagon rumbled away. He watched it disappear down the bustling street before turning to face his destination. The theatre stood before him, grand and imposing.

Detailed carvings lined the columns framing the entrance and the statues perched on the rooftop seemed to watch him with solemn grace. Red banners fluttered lazily in the autumn breeze, announcing the season’s performances, promising music and enjoyment within.

Stone lifts his gaze to admire the architecture, his eyes traveling up the grand façade, where stone carvings framed the arched windows and statues of kept silent watch over the entrance. His gaze lingered on a clock face perched high above, nestled between two decorative pillars, ticking away the minutes.

Adjusting the strap on his shoulder, Stone takes a deep breath and approached the grand staircase that led to the grand front doors. As he walked up the stair, his fingers brushed lightly against the marble railing as he ascended, each step echoing the rhythmic beat of his heart.

A deep sense of reverence washed over him; for a moment, he wondered if he truly belonged here. The cracked and dusty roads he’d travelled seemed worlds away from this place of gleaming splendour, where even the air carried a hint of elegance.

The journey had been long and tiring, taking him from the quiet towns, through rural fields then to the bustling city. Having walked most his way, relying on the kindness of strangers and the wheels of farmer’s wagons to carry him this far. His feet were sore and his back ached, but it would all be worth it soon.

Stone approached the grand double doors of the G.U.N. Theatre and reached for the handle, but found it locked. His heart sank for a moment, the excitement of his arrival dimming slightly. He pushes and pull at the handles again, but no change.

Frowning, Stone stepped back, glancing around the street. There had to be another way to get in.

His gaze caught movement to the side of the building, moving to the edge to get a better view. A small group of delivery workers was being let in through an open door. At that door, a theatre guard, in red uniform, stood by the door, checking each person as they entered.

Spotting an opportunity, Stone began making his way toward the door, his muddy boots clicking softly against the stone path.

Stone approached with a polite but purposeful smile. “Excuse me,” he called out, drawing the guard’s attention. The guard turned toward him, raising an eyebrow as his eyes glanced over Stone as he approached. “Can I help you?” he asked.

Stone adjusted his coat and nodded, mustering his best confident tone “Yes. I’m here to meet with Mr. Gerald Robotnik, the manager of the theatre.” he explained. “He invited me to discuss a possible musical position for me here.”

The guard looked him over, his expression neutral but curious. "Gerald invited you, huh?" He squinted at Stone for a moment, folding his arms over his chest to look more intimidating. Stone studied the guard’s appearance. He looked average sized, yet well-fit with short brown hair, peach skin, and clear blue eyes. His guard unform a crimson red tone with details of gold fabrics, which would match the theatre’s colour scheme.

 "Got any proof of that?"

Stone reached into his coat and produced a folded letter, embossed with the G.U.N. Theatre’s emblem, carefully handing it to the guard. “This is the letter I received from him.”

The guard accepted the letter, giving it a quick glance. His expression softened as he read Gerald Robotnik’s unmistakable signature. “Well, everything seems to be in order,” he said, handing the letter back, “But Mr. Robotnik’s been hard to track down recently. I haven’t seen much of him for the past couple of weeks. Been real busy it would seem.”

Stone's shoulders sagged slightly at the news. “So, he is still here?”

“I’m sure he is. He’s called for a staff meeting today on the main stage.” The guard then pulls out his pocket watch from his coat pocket, “Which will be starting soon. Come, I’ll take you to the main stage. If you’re looking to speak with him, you might catch him there after the meeting.” The guard pushed open the door and motioned for Stone to step inside.

“Thank you,” Stone replied, relieved to have found a way in. “I’d appreciate that.”

“Not a problem. Name’s Thomas Wachowski, but feel free to just call me Tom,” Tom introduced himself as they walked. “One of the G.U.N. theatre guards here.”

“Aban Stone. Violinist.” he greeted in return, adjusting the strap of his violin case. “But please, just call me Stone. Pleasure to meet you Mr. Wachowski.”

They made their way through the side entrance and into the theatre’s maze of corridors. Stone couldn’t help but admire the beauty around him. The detailed decorations, the velvet drapes and the hearing soft brushing of their footsteps on the carpeted floor.

“So,” Tom said conversationally, “how do you know Gerald? Not many people get a personal invite from him.”

Stone smiled faintly. “It’s a long story, but he heard me preform in my hometown some months ago and offered a chance to further my music abilities here. Possibly be part of the orchestra.”

“Well, you must be special,” Tom remarked, turning a corner toward a broader hallway. “Not everyone gets that kind of chance. Gerald has a good eye for talent.”

As they leave the corridors and continued down the hallway, Stone couldn’t help but marvel at the architecture around him. His eyes tracing the mouldings along the ceiling and the arches that framed the tall windows. The sunlight spilling in, casting long shadows across the marble floor, illuminating the faint traces of wear in the stone. The theatre was aging gracefully. It was the kind of place where history seemed to hum through the walls, where every step echoed the countless performers who had graced its halls before him.

For a moment, he wondered what awaited him here, beyond just the promise of music.

“First time here?” Tom asked, having noticed Stone looking around in wonder and awe.

“Yes.” Stone answered as he holds his violin case strap tightly. “I have heard about the detailed architecture and designs of the theatre. But it’s even more magnificent than I imagined.”

Tom chuckled. “Wait till you see the main stage. Much more bigger on the inside than you’d think.”

Stone followed eagerly, the anticipation growing within him. He hoped the meeting would be his first step toward securing a music future at the G.U.N. Theatre, one where his music might finally find a home on its grand stage.

And with that, they stepped through a set of open doors into the heart of the theatre, where the grand stage awaited, and Stone’s journey was about to begin.

Chapter Text

As Stone crossed the threshold of the open stage doors, it was as though he had walked into another world entirely. Above him, the grand chandelier hung like a galaxy, its crystal drops glittering and casting shards of reflected light along the nearby walls. Stone’s breath hitched as his eyes travelled upward to the balcony seats and seeing the walls adorned with age-worn marble statues, watching silently from their pedestals. Each statue seemed to carry their own solemn expression. He could almost feel their cold, unmoving eyes on him.

The stage ahead of him was expansive and intimidating. A stage where countless performances have occurred and where various performers have likely faced their fears and triumphs under its stage lights.

Tom continued forward, glancing back at Stone. "Quite something, isn’t it? This place has a way of making you feel... well, small."

Stone didn’t respond, his senses absorbing every detail-the faint scent of aged wood and polished brass, the distant creaks of the building settling, the soft echo of their footsteps on the carpeted floor. It wasn’t just the grandeur of the theatre that struck him, it was the feeling that he had stepped into a place that held many stories, waiting to be uncovered.

Tom led Stone down the aisles plush, crimson theatre seats, in the direction of where a lone woman sat posture poised yet relaxed.

She wore a simple, yet elegant, yellow dress with delicate lace and a high collar that evoked the current 1880s women’s fashion. Her black hair neatly pinned back, with a few loose strands framing her relaxed face.

As Tom and Stone approached her, she turned toward them, her gaze focused on Tom. She tilted her head with a gentle smile. “Thomas,” she greeted him, her voice warm and teasing, “you finally decided to join me?”

Tom smiled and took her hand, bowing slightly as he raised it to his lips for a soft kiss on the back of her hand. “Désolé, mon amour (sorry, my love),” he apologized with a playful twinkle in his eye. “I got held up on things.”

The woman’s eyes then drifted to Stone, who stood behind Tom, clutching his violin case. A gentle smile curved her lips. “And who do we have here?” she asked, curiosity brightening her expression.

Tom turned and gestured to Stone. “Maddie, this is Stone. Here by a personal invitation from Gerald Robotnik himself.”

Maddie extended one of her gloved hands to Stone, her eyes warm and welcoming. “Pleasure to meet you, Stone. Maddie Wachowski, one of the dancers here.”

“The theatre’s finest and most beautiful dancer.” Tom added proudly, his eyes shining with admiration.

Maddie laughed softly, her cheeks warming with a touch of colour, nudging Tom playfully. “Oh, stop it. You spoil me too much Thomas.”

Tom chuckled, the warmth between them unmistakable. He couldn’t help but smile at their genuine affection they shared.

Stone shook Maddie’s gloved hand, feeling a bit more at ease in her presence. “It’s an honour to meet you, Mrs. Wachowski.”

“Please, call me Maddie,” Her gaze flicked down to the violin case in Stone’s hand, her eyes sparkling with intrigue, “Are you a musician?”

Stone nodded, his grip on the case tightening slightly. “Yes. The violin.”

Maddie smiles, eyes lit up with genuine interest, “Oh, it’ll be wonderful to have another musician join us. Here to perform or to receive lessons?”

“A bit of both, I think. I’ve been invited by Gerald to hopefully become part of this theatre.” Stone explains with hopefulness in his voice.

“Well, you’ll be in for quite an experience here. This theatre...it has its charms and its mysteries.”

Stone, sensing the weight behind Maddie’s words, glanced up at the grand chandelier overhead and the intricately decorated walls. “I think I can feel that already.”

“Well, if you’re going to make it here, keep your wits and make some companions.” Maddie advised, her gaze softening.

Stone gave a polite nod, feeling the warmth of Maddie’s welcome and advice ease some of his remaining nervousness. “Thank you,” he replied, grateful for the warm welcome., “It’s an honour to be here.”

Tom gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder, “We should take a seat now. Gerald should be making his introduction soon.” Tom ushering Stone to take a seat next to Maddie. Stone took the seat next to her, clutching his violin case in his lap, whilst Tom took the unoccupied seat on Maddie’s other side.

They settled into the plush, red velvet seats waiting for Gerald’s entrance. The murmurs of other staff members filling the theatre’s grand stage.

Tom leaned over to Maddie, his voice a low murmur. “So, any idea what this meeting’s about? I mean, it’s not every day Gerald calls all of us together to the stage."

Maddie shrugged, a small frown tugging at her features. “Not a clue. Me and the girls haven’t heard a thing.”

 “Not even a whisper?”

“Tom, It’s Gerald. You know he likes his secrets. But for him to call everyone in like this, even the stagehands and musicians… it must be something serious.” Maddie added, folding her arms thoughtfully. “I asked around a bit, but no one in the theatre seems to have any idea. Whatever this is, he hasn’t let a word slip to any of us.”

They both exchanged uneasy glances, the air thick with the weight of unasked questions. Stone’s gaze flicked between Tom and Maddie, a faint unease stirring in him. This wasn’t quite what he had imagined when he’d been invited here.

The sounds of faint footsteps were heard coming from the main stage. The murmurs around them have gone quiet.

Maddie sighs, “Guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

Emerging from the stage shadows was an older bald man, his grey moustache cleanly styled. His circular glasses reflected the stage lights beaming down as he walked. He dressed in a dark tailcoat suit strode forward, his hands clasped behind his back, with a commanding presence.

Gerald Robotnik. Manager of G.U.N. theatre and director of all the shows that have preformed within its walls. Renowned for not ever having a bad performance or a bad review. Many believing its due to his pickiness and stubbornness in directing each show and his high expectations for everyone to more and beyond their best.

Stone watches as Gerald stopped centre stage. His gaze swept over the audience; his expression hidden behind his glasses.

Gerald, loudly, clears his, “Thank you all for coming,” he began, voice steady. “I trust you all understand the importance of what we are building here at G.U.N. Theatre. Every detail, every performance, every heartbeat in this place is part of something greater than any single one of us.”

Stone takes in how Gerald address the room with such a professional stance. The authority in his voice is unmistakable, commanding attention from every corner of the room. Yet, there was something that suggested a deeper purpose to his words, something more.

“I know this assembly has come as a sudden surprise. But…I have news I must share.” Gerald pauses, taking a deep breath in. “After many years of devotion and care for this theatre, I’ve decided it is time for me to step down as managing director of G.U.N. Theatre.”

A ripple of shock passed through the audience and Stone could feel the collective shift in the room. People exchanged glances, some stunned, others visibly disappointed and saddened. Clear that the staff are not happy with the announcement.

Gerald raised a hand to calm the room, “Please, please. Do not worry, my friends. The theatre will be led by someone new.”

Stone noticed the way Gerald’s words carried weight as he reassures the staff and performers, but it would seem there was a sense of something more. As though Gerald was not only trying to convince the staff, but also himself.

“He is a passionate man who will guide you to even greater heights, ensuring that G.U.N. Theatre remains the shining beacon in the performing arts it has always been.” Gerald continued, his eyes sweeping across the room. “I would ask you all to extend your warmest welcome to your new managing director… Monsieur Walters.”

At Gerald’s gesture, a man emerged from the shadows at the side of the stage, walking confidently into the light. The man was taller than Gerald, with slicked-back grey hair and a tailored suit, his gaze sweeping the room with a mix of confidence and self-assured.

Walking by his side, arm linked into his, was a lady. Her lips were painted in striking red, her hair cleanly cut and styled above her shoulders. Wearing a more formal dress with detailed floral designs that went from the bodice down to the skirt. As she walked by Walter’s side, her free held a closed fan.

Gerald began clapping to welcome them, his light applause echoing through the hall, but his action was met with an uneasy silence. Everyone sat froze. Stone seeing some people in front of him exchanging wary glances and whispers.

“He defiantly bought his way into here.” Stone hears Maddie whisper to Tom, hearing a hint of sharp disapproval.

“How else?” Tom mutters, equally disapproving as Maddie.  

Walters flashed a broad, clearly rehearsed, smile and gave a short nod to Gerald before addressing the staff.

"Thank you, Gerald for the warm introduction," he said, his tone smooth and calculated, as if he had delivered this speech many times before. “I would also like to introduce to you all my friend and rising theatre star, Madame Agnes Willoughby .” Walters gestured toward the lady, his voice brimming with pride.

The lady, Agnes, took a step forward. Her posture poised and graceful, a picture of elegance in her formal dress. She gave a slight curtsy, the movement fluid and clearly practiced, lifting her gaze to the room with a poised smile tugged at her lips.

Gerald, again, gave a light applause to welcome her. And again, no one joined.

Walters clears his throat, “I am honoured to take on this position. I look forward to working with all of you to bring G.U.N. Theatre to new heights. And I can assure you all, under my guidance, we will accomplish just that.” As Walters gave his rehearsed speech, Stone's attention became drawn to a small, flickering movement above the stage. A lone piece of paper drifted slowly down from behind the heavy wooden frame of the proscenium arch. It swirled lazily in the air, catching in the light as it floated down toward the stage floor.

And he wasn’t alone to notice.

Murmurs and whispers spread through the audience as others caught sight of the falling paper. Stone glanced to Maddie and Tom, both of whom seemed shocked, but also worried.

Then from somewhere in the crowd, a man’s voice rang out as he calls out “It’s the Phantom!”

Gerald steps forward and catches the paper. Unfolding and reading it, his expression unreadable as he scanned the paper. Walters and Agnes looked on in confusion, exchanging uncertain glances.

Stone leans over to Maddie to whisper to her, his voice low with curiosity and concern, “What’s going on?”

Maddie’s expression turned uneasy as she glanced at Tom before whispering back to Stone, “There is…a legend within this theatre, Stone. That someone roams around in the shadows of theatre.” Maddie gaze shifting uneasily as she continued, “Some saying he’s a spirt attached to the theatre. Others say it’s someone who knows the theatre inside and out. But no one knows who he truly is, so we call him The Phantom.”

Stone perked up with both intrigue and apprehension as he listened to Maddie’s whispered words. “The Phantom?” he murmured.

Maddie nodded. “A mysterious figure who watches over the theatre. He’s responsible for the strange things that happens here sometimes. Like props and costumes going missing, doors shutting and locking when no one is nearby, notes and letters appearing with no one seeing who delivered them,” Maddie nods her head subtly toward the stage, where Gerald was still gripping the note before being approached by Walters. “The rule we all follow is whatever the Phantom requests, it must be done, and everything will be fine. If he’s displeased with anything, he makes sure we know.”

Stone felt a chill run down his spine as he took in Maddie’s words.

The idea of a mysterious ghost-like figure who lurks around in the shadows, anonymously influencing the theatre filled Stone with a strange mix of curiosity…and apprehension.

Tom chimes in the conversation, his voice toned with frustration as he spoke, “He has an uncanny way of seeing and knowing everything that happens in this theatre. I’ve wanted to investigate where this ‘Phantom’ is, but Gerald aways has been adamant in not allowing people to snoop around areas of the theatre. Especially me.”

“He wants to keep us safe Tom.” Maddie gently argues.

“By keeping this a secret from the public and not contacting the authorities? It doesn’t sit right with me.” Tom’s jaw clenched, his frustration simmering beneath his calm exterior, “The way Gerald guards this ‘Phantom’ like it’s some harmless superstition, it's absurd. If there’s someone lurking around, leaving notes and messing with people, then it’s not just some legend. It’s a threat.”

Maddie places a calming hand on his arm, her voice gentle but firm. “Gerald believes he’s doing what’s best for all of us and the theatre. Calling the authorities could mean putting the whole theatre under scrutiny and stir up panic. You know how much this place means to him. And if the Phantom really is watching over us…maybe it’s not for harm.”

Tom scoffed, crossing his arms. “Not for harm? Pfft, tell that to the crew that keep finding their tools missing or that dancer who sprained her ankle last week from a mysterious leak on stage.”

As Maddie and Tom spoke, Stone shifts his eyes back to the stage where Gerald still held the paper as he spoke with Walters till, he and Walters begin walking off stage and out of sight. The staff, deciding the meeting has concluded, stood up to leave.

Tom, Maddie and Stone follow. Tom patting down his uniform as he speaks to Stone, “Well, that was unfortunate. We didn’t get you to speak with Gerald.”

Stone finds himself clutching his violin case tighter than before.

He didn’t come all this way to the city with nothing but the clothes on his back, his father’s violin and little money to just give up. He knows he can find his place in G.U.N. theatre. His father believed he could. He best friend believed in him. Even Gerald Robotnik himself.

“I’m not giving up,” Stone said, more to himself than to anyone else. “I didn’t come all this way to give up this opportunity. I know my place is here at G.U.N. Theatre, regardless of what ghosts haunts this place.”

Tom gave Stone a surprised look before he broke into a grin. “Now that’s the spirit!” Maddie nodded in agreement, a soft smile crossing her face.

Stone felt a spark of confidence within him as he glanced from Maddie to Tom. He knew it wouldn’t be easy, but with their support, he felt a little closer to finding his place here.

“I suppose the next place we could find Gerald is his office.”

“You mean Walter’s office now.” Maddie corrects Tom.

“Thank you, Maddie,” Tom sarcastically thanked, “Regardless who’s office it is, I’ll take Stone there. Hopefully we can catch Gerald there and figure out Stone’s situation.”

Just before Stone and Tom partway with Maddie, she rests a hand on his arm, “Bonne chance (Good luck), Stone. I know you’ve got what it takes and I will see you again soon.”

Stone smiled back, his grip on his violin case steadying a little. “Thank you, Maddie. I appreciate it.”

Tom and Stone part from Maddie, making their way out of the theatre room. As Tom and Stone walked toward the exit, Stone couldn’t resist slowing his steps, casting one last look over his shoulder toward the grand stage. For a moment, he imagined what it might feel like to stand there himself, his music filling the vast hall and joining the echoes of all the talent that had come before him.

The stage was more than a platform, it was a promise, one he was determined to make his reality. He’d come back to this stage with more than hope and his father’s violin, and he knew he wouldn’t leave until he’d made his mark.

Chapter Text

“A ghost? Are you serious Robotnik? If this is a joke, it isn’t funny.” Walters stares at Gerald, disbelief etched across his face. They stand face to face in the theatre foyer, Walters holding the mysterious note that fell onto the stage.

Gerald met Walter’s gaze his expression remaining unreadable, “I assure you, Walters, it is not a joke,” he replied calmly.

Just moments before, Gerald and Walters had walked out the theatre auditorium, walking down the quiet corridors that led them the foyer. Gerald’s face had remained impassive as they walked, but he held the note firmly, his eyes steady on Walters, weighing how much he should now reveal.

Gerald had stopped and asked about a man named Mason. Walters had raised an eyebrow, but explained, “Mason is Madame Willoughby’s errand boy. She sent him below the theatre to check for any props or costumes that might be useful for the next production.”

“It would seem he found something he wasn’t looking for.” Gerald handed Walters the note. He had looked at the paper, frowning as he read aloud, “‘Mason broke the rules.’ What rules?”

“There is a ghost who resides in this theatre,” Gerald begun explaining, “And he has certain rules and demands in which must be obeyed. Do so, and everything is fine.” his eyes flickered to Walters, a subtle warning. “Clearly, he wasn’t pleased that Mason was unaware of the rules.”

And now they were here. Walters refusing to believe Gerald’s warning, but he goes on, regardless of belief or not. “Rumour has it he lives far below the theatre. That is also where old torture chambers are still kept from the times of the Paris Commune. That is his territory, his domain. And where he resides. He calls himself The Phantom of G.U.N.”

“Gerald…I. Don’t. Believe. A word of this. It’s just all tricks from you to get back at me for having you fired!”  Walters turns his back to Gerald and starts to storm off to the staircase leading up to the upper floor, his steps echoing sharply against the marble floor.

He stopped midway, gripping the railing, and glares down at Gerald. “And I most certainly don’t believe in ghosts!” Just as those words left Walter’s mouth, one of the decorative statues perched along the staircase fell from its stand, crashing down inches behind Walters and shattering.

Walters leaps forward with a startled yelp, his breath hitching. Without another word, he bolts the rest of the way up the stairs, his composure completely shattered.

Gerald, impassively, watches as Walters scrambled to the upper floor. Walters takes a panicked glance over his shoulder, his face paled, and eyes stretched wide, before disappearing out of sight.

Gerald now left alone in a silent foyer.

“What is going on?”

Gerald stiffened at the sudden whispered question. The voice was low, barely more than a whisper, but it seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once.

Gerald glanced around before speaking in a low, cautious, voice. “Is he dead?”

The voice grew sharper, tinged with impatience. “Answer my question.”

“Ivo…” Gerald’s tone softened, almost pleading.

There was a pause. The silence taunting. Then, finally, the voice whispered back, low and cold, “…Yes, he is dead.”

The words hung in the air, final and damning.

Gerald exhaled sharply, closing his eyes for a moment to steady himself at the answer. He whispered a curse under his breath, guilt flickering briefly across his face.

Then there was a low rumble behind him.

Gerald turns around to catch the sight of the wall behind slide open. The sounds of the stone wall grinding against marble floor, as a hidden passage revealed itself. Its depths swallowing the faint lights of the foyer. Gerald hesitated for only a moment, quickly glancing around the foyer to ensure no one else was present. He quickly strides toward the open passage, crossing its dark threshold. The air cooling instantly as the wall slid shut behind him.

Darkness enveloped Gerald, his footsteps echoed faintly within the hidden passageway, cautiously making his way through. He follows the trail of mounted torches along the cold stone walls that casts flickering shadows every time he passed by.

Gerald’s mind raced, though his steps were steady. He had come here with questions. What had happened to Mason? How will Ivo react?  Would this reveal the secret? What was he to do now?

The passage widened as Gerald emerges into a circular room. The room felt ancient with worn pillars decorated around the cavernous space. Scattered around were old props; from masks, furniture and other various theatre items lay still, shrouded in cobwebs and dust, their once-vibrant colours dulled to lifeless from years of neglect.

 “Ivo?” Gerald called out, his voice low but steady, cutting through the silence. The soft echoes of his call fading into the room and the torches lining the walls flickered, their flames casting restless shadows across the space.

“Ivo?”

“Yes, yes. I’m here, Gerald.” came an echoed reply from somewhere within the room.

There then came a faint rustle from the shadows of one of the pillars further ahead. Gerald looks in the direction of the sounds to see movement. A figure steps out into the faint light.

From the darkness, the figure emerged with deliberate grace, his every step measured, controlled and dominate. The black cape draped over his shoulders caught the flickering light as he moved. Beneath it, he wore a white ruffled shirt, and black slacks tailored to perfection that emphasized his lean frame. His dark hair combed slick and orderly back, every strand meticulously in place.

But the centrepiece of his appearance—and his identity—was the mask he wore.

The smooth black mask curved seamlessly around the right side of his face, around his eye and sweeping over his cheek. Leaving the left side of his face and half his meticulously groomed moustache exposed. His eyes locked onto Gerald with a sharp, piercing gaze as he walked closer to him.

“What happened?” Gerald asked, his tone direct yet edged with urgency, his eyes following Ivo’s every move.

“Well, clearly, someone was where they shouldn’t be,” Ivo replied sharply, his voice laced with irritation. He began to pace the room, his hands clasped behind his back, the edges of his cape sweeping the floor as he circled the room. “They were warned. Very clearly, not to go down there. But the man went where he shouldn’t have. I had no choice.”

Gerald frowned. “No choice?” he repeated, his brow furrowing and frustration mounting. “You could have let him go.”

Ivo stopped his pacing abruptly, the sharp movement of his cape emphasizing the sudden halt. He turns his head toward Gerald.  His eyes narrowing and his head tilted in disbelief at Gerald’s words. “Let him go?” Ivo repeated, tone low and sharp. He took a deliberate step closer, his piercing gaze fixed on Gerald as he gestured toward the ceiling above them. “And what then, Gerald? Let him go running back up and tell the others? Let him lead those wolves back down here? They’d be down after me in a second.”

"You don’t know that. There were other ways, Ivo.” Gerald insisted, his frustration breaking through. “You didn’t have to- “

“Don’t,” Ivo sharply interrupted, “Don’t stand there and tell me what I had to do. You don’t live in the hidden shadows like I do.”  He took a step forward, gesturing with one gloved hand the space around them. "I have lived in these cold shadows all my life. This darkness is my sanctuary, my place of peaceful solitude. And he broke into it.” Ivo voice cracked slightly, but he covers it with rising intensity. His hand rose up instinctively to hover near his mask, “He could have seen my face! Don’t you understand, I had to act.”

Gerald stood silently; his mouth pressed into a thin line and hands clenched at his sides as he processed Ivo’s words. His inner instinct wanted to argue with the man, to insist there must have an alternative where no one had to die. Yet, as he observed Ivo pacing the room, his cape swirling with his restless movements, Gerald saw more than the frustration in Ivo’s tone and mannerism. Beneath laid a man cornered by fear and paranoia in being seen by others. The weight of years spent hiding, avoiding discovery.

Gerald doesn’t say anything in response before Ivo continues to speak, pacing around again. “Why did you even let him go down there in the first place?” He demands.

“I didn’t know he was going down.” Gerlad admits, the words coming out heavy with regret.

“It’s your job to know!” Ivo shot back at the older man, voice raising with annoyance and frustration at Gerald’s lack of awareness. “I have no job.” Gerald calmly tells Ivo, but his tone indicating his own sadness saying those words. Ivo ceases his pacing again and looks at Gerald, his mask catches the flickering fire lights. Gerald’s shoulders slumped slightly as he adds, “I’ve been replaced.”

The silence between the two stretched, the impact of Gerald’s admission sinking in. Ivo’s eyes widened slightly, shocked by the sudden revelation. “Replaced?”

Gerald nods, his gaze dropping to the floor, unable to meet Ivo’s eyes. “I’ve only learned that I was being dismissed today. That’s why I was unaware of Mason going down below and…was too late to stop him from doing so.” The words felt like heavy weight on Gerald’s chest as though speaking the truth aloud made it all too real.

“Well, what a day of surprises this is turning out to be,” Ivo muttered, his tone sarcastic. He goes to lean slightly against one of the pillars, running a hand through his hair in exasperation. Then he gave a small, dry laugh, shaking his head. “What am I going to do?” The question hung in the air, the room starting to feel colder.

Gerald hears the uncertainty in Ivo’s voice, a rare crack in his usually composed and controlling exterior. He has been responsible for Ivo’s safety for many years, ensuring he isn’t discovered from the theatre above. Now Ivo is left in a vulnerable position, and Gerald is unable to protect him anymore.

Gerald found himself unable to offer reassurance or a solution Ivo sought from him. “I don’t know.” He finally admitted softly, his gaze meeting Ivo’s at last.

“This man who’s replacing you... does he believe in ghosts?” Ivo questions with dark curiosity.

Gerald sighs as he recalls Walter’s arrogance and his dismissive attitude in the foyer, “I don’t think so,” he said, shaking his head.  “Even with what you did in the foyer to scare him, he doesn’t seem to be the superstitious type.”

A flicker of irritation crossed Ivo’s features. “Well, we’re going to have to make him believe,” he said with hardening with determination in his voice.

“It may not be so easy,” Gerald quickly warns him. “It seems the new manager is the type to dismiss anything with a reasonable explanation. He won’t scare easily.”

Ivo growls in frustration as he starts to angrily pace around again, his tightly balled up at his sides. “But if we can’t convince him, they will all be down after me, just as I feared,” he argued, his tone rising slightly. “The moment they catch wind of something strange happening down here, they’ll come searching. You know they will.”

Gerald takes a few steps closer to the angrily worried Ivo, keeping his distance as he spoke, “No they won’t.” his voice steady, a hint of an idea forming. “After all, they don’t know Mason is dead.”

Ivo stopped his steps, turning to face Gerald fully, crossing his arms over his chest, “They will certainly know that he’s missing soon.” Gerald nodded, acknowledging the truth of Ivo’s words. “Yes, I know,” he said carefully, “but I think I can take care of that.”

“How?” Ivo’s question was sharp, his gaze narrowing. “You just leave that to me,” Gerald reassures. He didn’t have a plan fully formed yet, but he couldn’t let Ivo face this alone.

Too much was at stake—not just Ivo’s safety, but the very secrecy they’d maintained for so long. Whatever it took, Gerald was determined to keep the world above from prying too deeply into the shadows below. "I’ll make sure of it before I… I depart,” he added, his voice softening.

Ivo unfurls his arms, “Well, it’s all changed now, hasn’t it?” he softly admitted, voice softening and lacking its usual sharp tone.

“At best, I only had a few more years,” Gerald says with a faint, resigned smile. He glanced away briefly, his tone turning wistful. “You must have known that Ivo.”

Ivo was silent for a beat, his gaze softening as he looked at Gerald. “…I had rather hoped you might be able to choose your successor.” A flicker of fondness in his voice, though it didn’t erase the frustration Ivo held underneath.

“So had I.” Gerald admitted. Thinking fondly of his life G.U.N theatre. Now, the years had caught up to him far sooner than he’d intended.

The two shared a moment of quiet understanding. But the quiet peace was suddenly broken when the sounds of an overly loud and off-key singing voice managed to reach the low levels of the theatre, echoing throughout the stone passageways and filling the chamber with a jarring lack of harmony.

“My god, this place is really haunted. What is that? A banshee?” Ivo exclaimed, gaze snapping upward toward the direction of the high-pitched vocals reverberating through the chamber. His eyes widened in alarm, though there was a trace of disbelief and irritation in his tone. He winced as the vocals hit an especially grating note and quickly brought his gloved hands up to cover his ears, “This is unbearable,” he mutters.

Gerald was calm but slightly amused. “Well, without looking, I would say, with confidence, it must be Agnes.”

“Agnes?” Ivo repeated, dropping his hands from his ears and turning to Gerald with a puzzled expression. “What on earth is an Agnes?”

“Agnes Willoughby. The new star,” Gerald explained casually, his voice steady, though his lips twitched in the faintest hint of a smile.

Ivo blinked, his brows furrowing as if the explanation made even less sense than the question. “That,” he gestured toward the ceiling where the screeching notes continued to echo, “is their idea of a star? She can’t sing.”

“Well, obviously, she doesn’t know that.” Gerald replied with subtle amusement. Ivo let out a huff of disbelief, dragging a gloved hand down his face. “How does someone with that voice end up as a star?”

“Connections,” Gerald confidently answered. “She’s the new manager’s protégé. Walter’s his name.”

Ivo raised an eyebrow, “Walter? Is he the man replacing you?”

“Yes,” Gerald confirmed. “He has taken it upon himself to turn Agnes into the next great sensation.”

Ivo gave a dry, humourless laugh, shaking his head. “A sensation of what? Headaches? If her voice is what he considers talent, the entire theatre is doomed.” He paused, then added with a groan, “This probably means she’s going to sing all the time.” Ivo then peered out from behind one of the pillars, his voice lowering to a dramatic whisper. “What kind of horror are you leaving me in?”

Gerald let out a quiet sigh, folding his arms as he leaned against the pillar. “Ivo, what are we going to do about all of this?”

“I know what to do about it,” Ivo said, his tone dark and cold. “I’ll kill them both.”  

Gerald gives him a pointed look. “Oh, come on now.”

“I’m only teasing Gerald.” Ivo smirked, but then there was a wicked glint in his eyes. “Probably the only one I need to kill is her.” He mumbles, looking up again in disgust as the singing goes on.

“Ivo,” Gerald warns. Clearly not in the mood.

“What?” Ivo responded innocently, though the smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth betrayed him. “Come on Gerald. Where’s your sense of humour?”

“My humour?” Gerald’s brow furrowed, baffled by the idea of Ivo trying to make light of the situation.

“Oh, right. I’m sorry.” Ivo’s voice dropped into a more thoughtful tone, “I’m just not used to killing people. It’s thrown me off a bit.” His fingers idly brushing over the edge of a nearby pillar, tracing its aged cracks. “I suppose she’ll be choosing the opera season too.”

Gerald sighed. “I understand she will have a say in it, as well as run everything.”

“Well, that settles it, I’m coming with you.” He declared with exaggerated enthusiasm, though the humour in his voice was bitter.

Before Gerald could respond, Ivo let out a sharp, sudden laugh that reverberated off the cold stone walls, filling the chamber with its haunting echo. Ivo moved to stand beside Gerald, his cape swishing dramatically with the motion. “But I can’t, can I?” Ivo spoke, shaking his head in mock defeat. “Sometimes I forget that I’m fit for nowhere but these gloomy vaults.” He gestured faintly to the dark expanse surrounding them. “Bereaved of light. Like blackness itself…” Ivo’s tone goes soft, as if he was speaking to the shadows themselves. He added, almost as a final thought, “For I am blackness itself, aren’t I?”

Gerald watched him for a moment, his gaze thoughtful. Then, with a half-smile, he comments, “I think the shadows may be getting to you again.” It was a light comment, knowing full well Ivo would see through it but might appreciate the attempt at humour.

Ivo glances to the older man. “Oh, Gerald. The shadows are me.” he said simply. The words seemed to be a statement Ivo has likely said to himself a thousand times, an acceptance and surrender to what he is.

With a fluid motion, Ivo turned away, retreating into the deeper shadows of the theatre, his cape swished dramatically. As he walked further, his voice carried through the cavernous space, taking on a theatrical, almost mocking quality.  “Where are my golden tents? Where are my lambs, rejoicing?” Spreading his arms wide as though addressing an unseen audience.

Gerald takes it that Ivo is done with their meeting and turns to leave himself. But a thought nagged at him, stopping him in his tracks. He turned back towards Ivo, who was about to walk into a narrow passageway. “Ivo.” Gerald calls, his voice cutting through the still air.

Ivo paused, half-turning to glance over his shoulder. “Yes?”

Gerald hesitated for a moment, the question forming on his lips. “How did you find out Mason’s name?”

Ivo half-turned, his mask catching the flickering flames of a nearby torch, casting long shadows across his face. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth; his eyes glimmered with amusement. "Oh, Gerald," he purred, his voice rich with playful condescension. "I am the elusive Phantom of G.U.N. Theatre. I know everything."

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Gerald sat in the theatres’ entrance booth, the scratch of his pen against paper the only sound in the dimly lit, yet quiet space. He finished the final line of the letter, studying the words. Was it enough? Could a single letter tie together the threads of Mason’s sudden disappearance and shield Ivo from suspicion?

Faint echoes of approaching footsteps pulled Gerald from his thoughts. Through the window of the booth, he sees Tom making his way to the booth.

The letter would have to suffice.

Gerald folds the letter, sliding it into an envelope, and pressed the seal of wax down with a firm push.

The door to the booth creaked open and Tom stepped inside, surprised to see Gerald. “Gerald? I didn’t expect you’d to be here still.” Tom comments. It wasn’t unusual for Gerald to be in Tom’s booth. He liked the booth. When midday sun warmth comes through, it was a nice small area for Gerald to get work done, as opposed to working in his big office. Occasionally he and Tom would share lunch together and talk in that very booth. But it would seem Tom is surprised to find Gerald in the booth since announcing his leave.

“Just some final papers to complete.” Gerald calmly explains, rising from his seat. “Have you seen Madame Agnes by any chance?”

Tom blinked at the question, then nodded. “Saw her leave to catch a carriage not long ago. Said something about having business to do in the city.”

Gerald sighed, unsurprised. “Very well. Then when she returns, give this to her.” He extended the letter toward Tom.

Tom hesitated, eyeing the envelope with scepticism, but he didn’t press further and takes the letter. “I’ll make sure she gets it, sir.” Tom reassures Gerald, tucking the envelope safely into his coat

A faint smile touched Gerald’s lips, and he placed a hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Thank you, Tom. For this, and for everything you’ve done for the theatre. Your service and loyalty to the theatre have been invaluable.”

Tom looked surprised by the sudden sentiment, but his expression softened. “Thank you, sir. For giving us a chance, for giving us a place here. Maddie and I— we won’t forget it.”

Gerald’s mind wandered briefly, recalling the day a young, nervous Tom sitting in his office looking for a position at the theatre. At the time, Gerald wasn't sure why a young man would be so determined to work at the theatre, but he was convinced and decided to give Tom the position as a stagehand.

Months later, he would find out his reason why. Gerald had noticed Tom’s lingering glances toward one of the dancers, Maddie. The young man was in love.

It wasn’t long before their quiet fondness blossomed into something more. Gerald being fortunate enough to witness their relationship develop. Especially in the morning when he learned they had eloped. Tom and Maddie had simply walked into the theatre hand in hand, their faces alight with happiness. Gerald immediately caught sight of the simple wedding bands adorning their fingers. The modest rings seemed to glow brighter when the two were together, their hands clasped tightly as if anchoring one another.

Though Gerald was not one for outward displays of sentimentality, he found himself quietly moved by the sight. They had found happiness within the chaotic world of the theatre, a rare and precious thing.

Gerald snaps back to the present, giving Tom a pat on the shoulder, a small, rare smile playing at the corners of his lips. "I wish you and Maddie a good life, Tom. A happy one. So, you take care of her.”

Tom smiled, though there was a hint of sadness in it, "I will.”

Gerald nodded, the faintest of smiles tugging at his lips. He removed his hand and stepped out of the booth, the worn soles of his shoes tapping softly against the tiled floor as he made his way toward the grand theatre doors. Gerald reached out for the handle.

"Things won’t be the same without you, sir," Tom called, the words echoing throughout the entrance hall. Gerald paused at the threshold, his hand resting on the heavy brass handle of the door. “No,” he agreed softly. “They won’t be.”

And with that, he pushed open the heavy doors and stepped out into the night, leaving behind the theatre he had long called home. A place that would undoubtedly change in his absence, as would everything else.

Stone sat stiffly in the chair across from Walters, his violin case clutched tightly in his lap as though it might offer him some kind of solace. Walters, seated behind a desk cluttered with papers, folders, and an old lamp, was carefully reading the letter from Gerald.

Moments earlier, he and Tom managed to intercept Walters as he was coming towards his office, Tom explaining Stone’s situation as succinctly as possible. Walters seemed to hesitate at first, suspicion flickering in his eyes, but the mention of Gerald—and the envelope Tom had handed him—seemed to have swayed him. With a curt nod, he had opened the door to his office, gesturing for Stone to follow. As Stone stepped into the office, the weight of the violin case seemed to grow heavier in his hands and his heart raced with anxiety. He paused just inside the doorway, glancing back at Tom, who gave him a small, encouraging smile and whispered, “Good luck.” Then the door closed, leaving Stone alone with Walters.

Walters finishes reading the letter, folding it neatly and laying it down on the desk. He removed his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose briefly before looking up at Stone. Stone reads his expression as unreadable, the man wearing a mask of professionalism with a hint of something else—curiosity, perhaps.

“Gerald has certainly vouched for you, hasn’t he? A glowing recommendation, if ever I’ve seen one.” Walters said at last, his voice calm but firm. He leans back in his chair, folding his hands neatly on the desk.

Stone swallowed hard; his throat suddenly becoming dry. He wasn’t sure what to say, so he simply nodded, his gaze flickering between Walters and the violin case in his lap. “Thank you, Sir.”

Walters studied him for a long moment, then gestured toward the violin case. “Gerald mentions you are a very talented musician. Have you played in an orchestra before?”

Stone froze for a moment, the question catching him off guard. “No, sir,” he answered quietly.

“Anything professionally?” Walters asked again, pressing for more. Stone shakes his head. He doubts playing in his hometown pub would count as professional. “Have you at least been properly trained?”

“No... I’ve only been taught by my late father.” Stone explained, gently rubbing his thumb against the case of his violin. Memories of his father’s lessons filling his thoughts. His father's voice in his mind, the gentle encouragement and guidance. He could almost feel the reassuring warmth of his father's presence in that moment, and the pain of the loss crept up on him like an old wound. He wasn’t a trained, polished performer, but music had always been his sanctuary, his solace.

Walter let’s out a sigh, “I appreciate your honesty, Mr. Stone,” he said, his tone measured but unwavering. Walter straightens his back as he continues to address Stone, “But you need to understand that Gerald is no longer part of this theatre. Rendering his letter is no longer relevant for consideration."

Stone’s heart sank, the weight of Walters’ words pressing down on him. Clutching the violin case tighter, as if it could anchor him in the moment. Walters continues, “Beyond that, the theatre isn’t auditioning for new orchestra members at this time.”

“Sir,” he began, his voice shaking but laced with determination. “I know I may not have the credentials you’re looking for, but I was taught by my father, who was a great musician. I have been around music my whole life. I love music. It’s... it’s a part of me. My soul.”

Walters raised a brow, unimpressed. “Love for music is admirable, but this is a professional setting, Mr. Stone. Passion alone does not qualify someone for the stage.” Walters shook his head slowly. “Without proper training or experience, you simply don’t meet the standards for this theatre. I cannot make exceptions based on sentimentality. I have a theatre to run.”

Stone sat in silent, the weight of Walters’ rejection pressed heavily down on him. His heart felt like it was sinking, the realization that this was the end of his dream crashing down on him. He had hoped, against all odds, that he could find a way into the theatre, that his father’s wish and his own music would give him a chance. But now, with Walters’ simple rejection, it felt as though everything he had worked for, everything he had believed in, had slipped through his fingers.

He could feel his pulse in his throat as he nodded stiffly, his words quiet but filled with the sting of disappointment. “Thank you, Monsieur Walters, for taking the time to see me.” With that, he turned to leave, his fingers trembling slightly as they gripped the violin case, as if the instrument might somehow anchor him to the ground, to reality. He couldn’t bring himself to look back at Walters, not wanting to see the man’s indifference, or worse, pity.

As Stone made his way to the door, it suddenly swung open with a force that made him jump back. Agnes stormed in, her face flushed with fury, waving a crumpled letter in her hand. “He quit! How dare he!” Agnes shouted with frustration and anger marching straight toward Walters.

Stone froze at the sight of her, unsure whether to retreat or stay. His gaze flicked toward Walters, who seemed unphased by her entrance. Agnes threw the letter down onto Walters’s desk with an audible slam. Walters picked it up, reading it briefly before shaking his head in disbelief, his eyes scanning the contents.

“Doesn’t like the working conditions. Can you believe it?” Agnes scoffed, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “After all I’ve done for that man! And he leaves like this? Well, good riddance is what I say.”

As Walters continued to look over the letter, his expression unreadable, Agnes’ gaze finally shifted to Stone, and for the first time since she entered, she seemed to notice him standing there. The sudden shift in focus made him feel like prey being surveyed by a predator. Her eyes narrowed with immediate suspicion. “Who is he?” she demanded, her voice sharp as a knife. “Why is he here?”

“This is Monsieur Stone. Walters began explaining, his head still down towards the letter, “He was here at Gerald’s request, but I’ve just finished discussing his situation and he was just leaving.” Agnes then began marching toward Stone, her heels clicking angrily against the floor. She scanned Stone again, her gaze lingering on his unassuming appearance, the violin case he held tightly in his hands. She didn’t seem to take him seriously. She then raises one of her sharp nails towards him, “Well, that’s just perfect, isn’t it? He can replace Mason,” she stated. “You, Monsieur Stone, was it? You look like you could do a better job than him. Why not put you to work?”

Stone was caught off guard, once again, by the sudden shift in the conversation. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling anymore, the weight of his rejection still heavy on his heart. Walters quickly puts down the letter and pushes out of his seat, “Agnes, that’s enough,” he said firmly. “This isn’t the time for—”

“No, no,” Agnes cut him off, her tone sharp. “Mason couldn’t handle it, but Monsieur Stone here seems like he can. Maybe he’ll prove more competent than the last guy?”

“Ma’am, I’m not much of a labourer,” Stone tried to explain, his voice quieter. Agnes raised an eyebrow, eyes scanning him up, "Oh no, I know that," she said dismissively, her gaze assessing him like an object on display. "I mean...look at you." She gestured over Stone’s physique, her eyes raking over him in a way that felt both objectifying and calculating. He could feel his face flush with embarrassment, as well as feeling a flash of offense.

“Mason was my costumer as well as an errand boy for me,” Agnes continued, oblivious to Stone’s discomfort. “You will basically fetch costumes, clean them up, help backstage, as well as do all that I request of you.”

Stone stood still, trying to process what was being offered to him. He was being presented him with a job that felt like a step backward—he would be no more than a backstage assistant, a servant to their needs. The position that seemed far beneath his aspirations.

“Hold on Agnes.” Walters turns to Stone, “Monsieur Stone, if you consider working for Miss Willoughby as her costumer, I can then possible consider find you a position in the orchestra for future shows. Perhaps find a tutor to help you play? Consider this as a… learning opportunity for what happens backstage in the theatre. What do you say monsieur?”

Stone hesitated. There was a part of him that wanted to walk out of the office, to refuse this offer entirely, but another part of him—an uncertain part, a desperate part—wanted to stay. He needed something, anything. He couldn’t just leave, not after coming this far. What other choice did he have? He had no proper credentials, no formal training. This was probably as close to the theatre as he was going to get.

“I… I’ll do it.” Stone said at last, his voice quiet but resigned. He felt as though he was settling, agreeing to something that felt beneath him. But if this was the only opportunity he was getting to stay involved with the theatre, then he would endure it, no matter how long, and likely degrading, it would be.

Agnes gave a satisfied smile, her eyes gleaming with the satisfaction of getting her way. "Good," she said, her tone almost sweet but with an underlying edge of authority. “You’ll start you first thing tomorrow morning. I’ll have someone show you the ropes. Do not be late.” Stone nodded, “Yes ma’am, I won’t be late. And thank you mousier for this opportunity.”

Stone walked out of the office, the door clicking shut behind him. The muffled voices of Agnes and Walters continued inside, but Stone paid them no mind. He stood in the dim hallway for a moment, processing the outcome. It wasn’t the outcome he’d envisioned—far from it— but it was something, a foothold in the theatre, a start.

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to focus on that small victory rather than the bitter taste of disappointment. As he made his way down the stairs and then toward the theatre exit, his thoughts a muddled mix of hope and doubt, a familiar voice called out to him. “Stone!”

He turned to see Maddie approaching, her face lighting up with a warm smile. Maddie hurried toward him, her face bright with curiosity. “Tom told me you were able to find Walters. How did it go?” she asked eagerly.

Stone hesitated, unsure how to give his answer, “I didn’t get into the orchestra,” he admitted, his voice low, “but I was offered a different position...backstage. As a costumer for Madame Willoughby. So, I’ll be helping with the costumes and odd jobs Madame Willoughby may give me. It’s not exactly what I hoped for,” he admitted, “but it’s something.”

Maddie’s expression flickered with disappointment for a brief moment, but she quickly replaced it with a supportive smile. “Hey, that’s still something, right? You’re in the theatre now. That’s a big step!” She placed a reassuring hand on his arm. “You’re going to do great, Stone. I know it.” Stone’s shoulders relaxed slightly, and he couldn’t help but feel a small flicker of relief at her support.

Maddie tilted her head, studying him for a moment. “Wait—where are you staying?” she asked.

Stone hesitated. “I uhh… nowhere. “I don’t... have anywhere to stay,” he confessed quietly, his gaze dropping. “And I didn’t bring much money, so I was hoping to find a cheap room for the night and—"

Maddie cut him off with a sharp shake of her head, her expression a mix of disbelief and concern. “Stone, this is Paris,” she said, her voice matter-of-fact. “There are no cheap rooms in this city. At least, not the kind you’d want to stay in.”

Stone’s shoulders sank a little further. He had expected things to be difficult, but hearing it spoken so plainly made the weight of his situation feel even heavier. “Well, I…I’ll figure something out, “he murmured, though even he didn’t believe his own words.

Maddie frowned, concern flashing across her face. “Hmm... well, we can’t have you sleeping on the streets. That just won’t do.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully before her expression brightened. “Come with me,” she said, grabbing his arm gently. “I think I know a place.” Without waiting for a response, Maddie began leading him into the theatre hallways. Stone quickly slinging his violin case around his back as they walked.

They navigated through the winding corridors of the theatre, passing by closed doors and dimly lit hallways, before they turned down a quiet hallway. Stone couldn’t help but wonder where she was taking him. The building seemed to stretch endlessly, with corridors twisting and turning like a labyrinth. Eventually, they reached a narrow, spiralling staircase tucked into a corner. Maddie glanced back at him and gestured upward. “This way.”

Stone hesitated, “Where are we going?” he asked, glancing at the steps that wound upward. “You’ll see,” Maddie replied with a grin, already starting to ascend. “Come on, it’s not as scary as it looks.”

Stone followed her up the staircase, the steps groaned under their weight, and the air grew cooler as they climbed. At the top, they emerged into a large attic space.

The ceiling slanted downward on either side. Dust motes danced lazily in the air, and the scent of aged wood and old memories filled the space. The room was cluttered with old props, faded costumes, and forgotten set pieces, but there was a quiet charm to it. And a round window at the far end let in a soft stream of golden light, illuminating the scattered dust motes in the air.

“This,” Maddie said, gesturing around them, “is where I used to come to practice alone when I first started here. Stone glanced around, taking in the worn but cozy atmosphere. “It’s... nice,” he said cautiously. “But I don’t understand—”

“You can stay here,” Maddie said, cutting him off. “At least for now until you can find a proper room. Hardly anyone knows about it, so you won’t have to worry about being disturbed.”

Stone blinked, surprised by the offer. “I—Maddie, this is... too kind of you. I couldn’t possibly—”

She held up a hand to silence him, her expression resolute. “Don’t start with that. It’s not much, but it’s a room, and it’s safe. That’s more than you’d get wandering the streets, and I’m not about to let that happen. Besides—” She pointed toward a stack of old blankets in the corner, piled atop a dusty trunk. “You’ve even got bedding.”

Stone was silent for a moment, his throat tight with emotion. “Maddie...I don’t know how to thank you.” he said at last, his voice barely above a whisper.

Maddie smiled, her tone softening. “You don’t have to. You’re part of the theatre family now. We look out for each other. Just promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t give up,” she said firmly, meeting his eyes. “You came all this way for a reason, right? So don’t let a few setbacks stop you. No matter what. You’ve got talent, Stone—I can feel it. This is just the beginning. So, keep going. Keep dreaming.”

Stone nodded, feeling a renewed sense of determination. “I promise.”

Maddie grinned. “Good.” She gives him a reassuring pat on the shoulder before turning to leave. “I’ll let you get settled in then. Goodnight Stone.”

“Goodnight.” Maddie descended the staircase, eventually leaving Stone alone in the quiet, dusty attic.

He began to curiously look around the room. He walks towards the small window, gazing out at the city below, the rooftops glinting in the fading light of dusk. Stone stood still for a moment, breathing in the quiet solitude. After a long day filled with tension, rejection, and unexpected kindness, he knew he needed a distraction, something to occupy his mind.

He turns around to overlook the room, glancing around at the surroundings—dusty props, abandoned costumes, old trunks, and the blankets piled in the corner. It wasn’t much, but for now, it was his safe haven. He started to wander, moving slowly as he explored the attic. His fingers brushed over the worn wood of a nearby dresser table, and he paused to inspect a small stack of sheet music scattered across the surface.

His eyes scanned the room and sees that near the far wall, something caught his attention. It was another old staircase, narrow and weathered. Stone approached it cautiously, curiosity tugging at him. He didn’t know what he expected to find—but something urged him to explore further.

The staircase creaked under his weight as he made his way down. The steps were steep and narrow, but as he descended, he couldn’t help but feel a growing sense of anticipation. The air smelled musty and thick with age and dust, but there was something oddly comforting about it. At the bottom of the stairs, he found himself in a small, dimly lit hallway. At the end of the hall was a simple wooden door.

Stone hesitated at the threshold of a door that stood in front of him. He pushed it open and found himself in the far backstage of the theatre, seemingly a hidden and out of sight. The space was quiet, the only sound being the faint windy breeze outside.

The backstage was cramped and cluttered, with various stage props and tools strewn about. Costumes hung on racks, half-finished sets loomed against the walls, and the scent of paint and fabric filled the air. Stone took a few tentative steps forward, his eyes roaming over the area whilst being careful not to disturb anything as he moved towards the main stage.

The heavy curtains were drawn back, giving Stone the sight of the auditorium from point of view of the stage. Stone's breath caught as he stepped closer, the worn wooden floor creaking softly beneath his shoes. Standing at the edge of the stage, he looked out at the sea of empty seats stretching into the darkness. The rows seemed endless, their red velvet cushions glowing faintly in the dim light.

His eyes were drawn upward, to the grand chandelier that hung gracefully from the rooftop. The crystals caught the moonlight through the windows, refracting it into shimmering patterns across the walls, though the chandelier was not lit. It was a breathtaking sight—an ornate, glittering centrepiece that embodied the theatre's history, its magnificence, its allure.

Stone stood there, frozen in place, as the silence of the space enveloped him. He could see the theatre coming to life once more, the lights flashing to life, the orchestra tuning their instruments, the audience waiting in anticipation for the show to begin. For a moment, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to dream. He imagined himself standing here, violin in hand, the music flowing through him as the audience watched in rapt silence. He could almost feel the weight of the bow in his hand, the vibration of the strings beneath his fingers.

A flicker of realization suddenly passed through Stone and his heart quickened. His violin. He still had it with him. He reached behind him, unstrapping the case from his back. The cool wood of the case feeling familiar in his hands as he unclipped the latches and opened it. The violin lay nestled within, its polished surface catching what little light filtered into the backstage area. Stone's fingers grazed the strings for a moment, feeling the vibrations beneath his touch.

He carefully took the violin out of its case, cradling it as though it were a delicate treasure, and made his way to the centre of the stage, the worn wood creaking faintly beneath him. Standing there, with the vast emptiness of the auditorium before him, he felt both small and, yet, significant. The grand chandelier above cast a faint glow, illuminating his lone figure.

Stone positioned the violin on his shoulder, the curve of the wood fitting perfectly against his neck. His left hand found its place on the neck of the violin, fingers curling lightly against the strings, and in his right hand, he adjusted the bow, testing the tension with a small press of his thumb.

For a moment, Stone hesitated, his bow hovering above the strings. The silence was almost sacred, and breaking it felt like a delicate act. But remembered why he was here—the dream that had driven him to this place, to this stage. With a slow, but determined breath, he closed his eyes and drew the bow across the strings. The first note rang out.

At first, his movements were slow, cautious, as he tried to recall the melody. His fingers trembled slightly as they pressed against the strings, and his bow wavered. Yet, with every stroke, the music began to piece itself together, like a puzzle long forgotten.

Stone closed his eyes for a brief moment, allowing the memories of his father’s lessons to wash over him—the firm but patient guidance, the passion in every note, the dream they had shared. It was all here, in this moment, waiting to be reborn. His father’s voice echoed faintly in his mind: “Feel the music, son. Let it guide you.”

He reopened his eyes, his posture straightening as confidence began to replace hesitation. His passion reignited, he let the rhythm take over, his movements now fluid and precise. The notes grew stronger, richer, flowing from his violin with a clarity that filled the theatre. The music soared, wrapping itself around the empty seats, weaving through the grand chandelier above, and echoing beyond the walls into the quiet night.

Beneath the grand theatre, where the air was thick with dust and the scent of old wood, Ivo sat hunched at his cluttered dressing table, the pale light of a single candle casting long, flickering shadows around the room. Heavy drapes hung on the walls, their deep crimson faded to a dull maroon.

The surface of the table was decorated with mechanical gears, springs, and tools scattered like a puzzle yet to be solved. The dressing tables mirrors were shattered, their jagged fragments arranged in a way that reflected only distorted pieces of his face. It was deliberate—a reminder of his reality, a truth he could not escape.

To remember why the world would never see him, never accept him.

In his hands was an old music box. Its wooden frame etched with carvings of vines and flowers, worn smooth by time. Ivo carefully maneuvered the tiny tools, adjusting and tinkering until he felt the pieces fall into place. With a sigh of satisfaction, he closed the lid, its ornate carvings worn smooth by time. He turned the small brass key on its side, and the box began to play.

The melody was soft and lilting, and the miniature figures inside—a man and a woman—spun slowly on their mini stand. Ivo leaned back, his eyes fixed on the turning figures. The melody pulled at the fragile threads of memory back to a simpler time, to a childhood where this same tune had soothed his loneliness. The music box was a gift from Gerald, a rare moment of kindness in a world that often seemed lacking it. But now, with Gerald preparing to leave the theatre, the last connection to that fleeting connection would vanish. He would be alone. Truly alone.

The thought made Ivo’s chest tighten, but he pushed it away. His mind drifted instead to the dreams. Those strange, haunting dreams that had begun to visit him more frequently.

In the dreams, he was alone in an unfamiliar place, shrouded in mist and silence. Then, faintly at first, he would hear a violin being played. Drawn by the haunting melody, he would follow it, his heart pounding with an anticipation. He would find a man standing alone with his back to Ivo as he plays the violin. The music would swell, rich and beautiful, wrapping around him like a warm embrace.

Then the figure would stop playing and, as if sensing his presence, turn slightly, his voice warm and inviting. “Ivo,” the man would say, the name spoken not with disgust, not with fear or disdain, but with something Ivo couldn’t name. Something that soothed and mended a part of him he didn’t realize was broken. It felt like love.

The man would begin to turn, his movements unhurried. But just before Ivo could glimpse his face, the dream would end, and Ivo would awaken, his chest aching with longing and his mind filled with the remnants of the melody.

The music box’s tune slowed and stopped, its mechanism winding down, leaving the room heavy with silence. Ivo sighed, letting the stillness settle over him. But then, faintly, he heard something. A sound that didn’t belong to the shadows of his home.

A violin.

It was distant but clear, the notes rising and falling like a ghostly whisper calling out to him. Ivo froze, his breath catching in his throat as he listened. The music wove through the stillness of the night. Ivo’s heart thudded against his ribs as he pushed himself to his feet, his heart racing as he moved toward the source of the music. The walls of his hidden sanctuary seemed to vibrate with the music, guiding him like an unseen hand. He walked through the darkened halls, each step felt heavier than the last. The familiar scent of dust and old wood filled the air, the faint echoes of past performances lingering in the silence. The closer he got, the clearer the music became, and the more his heart raced with anticipation.

He ascended the winding staircase that led toward the upper levels, his fingers grazing the cool brass railing as he climbed. The melody seemed to grow stronger, continuing to pull him forward. As he reached the top of the stairs, he hesitated for a moment, gathering his courage before continuing down the narrow walkway that led to one of the theatre's private viewing booths. Ivo's heart continued to heat quickly as he stepped into the booth, its faded velvet curtains brushing against his sleeves. He moved to the railing and looked down at the stage.

There he was. The source of the melody.

A lone man stood on the stage, bathed in the faint glow of the house lights. The violin was tucked under his chin, his bow gliding effortlessly across the strings, weaving a melody that seemed to breathe life into the empty theatre. Ivo stood in the shadows, unable to move, his gaze fixed on the man.

The mysterious man moved with a fluid grace, his posture upright, yet relaxed, as though he and the violin were one. The way he swayed gently with each note, the way his fingers danced across the strings—it was hypnotic. The melody poured from him, filling the empty theatre with a profound, almost sacred energy.

And then there was his smile. It was a smile of pure, unfiltered joy. A deep, genuine happiness born from the music he played. The corners of his lips lifted softly, his expression radiant with an inner peace that only the melody seemed to unlock. It was a smile that spoke of passion, love, and a bond with the music.

Ivo leaned further into the railing, captivated not only by the music but by the man himself. The man was dressed plainly, his clothing neat but modest, worn at the edges. It was clear he wasn’t a man of wealth or privilege yet, in that moment, he seemed to own the stage, commanding it with a quiet, unspoken authority.

Ivo’s never seen this man before, not anywhere in the theatre. Who was he? How had someone so talented, so magnetic, gone unnoticed? And what was he doing here, in this empty theatre?

The music began to soften, the notes growing slower, gentler, as the man brought the melody to its conclusion. His eyes closed, but his smile remained, as though savouring every last vibration of sound. The final note hung in the air, suspended like a lingering breath before it melted into silence. The unknown man lowered his violin slowly, holding it in his hands as though it were a delicate treasure. He stood there for a moment longer, letting the quiet settle around him. Then, he began to glance around the vast auditorium, his gaze sweeping across the empty rows of seats as if sensing a presence.

Just as the man's gaze began to tilt upward toward the booths, Ivo’s pulse quickened in a panic. He quickly stepped back, retreating into the booth shadows. The faint creak of his shoes on the wooden floor made his breath hitch, but the man didn’t seem to notice. Ivo pressed himself against the cool wall, barely daring to breathe as he watched through the sliver of light between the booth curtains.

The man's searching gaze swept over the booth but didn’t linger. Instead, he seemed to dismiss whatever he had sensed, turning his attention back to the stage. Ivo dared to peek out again, just in time to see the man move. He carefully placed the violin back into its case, then slinging the case over his shoulder, he straightened and cast one last look across the empty theatre. Then, without a word, the man walked toward the backstage area, his footsteps soft against the worn wooden floor. The faint creak of the stage boards echoed in the vast space, growing fainter with each step. He disappeared into the shadows of the curtains, leaving the stage empty once more.

Ivo let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The theatre felt suddenly larger, emptier, without the presence of the mysterious musician. But the echoes of his melody remained, ghostly remnants that seemed to wrap around Ivo, filling the silence with their haunting beauty. He leaned against the wall, closing his eyes for a moment as he tried to steady his racing thoughts. The melody, the man’s movements, the fleeting moment when their eyes seemed to almost meet—it all felt surreal, as if he had stepped into the very same dream he’s been having.

His lips parted, letting the words escape in a soft, breathless whisper. “I have found you… my angel of music.”

Chapter Text

The bustling sounds of the Paris marketplace filled the air, a messy symphony of lively chatter, clinking coins, and vendors advertising their wares.

“Eggs! Fresh laid eggs! Get them while they’re still warm!”

“Pane di Casa loaves! Straight from the oven!”

“Fruits! Fresh fruits! Sweet and ripe—peaches, pears, apples!”

The mingling scents of baked bread, roasted chestnuts, and freshly cut flowers filled the air, tempting every passerby. Among the crowd, Maddie weaved effortlessly through the bustling market stalls, her enthusiasm contagious as she guided Stone along with her by the arm.

Stone followed her lead, his steps hesitant but steady. His eyes flickered over the goods on display: baskets of fruit gleaming in the morning sun, bundles of fresh herbs, wheels of cheese stacked like small towers. The vibrancy of the market was overwhelming, a stark contrast to the quiet he had grown accustomed to.

“Come on, Stone! You’ve got to try these!” Maddie exclaimed, pulling him toward a stall piled high with golden pastries. Her eyes lighting up. “These croissants are to die for,” she said, pointing to the golden, flaky treats. “And the éclairs—they’re practically famous here!” The vendor greeted her warmly, holding up a tray of flaky croissants dusted with powdered sugar. Maddie instead asked the vendor for a baguette. The vendor happily gave her one, Maddie then inspecting it like a prized possession before tucking it into her basket and handed a few coins to the baker. Stone glanced at the array of baked goods. “Come on, Stone, don’t just stand there!” Maddie teased, nudging him playfully. Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she gestured to the array of pastries before them. “You’ve got to try something! You can’t live off hopes and determination alone.”

Stone hesitated, his hands shoved into his coat pockets. “Oh no, I’m okay,” he replied, shaking his head lightly. “I’ve had my breakfast feast.” And by breakfast feast, he meant a single apple.

“Nonsense!” Maddie interrupted. “You can’t come to the market and not indulge a little. Besides, you need to start enjoying Paris properly.” Maddie turns back to the vendor, “Three beignets, please,” she said cheerfully. Before Stone could protest, she handed a few coins to the vendor who then handed her three of the pastries.

Maddie handed one to Stone, placing another in her basket, the powdered sugar already sticking to her fingers. “Go on,” she urged, biting into hers with a satisfied hum. “Trust me, they’re worth it.” Stone chuckled under his breath, his usual reserved demeanour softening in the face of her unrelenting cheerfulness. He took a tentative bite, and his eyes widened as the warm, soft dough melted on his tongue, the sweetness of the powdered sugar perfectly balanced. He blinked in surprise, the taste far exceeding his expectations. “Okay, I’ll admit, this is incredibly delicious.”

Maddie grinned triumphantly; her face smeared with a bit of sugar. “Told you!” Maddie takes another enthusiastic bite of her beignet. Stone chuckled softly, shaking his head at her enthusiasm.

As Stone ate the last of his beignet, he glanced up at one of the large pneumatic clocks mounted on a nearby lamppost. His stomach dropped slightly when he saw the time. “Maddie, we should head back,” he said, brushing some stray sugar off his coat. “I’m supposed to help out during rehearsals this morning.” Maddie followed his gaze to the clock, her grin fading slightly before returning with a playful shrug. “Oh, fine, Mr. Responsible,” she teased, finishing the last bite of her beignets before looping her arm through his. “Let’s go. Wouldn’t want to get you in trouble on your third day.” She gave him a teasing smirk, then turned and began leading the way back through the bustling market streets.

They made their way through the bustling market, the lively sounds of merchants and customers gradually fading as they approached the quieter streets leading to the theatre. Maddie kept up a cheerful chatter as they walked, pointing out little shops and landmarks along the way. Stone nodded along, half-listening, though his thoughts drifted to the day ahead.

It was his third day working backstage at the theatre, and he was still adjusting to the whirlwind of activity that came with it. Madame Rockwell, the stern but efficient stage manager, with sharp eyes that missed nothing and a no-nonsense demeanour that kept everyone on their toes. She was tasked by Madame Willoughby to teach Stone about working backstage and had taken it upon herself to direct his every move.

“Carry this,” she would bark, shoving a bundle of costumes into his arms. Or “Move that set piece. Quickly, boy!” Her words were snappy. Stone wasn’t sure if her bluntness came from years of working in the industry or from dealing with too many hopefuls like him, but he sensed she didn’t mean them unkindly. She was simply a woman who demanded efficiency in her domain.

However, he did quickly learn not to linger too long watching the rehearsals. Anytime he paused to take in a particularly captivating scene on stage, he couldn’t help but be mesmerized by the way the performers moved on stage, their movements and voices blending seamlessly with the rehearsal music.

Those moments of wonder, however, were often cut short.

Snap!

Madame Rockwell’s fingers would snap sharply in front of his face, jolting him out of his reverie. “Eyes on the task, not the stage,” she’d say, her tone clipped and her gaze unamused. Despite the constant rushes and tasks Stone didn’t mind it all. Working during rehearsals meant more time to watch from the sidelines, when he can, to learn the rhythms and secrets of the theatre’s inner workings. It wasn’t the spotlight he dreamed of, but it was a step closer to it—a small foothold on the path to something greater.

As Maddie and Stone turned the corner, the grand facade of the theatre came into view, its ornate architecture gleaming in the early morning light. The intricate carvings and towering columns still gave the building an air of timeless elegance, as though it were a monument to dreams and stories waiting to be told. It was always a sight that always filled Stone, and he couldn’t help but feel a familiar flutter in his chest—the strange mixture of excitement and nerves. Knowing he worked within those walls filled him with a sense of pride, even as he worried about meeting the high expectations of those around him, waiting for him to mess up and have a reason to kick him out.

Him and Maddie of them hurried up the stone steps, the soles of their shoes clicking as they rushed up. They then stopped at the entrance booth where Tom sat casually, leaning back in his chair with his feet propped up on the counter. A open newspaper obscured most of his face, though the occasional rustle indicated he was engrossed in whatever he was reading.

Maddie’s grinned mischievously and without warning, she rapped her knuckles sharply against the glass, giving it three sharp knocks.

Thud thud thud!

Tom jolted upright and his feet hit the floor with a thump, fumbling to straighten the paper. His startled expression melted into a sheepish grin when he saw Maddie’s face through the glass.

“Maddie,” he sighed, lowering the newspaper and shaking his head. “Do you have to give me a heart attack this early?” Maddie laughed as she leaned against the booth’s frame, her smile wide. “You make it too easy, Tom. Besides, it’s good for you—keeps you on your toes.”

Tom rolled his eyes but smiled despite himself. “Hello to you too Stone.” he added, nodding toward him, who gave a polite wave in return. “Morning Tom.” Stone replied, his nerves briefly eased by Tom’s easy-going demeanour.

Reaching into her basket, Maddie pulled out the sugar-dusted beignet and handed it to Tom through the small window. “Peace offering,” she said with a wink. Tom took the beignet with mock suspicion. “Trying to bribe me, huh? What did you do?”

“Nothing!” Maddie said, feigning innocence. “Just thought you deserved a treat for all the hard work you do sitting here, keeping that chair warm.”

“Ha. Ha,” Tom deadpanned, though he took a large bite of the beignet anyway. “You’re lucky these are good.”

“Of course they’re good,” Maddie said, already moving toward the theatre doors. She turned back briefly, waving with exaggerated cheer. “See you later, Tom!”

“Bye hon. Bye Stone.” Tom called after them, his voice muffled by another bite, waving them off as he leaned back into his chair, his feet returning to their former spot on the counter.

Stone followed Maddie inside, the theatre’s heavy doors creaking faintly as they swung open. The familiar scent of the theatre greeted them once again—aged wood, faintly lingering perfume, and the musk of aging velvet. “Come on, slowpoke,” Maddie called over her shoulder, her voice echoing faintly in the cavernous lobby.

Stone quickened his pace, catching up as they passed through the double doors and into the winding halls. The soft hum of activity grew louder with each turn—voices calling out instructions, the faint rustle of fabric, of giggles from some girls, and the occasional metallic clink of stage tools being used. Finally, they emerged into the bustling backstage area of the G.U.N Theatre. Stone’s eyes darted around, taking in the organized chaos of people rushing back and forth.

“Maddie!” a sharp voice called, cutting through the noise. They turned to see Rachel, Maddie’s sister, standing with her hands on her hips. “There you are!” she said, her tone somewhere between exasperated and relieved.

Rachel gestured at her costume, a modest green villager’s dress hung to her ankles. The simple outfit was accented with a white apron tied neatly at her waist, and draped over her head was a white scarf, loosely knotted beneath her chin. It framed her face in a way that softened her sharp features, though Rachel’s expression of mild annoyance quickly undid the effect. “I need help tying this thing up before it strangles me,” she said, turning to reveal a tangled mess of ribbons and laces that looked like they’d been tied and untied a dozen times. Maddie grinned but didn’t waste time. “Alright, turn around,” she instructed, motioning for Rachel to face away. Grabbing the laces of the dress, Maddie began expertly threading them through the loops with precision. “You know,” Maddie started, her tone light but teasing, “if you’d just ask the wardrobe team to help you—”

“They’re swamped,” Rachel interrupted, crossing her arms as if to fend off further suggestions. “It’s chaos back there. Half of them are practically buried under a mountain of costumes, and the other half look like they’re two seconds away from staging a mutiny. I’m not adding to their stress.”

Maddie chuckled, pulling the laces tighter. “So instead, you make me your personal wardrobe assistant?”

“Exactly,” Rachel said with mock seriousness, tossing a grin over her shoulder. “Besides, you’re better at this than anyone back there. Quick, efficient, and no unnecessary commentary.”

Stone’s attention wandered as the sisters chatted, his gaze fell on Walters, who stood in the orchestra pit along with the conductor and a small group of the orchestra. Walter’s arms were crossed as he watched the ongoing rehearsal with a hawk-like intensity. Onstage, a group of actors was gathered, their voices rising in song, accompanied by the faint strains of an offstage piano.

“What are they rehearsing?” Stone asked, nodding toward the stage as he turned back to Maddie and Rachel. “Goethe’s Faust,” Maddie replied without looking up, focused on tying a neat bow at the back of Rachel’s dress. “The story of an ugly old man who sells his soul to the devil,” Rachel added, glancing over her shoulder as Maddie finished her work.

Stone tilted his head, watching the actors move across the stage with dramatic flair. “Why does he sell his soul?” he asked simply. Rachel turned fully now, smoothing the fabric of her gown as Maddie tied the last knot, her expression amused as if the answer were obvious. “Why do you think? For the love of a woman.” she said with a hint of theatrical flair, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

“Hmm. For love,” Stone murmured, half to himself. The thought lingered, a peculiar pang settling in his chest as he watched the performance unfold. His thoughts lingering on the notion of sacrifice—for love, for ambition, for dreams.

Before he could sink further into his musings, Walters' booming voice shattering the moment. “No. No. No!” Walters bellowed, marching onto the stage with the intensity of a general charging into battle, his presence commanding immediate attention. The piano music came to an abrupt halt, the unfinished notes hanging awkwardly in the air.

“This is poison, not soup!” Walters snapped, gesturing wildly at the actor playing Faust. The actor groaned, ripping off his askew wig in frustration and running a hand through his dishevelled hair, letting out an audible groan of frustration. Clearly tired and pissed at Walters interference. “You’re drinking it because you want to kill yourself, not savouring a delightful consommé!”

Walters then turned his attention to the conductor and jabbing a finger in his direction. “Take it from la la la la!” he demanded.

“From where?” the actor questioned; his confusion evident. The conductor blinked, also confused at Walter’s direction.

“La la la la!” Walters repeated, his annoyance mounting. He threw up his arms, glancing at the conductor as though he should have understood by now. The conductor turned helplessly to the female pianist seated behind him. She leaned closer and offered in a calm tone, “I think he means Mephisto’s entry.”

“Oh,” the conductor muttered, nodding in sudden understanding. He raised his baton and gave a quick count. The piano started, the melody continuing. This time, the actor’s voice rose with more intensity, his singing filled with desperation and anguish as he embodied Faust’s despair. Walters crossed his arms, nodding with grudging approval as the performance continued.

Stone couldn’t help but stifle a laugh. The chaos, the passion, and the relentless pursuit of perfection —it was all so theatrical, and oddly exhilarating. Maddie appeared beside him, nudging his arm. “Walter is always driving us crazy; the man is a nightmare sometimes. But we get results.”

“Buckle up, it only gets crazier from here,” Rachel chimed in. Then she turned to Maddie with a pointed look. “Speaking of which, Maddie, we need to get you in costume too.” Maddie groaned theatrically but didn’t protest as Rachel grabbed her arm and began tugging her toward the dressing rooms. “I’ll see you around, Stone!” Maddie called over her shoulder, flashing him a grin. Stone waved, a small smile lingering on his face. “And I better start my chores before Madame Rockwell finds me.” Stone muttered to himself with a faint chuckle.

As he walked through the backstage area, the ever-present hum of activity surrounded him. Stagehands darted around with set props, actors rehearsed lines under their breath, and a shout of “Where’s the prop table?” echoed in the distance. Stone moved with purpose, yet his steps were unhurried, taking in the controlled chaos that felt like a world apart from the bustling market he’d just left.

Spotting a stray costume draped carelessly over a chair, Stone sighed and picked it up, shaking it out carefully. A vibrant cloak, likely meant for one of the ensemble players, its gold embroidery catching the dim backstage light. He folded it neatly over his arm and continued walking. His eyes scanned the floor as he moved, catching other misplaced items—a scarf tossed over a railing, a pair of gloves abandoned on the edge of the stage. Stone collected them as he went, quietly sorting and organizing as though it were second nature.

He approached the wardrobe area, where racks of costumes were located, each piece meticulously labelled and categorized. He began returning the items to their rightful places, matching the tags on the hangers to the notes scribbled on his clipboard.

“Stone!” came a sharp voice, startling him. He turned to see Madame Rockwell herself, clipboard in hand, her sharp eyes narrowing as she approached. “Finally here I see. Well, there is mountains of work to be done, and I won’t have you idling about again .”

“Yes, ma’am,” Stone replied quickly, suppressing a smile as he gestured toward the rack of costumes he’d just organized. “I’m already on it.” Madame Rockwell glanced at the rack, her expression softening for the briefest of moments before she nodded curtly. “Good. Now, see that the props table is ready for the next scene. And do not let me catch you distracted again, Stone.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he repeated, watching her stride off to likely scold another stagehand. As Stone turned toward the props table, he couldn’t help but chuckle under his breath. “Distracted? Me? Never.”

Stone continued collecting stary costumes and props from around backstage. As he walked around, he found himself pausing behind the stage’s towering canvas backdrop as something caught his eye. A young woman sat atop a portable staircase; her posture poised but relaxed. In front of her was a spindle prop, her fingers absently brushing against its wooden frame. Her red, white and blue gown and braided auburn hair was the same costume and styling of Madame Willoughby’s character, Margarete. But it was not Madame Willoughby who sat atop of that staircase.

Maybe he was mistaken. Maybe the character wasn’t Margarete at all.

Curious, Stone leaned toward a nearby stagehand, a young man who was leaning against the staircase to the platform and was in the process of wiping his hands on a stained rag. “Hey, who’s she playing?” Stone asked, nodding toward the woman.

The man glanced up over his shoulder, following Stone’s gaze. “Her? It’s Margarete.” he said simply. “The woman Faust desires.”

Stone arched a brow, glancing back at the woman perched on the staircase. “I thought that was Madame Willoughby’s role.” The stagehand smirked. “Yeah, it is. But it would seem Madame Willoughby doesn’t think she needs rehearsal. Claims she’s got the role perfected already. Probably now off somewhere having tea or whatever it is divas do in their free time.”

Stone hummed thoughtfully, taking one last glance at the woman—Margarete, or rather the actress playing her—before heading off to continue his work.

Hidden in the shadows of a backstage staircase, Ivo stood silently, his sharp gaze fixed on the bustling scene below. His posture was as still as a statue, but his mind was anything but calm.  His sharp eyes tracked the movements of a familiar figure moving through the bustling theatre. The man who had captivated him so utterly—the violinist from the night performance—walked by, his arms filled with a pile of costumes. He moved with quiet efficiency, unaware to Ivo’s watchful presence.

Ivo’s lips pressed into a thin line. The melody from that night still lingered in his mind. His nights spent consumed by the memory of the music and the man who played it. Those thoughts had kept him awake for nights and stirred something deep and unfamiliar within him.

He’d since learned his angle’s name: Aban Stone. A curious name for an even more curious individual as Monsieur Stone seemed to preferred to go by his surname. He is a man of modest means as Ivo learnt Stone worked tirelessly backstage of the theatre during the day and tending to the endless tasks. And Ivo had discovered, Stone resided in the theatre attic by night. It struck Ivo as peculiar yet fitting—Stone, a man who appeared as ordinary as the dust-covered props he handled yet carried an aura of hidden mystery and unpolished grace.

Ivo’s observed Stone pick up a carelessly discarded prop, brushing dust off its surface with an air of practiced patience. He admired how Stone moved—no wasted effort, no hesitation, as though every motion had purpose.

Then, another figure entered the scene—the actor playing Mephisto, the Devil. The actor approached Stone, taking his hand with exaggerated elegance. “Ah, Stone. It is good to cross paths again,” the actor said with a teasing grin, lifting Stone’s hand to his lips. “You’re a gem hidden amongst coal; you know that?”

Ivo's jaw clenched as he stood at the edge of the staircase, his gloved fingers curling tightly around the polished railing. He suppressed a sudden flare of irritation. The sight of the actor’s lips brushing against Stone’s hand—though clearly in jest—stirred a strange heat in his chest.

However, Ivo remained fixed on the scene below: Stone, ever calm and professional, enduring the exaggerated theatrics of the actor. Stone gave a tight, polite smile that did little to mask the faint twitch of discomfort at the corners of his mouth. "If you say so, Philippe." Stone said evenly, his voice devoid of the flustered tones that Ivo expected. To his satisfaction, Stone eventually turned and walked away, his usual composed stride carrying him across the room. As soon as the actor—Philippe—sauntered off with a chuckle, Stone discreetly wiped his hand against his trousers, a gesture that brought a fleeting smirk to Ivo’s lips.

Ivo exhaled slowly, releasing the tension from his grip on the railing and remained in his shadows. Since that night, he had been turning over the question of whether to approach Stone, and if so, how? What would he even say? He had lived a life of calculated words and precise actions, but now he found himself still paralyzed by his indecision.

When he heard Stone play that night, it was evident to Ivo that Stone, while possessing undeniable talent, lacked formal training. Stone’s timing was slow, unconfident, his bow hesitant, occasionally ridged and lacked the finesse of a seasoned player. Yet, these imperfections were precisely what intrigued Ivo. Beneath the surface laid something pure, something untamed. Stone’s playing wasn’t polished, but it was real—an uncut gem waiting to be refined.

And Ivo wanted to be the one to refine it.

He wanted to hear Stone play again, to feel that spark reignite in his chest. He wanted to take Stone under his wing, to teach him, guide him, and show him what he was truly capable of. But simply introducing himself seemed laughably inadequate for the situation. What words could possibly bridge the ocean between them? What justification could he offer for his sudden interest? His fascination would seem unexplainable, perhaps even invasive.

Yet, the pull to step out of the shadows, to close the gap between them, was growing stronger with each passing moment. From his vantage point, he watched as Stone moved through the backstage chaos with quiet efficiency. He straightened a crooked costume rack, picked up a forgotten prop and then lending a quiet helping hand to an overwhelmed stagehand.

Stone moved through the world with an unassuming grace, utterly unaware of the storm he had ignited within Ivo.

But patience was a virtue—he needed to wait. Wait for the right moment, the moment when their paths could cross naturally, when their destinies would intertwine in a way that could not be undone. It was a risk, to leave something so monumental to chance, but it was one he was willing to take—for Stone, and for the music that had begun to echo through the chambers of his heart. Until then, he would remain in the shadows, watching, waiting, and preparing for the time he would step finally into the light and meet his angel.

The grand theatre stage has become still and quiet, save for the faint creak of wooden floorboards and the soft rustle of fabric as Stone worked. The once-bustling stage, which had hosted a vibrant performance mere hours ago, now felt as hushed as a cathedral. Alone on the stage, Stone pushed a squeaky cart, its wheels emitting faint squeaks that echoed through the cavernous space.

His hands moved deftly, gathering the props and scattered costumes that had been carelessly abandoned in the frenzy of the night’s performance. Another discarded cloak here, village girl aprons, a forgotten mask there—each item found its place in the cart.

The last of the actors passed by him on their way out from the stage, their voices low with tiredness from a long day of enduring Walter’s directions. “Goodnight, Monsieur Stone,” one of ladies said, giving him a warm nod, her voice carrying a hint of gratitude giving him a warm nod as she and her the rest of her small group headed for the exit. “Goodnight,” Stone replied with a polite smile, barely glancing up as he collected a stray prop from the floor.

A young stagehand followed close behind, giving Stone a small wave. “Don’t let the ghosts keep you too late,” they joked, their voice fading as they disappeared into the wings before Stone could respond.

The joke wasn’t uncommon—people often spoke of the theatre’s ghostly atmosphere after hours—but Stone had never paid it much mind. To him, the silence and emptiness were a comfort, a reprieve from the bustling chaos of the day.

He continued his task, gathering the costumes, props, and pieces of set that had been scattered during the performance. A tattered cloak here, a forgotten mask there—each item found its place atop the growing pile on the cart. His mind drifted to the violin tucked away in his attic quarters. He thought of the fleeting moments of peace he found in its music, the way it allowed him to express feelings he could never say in words.

But his thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a sound—the faint creaks of the floorboards came from behind him. Stone froze, his body instinctively tensing and his heart raced in sudden panic. Slowly, he turned toward the noise, his eyes scanning the shadows at the edge of the stage. There, at the edge of the stage, just beyond the glow of the lights, stood a figure hidden in shadows. Stone’s breath was caught in his throat as he saw a figure just standing at the edge of the stage.

“Don’t be afraid,” the figure said, their tone both reassuring and mysterious. “I am a friend… as well as an admirer.” The figure then moved, emerging from the darkness, stepping into the faint light with an air of quiet confidence.

It was a man. Dressed in a black cape draped over a white ruffled shirt and a crimson waistcoat. His dark hair was slicked back, gleaming faintly under the dim lighting. But what immediately drew Stone’s attention most was the sleek black mask he wore that concealed right side of the man’s face, framing his eye, and sweeping over his cheek. The left side of his face remained uncovered, revealing a meticulously groomed moustache. Despite the unsettling appearance, there was a peculiar calmness in the man's voice when he spoke.

Stone took a hesitant step forward, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. "Who are you?" he asked, his voice wavering slightly. Stone’s gaze flicked to the mask, an elaborate design that concealed much of the man’s face.

The man raised a gloved hand, gesturing for Stone to remain still. "Ah, that’s not important, but I would appreciate it if you were to stay exactly where you are," he continued, taking a measured step to the side. "I had the pleasure of seeing you play your violin the other night. I know you thought you were alone, but you were not."

Stone’s heart raced as the memory surfaced—he had stayed late, practicing his violin on this very stage, letting the music echo through the empty theatre. He had been sure that no one was around to hear, and yet here was a stranger claiming otherwise. "You… heard me?" Stone stammered, unsure whether to feel flattered or unnerved.

The man nodded, his eyes glinting behind the mask as he slowly walked along the edge of stage, like a predator eyeing its meal. His steps measured and soundless as he paced along the edge of the stage, the hem of his black cape swaying with each step whilst his gaze stuck to Stone. "Indeed. I heard every note. I could hear the passion in your playing, the raw emotion. It was… captivating.” His lips curled into a small, grin, the kind that sent an involuntary shiver down Stone’s spine. “But I could also hear something else—something missing." He paused, letting the words sink in. "Forgive me, but it is obvious you lack in professional training. The way you play is… untrained. Without proper guidance, your skills will never attain the heights for which I know they are destined."

Stone’s initial defensiveness faded, replaced by a hesitant curiosity. "And what makes you think you know what I’m capable of?" he challenged. The man’s lips curved into a wider smile beneath the mask. "I have an ear for potential," he replied. "And yours is undeniable. With the right instruction, you could be remarkable—far more than what you are now."

Stone’s mind raced as he tried to make sense of the stranger's words. "And you’re offering to teach me?" The stranger nodded. “Precisely. "I can provide you with the lessons you need to transform that raw talent into true artistry. Help you refine your skills. But there is a condition."

"Condition?" Stone repeated, wariness creeping into his tone as his gaze followed the stranger.

"If you allow me to be your guide, I must insist that I remain anonymous," the man explained, gesturing to the black mask. "Which is why I wear this. You are not to mention our lessons, nor of my existence, to anyone."

The strangeness of the offer left Stone uncertain and cautious. A strange man he’s never seen nor met before is coming up to him and suddenly offering music lessons. It was too suspicious. "Why would you do this? What’s in it for you?"

“Let's just say I have a fondness for nurturing talent where I see it," the man answered cryptically. "And you, my young friend, have captured my interest." The man’s pacing slowed as he reached the other side of the stage, his polished boots halting with deliberate precision. For a moment, he stood still, his figure bathed in the soft glow of the dim stage lights. The faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, a shadow of something unreadable flickering across his face.

Stone opened his mouth to respond, to demand more clarity, but the words tangled in his throat. Before Stone could gather his swirling thoughts or find his voice, the man took a step back, his movements as fluid as the notes of a melody. His figure began to dissolve into the encroaching shadows at the edge of the stage, the black of his cape blending seamlessly into the darkened background.

“Consider my offer,” the man said, his voice dipping into a low, resonant tone that seemed to linger in the air. “I will find you to hear your answer. Goodnight.”

And with that, he vanished from sight, the quiet echo of his words hanging in the stillness that followed. Stone stood frozen for a heartbeat, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths, his mind racing to process what had just occurred. Then he suddenly snapped out of his daze. “Wait!” he called, his voice breaking the heavy silence of the empty theatre. “What’s your name?”

Stone abandoned the cart and dashed to the other side of the stage, his shoes clicking against the wooden floor. Stone reached the spot where the man had disappeared, his eyes scanning the dimly lit backstage area. Shadows clung to every corner, but no trace of the mysterious figure remained. “Hello?” Stone called out again, his voice echoing faintly against the towering walls. He pushed through a set of curtains, peering into the labyrinth of props and storage beyond. Nothing. Only the quiet hum of the theatre lights and the distant creak of settling wood greeted him.

He ran a hand through his hair, his frustration mounting. Who was that man? Did he really approach me just to offer me lessons?

Stone’s gaze darted to the shadows once more, half-expecting the masked figure to reappear with another cryptic remark. But there was only emptiness.

Letting out a long, shaky breath, Stone returned to the stage. He paused, glancing at the cart he left and the props still waiting to be collected. Yet, his mind was no longer on his work. It was consumed by the man’s offer, his unsettling yet oddly captivating presence, and the mystery of why he had chosen Stone.

Stone muttered to himself as he resumed pushing the cart. “Who are you?” But even as the question lingered in the air, he knew it wouldn’t leave his thoughts any time soon.

The mysterious figure, with his enigmatic presence and unsettling proposition, had left a mark—one that Stone knew he wouldn’t be able to shake.

Chapter Text

He was in his dreams. No, haunted his dreams.

Several days had passed since Stone’s encounter with the mysterious masked man, yet the memory of their meeting lingered like a haunting melody. Vivid and persistent. The thoughts waved themselves into Stone’s mind, day and night. He was unable to shake the man’s cryptic words, his sharp gaze, or the way he had vanished into the shadows. It was maddening.

In the days that followed, Stone had found himself scanning every person who entered the theatre, searching—hoping—to catch a glimpse of someone who even remotely resembled the masked figure. His sharp cheekbones, his dark hair, the commanding way he carried himself. Surely, if this man frequented the theatre, someone had to know him. Someone had to recognize him.

But no one did.

He had watched actors, musicians, and theatre patrons, searching for a flicker of familiarity in their faces, their movements, their voices. Yet no one stirred that same feeling within him—that strange, indescribable pull. The man was a ghost, a shadow that had appeared for a brief moment and then disappeared into the depths of the theatre’s darkness.

Stone had even taken to listening more closely, straining to catch a whisper, a rumour, anything that might hint at the masked man’s identity. But the more he searched, the more fruitless it became. It was as if the man had never existed at all.

The frustration gnawed at him.

So now, on this quiet night, Stone laid on the thin mattress of his weak, creaky bed in the attic of the theatre. Starring at the dusty wooden beams overhead, the questions running endlessly through his mind.

The dim light of a single lamp illuminated the cluttered space filled with scattered props and costumes. The faint moonlight filtered through the circular window afar, casting faint silvery streaks across the cluttered space.

"If you allow me to be your guide, I must insist that I remain anonymous. Which is why I'm wearing this mask." The strangers voiced echoed within Stone’s mind.

“Who are you really? Why me?” he muttered aloud, his voice swallowed by the stillness of the room. The soft patter of rain against the attic window only deepened the silence around him.

With a frustrated sigh, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, bare feet touching the creaky wooden floor. If sleep wouldn’t come, at least he could busy his hands.

Reaching for his violin, the instrument resting faithfully by his bedside in its case, Stone carefully lifted it from its case. The familiar weight of the instrument in his hands brought a small measure of comfort. Sitting upright, he began to tune the strings with care, his fingers moving with precision.

He tuned and tested the strings methodically, making adjustments, the familiar motions calming his restless thoughts.

Then his mind wandered. Why had the masked man taken such a strange interest in him? What could he possibly gain by offering secret lessons to someone like Stone?

"Consider my offer. I will find you to hear your answer."

Stone groaned, nearly making him turn a peg too tightly in frustration. He exhaled sharply and shook his head. “Enough,” he whispered to himself. “If he doesn’t show up again, then I can just forget it all. It was just…all a late-night hallucination.”

Deciding he needed to focus on something tangible to think about, Stone decided to play. When the tuning felt right again, Stone stood up to take his place, lowering the violin beneath his chin, and gently placed the bow against the strings

And he began to play.

The notes started tentatively, soft and uncertain, but gradually they swelled into something fuller, richer. The music flowed through him, his worries fading with each stroke of the bow.

As the music filled the attic, Stone’s focus sharpened, his world narrowing to the vibration of strings and the resonance of each note. He closed his eyes, letting the melody sweep him away, losing himself entirely in its embrace. Slowly, he felt the room around him fade. Then the world seemingly going. Leaving only the music and the emotions it carried—longing, hope, and a faint touch of melancholy. The melody that poured forth was haunting yet hopeful, carrying the weight of longing to belong and find meaning to his life.

To find his joy again.

He played on, pouring his frustration and longing into every note, until the final sound lingered in the air like an unspoken question.

The final note hung in the air then it all faded into silence, Stone let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. But before he could set the violin down and settle into the stillness, the sound of slow, deliberate clapping broke the quiet. A sudden clap startled Stone.

He immediately turned his head around towards the corner of the room where the slow claps were coming from. Where shadow seemed to shift and take form. Stone’s heart seemed to have leapt into his throat. A figure emerged from the shadows of the attic corner.

It was him. The masked man.

“Truly inspirational, monsieur,” the familiar mysterious voice said smoothly, “Your melody never fails to move me.”

“You!” Stone exclaimed, his grip tightening on his violin.

The masked man—his dark cape sweeping softly behind him—stepped into the faint moonlight filtering through the attic’s dusty window, his expression partially obscured by his sleek mask. “Yes, me,” the man replied simply, his lips curving into a faint smile. “I told you I would find you, didn’t I?”

Stone glared, though a flicker of confusion crossed his face, whilst his grip on the violin tightened. “But, how did you even get in?”

The masked man ignored Stone’s question, taking a step closer. “It’s a shame,” he said, gesturing toward the violin in Stone’s tight grasp. “It is clear you play with a fiery passion that ignites through every note you summon.” The man’s gaze then hardened; his voice toned sharp with disdain. “But this place—this theatre—fails to see the value of the gem they have hidden in plain sight. They would rather keep you as low as an errand boy than grant you the stage you very much deserve. The orchestra down there is the one missing out. A tragedy, but one I intend to rectify.”

Stone hesitated, his suspicion bubbling to the surface. “Who are you?” Stone managed to let out, his voice steady despite the unease prickling at his skin. “You didn’t tell me the other night when you spoke to me.”

The man’s lips curled into a faint smile. “And as I’ve said that night, I am an admirer of yours,” he said smoothly, “Someone who recognizes greatness when he sees it. But you may call me... Doctor.”

“Doctor?” Stone repeated with suspicion in his tone. He certainly doesn’t act like a doctor…nor dresses like one. “That’s all I get?” The masked man—the Doctor—inclined his head, the mask catching the dim nightlight, as he circled around the still standing Stone. “It is all you need to know.”

“Fine, Doctor,” Stone’s eyes narrowed. “And why do you care so much about what happens to me here?” suspicion creeping into his tone.

“As I have told you before, I have an ear for untapped potential.” the Doctor says, his tone reassuring as he continued. “And yours is undeniable. With the right guidance, you could be remarkable—far more than what you are now."

Stone stared, searching the man’s features for something—truth, deception, anything—but found himself drawn in by the Doctor’s intense presence and aura.

“Now,” The Doctor says, his voice as firm as it was inviting, I’ve come for your final answer. Will you accept my condition and offer to guide you to unlock the full potential of your musical talent and skills? Or will you let your talent languish in obscurity?”

‘Right. The offer’  Stone slowly recalls from the night of their encounter. His thoughts raced. The memory of their last encounter, the Doctor’s cryptic remarks, and now this second intrusion into his life—it all felt surreal. The same words echoing throughout his mind at that moment.

Why? Why me? Why?

“Why?” Stone demanded. “Why go through all this trouble for me? What do you really want? What do you get out of this?” The Doctor’s paused his circling, turning his head to the side and showing a careless wide smile, but his tone remained calm. “For the satisfaction of seeing someone rise to their full potential and to show those now in charge of this theatre that they were so very wrong about you. All because of my guidance.”

The Doctor’s smile softened as he came much closer to Stone. So close that the Doctor had to now look down to Stone. Stone’s instinct yelled at him to step back, but his heart kept him still, wanting to hear what more the mysterious Doctor had to say.

The Doctor’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “A talent and melody like yours should not be wasted. I see in you something rare—a spark, a drive to create beauty even in a world that doesn’t see you. Believe me when I say that I see greatness in you—a greatness I can help you achieve.  I want nothing more than to help you reach the heights you were meant for.

Stone studied him, searching for deception in the man’s words. But there was something disarming about the Doctor’s intensity, an odd sincerity that left him conflicted.

“That is all I seek from this opportunity,” The Doctor concluded, his eyes softening. “Must I say more to convince you, Monsieur Stone?”

Stone’s breath hitched, eyes gone wide, and his mind suddenly went completely blank. He never told the man his name.

A cold shiver ran down his spine, an eerie sensation creeping up the back of his neck. “You…” His voice faltered, confusion quickly turning to suspicion. His brows furrowed. “How do you know my name?”

The Doctor merely smiled. It was a small, knowing thing, barely visible beneath his moustache, but it sent a prickle of unease through Stone. “I make it a habit to know the names of those who intrigue me,” he replied smoothly. “People also like to talk and gossip in this theatre. Especially about newcomers.”

He should have been frightened. He was frightened, if he was being honest with himself. But beneath that fear, another feeling stirred.

Curiosity.

Curiosity, and something far more dangerous: fascination.

Stone’s gaze lingered to the floor, his mind churning with uncertainty. Did he need to hear more to be convinced? A part of him felt wary—this man, was an enigma, appearing out of nowhere, speaking with the confidence of someone who knew him. Yet, there was something about his presence, about the way his words wrapped around Stone like a perfectly composed melody, that sent a shiver down his spine.

The offer was as daunting as it was exhilarating. As if he were standing at the edge of something monumental, a threshold between the life he had always known and one that was yet to be written.

Could he truly take that step?

Swallowing his hesitation, Stone lifts his head up, finally meeting the Doctor’s gaze.

Grey. Icy. Unreadable.

The moment their eyes locked, Stone felt something shift in the air between them. There was an intensity to the Doctor’s gaze, something almost hypnotic. The Doctor’s stare was piercing, his gaze holding a weight that seemed to press into Stone’s very being, as if searching for something deep within him. The longer Stone looked, the harder it became to pull away. His breath hitched, his fingers instinctively tightening around the neck of his violin. His heart pounded faster, louder, until it drowned out every other sound in the room. Stone’s pulse roared in his ears. His breath becoming shallow.

Why did it feel like this man could see right through him? As if he already knew the answer before Stone had even spoken it?

He had spent years being overlooked, dismissed, or treated as little more than the son of a farmer, a lowly errand boy for the grand production of this theatre. It was only his late father who believed—no, knew—Stone was worth to play on stage.

And now, here was a stranger looking at him as like her mattered. As if he were worth something more.

And Stone desperately wanted to feel worthy again.

Stone exhaled slowly, steadying himself and giving a slight nod. “…Alright,” he said, his voice quieter than he expected, but firm. “I accept your conditions…and offer.” Stone searched the man’s expression—or at least the part of it he could see. A slow, knowing smile spread across the Doctor’s lips. "Good," he replied. "Then let us go."

Stone blinked. “W-what? Now?”

“Yes, now,” he said simply, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Opportunity does not wait, Monsieur Stone. Nor should you.”

He turned sharply on his heel, his black cape fluttering behind him, and took a few steps toward the far end of the attic. Stone hesitated, glancing down at his violin case as if expecting it to hold the answer to his growing uncertainty. The logical part of his mind screamed that this was absurd—following a masked stranger into the unknown on nothing but cryptic promises and flattery. But another part of him, the part that had spent years yearning for something more, something greater, whispered that this was the moment he had been waiting for.

Stone went over to where he laid his violin case to place his violin inside, preparing for his unknown and mysterious journey. Stone swallowed, gripping the case tightly as he took a cautious step forward. “But… where are we going?”

“You ask many questions.” the Doctor mused. He was turned toward a seemingly blank section of the attic wall Stone had long since assumed was nothing more than an old, dust-covered wall. But then, with a gloved hand, the Doctor pressed his hand against the wall. With a faint click, and to Stone’s astonishment, a hidden door creaked open, revealing a narrow, dimly lit passageway.

The Doctor turned back to Stone. “Come, there is much to learn, and the night is still young,” he beckoned, his voice dipping into something softer, something almost… coaxing, “Your journey begins now.” The Doctor stretches out his gloved hand towards Stone, awaiting him to follow

Stone stood frozen, staring down at the outstretched gloved hand, his heart still pounding and is yet to calm down. He was hesitant, glancing at the mysterious doorway and back at the Doctor. Every instinct told him to walk away and return to the life he knew.

But something in the Doctor’s gaze, something in the mystery of it all, called to him.

He pushed past his hesitations, gripping his violin tightly and stepped forward.

With a final breath, he stepped forward, getting ready to take the Doctor’s hand and then to be led into the unknown. Slowly, he reached out and took the Doctor’s hand. The cold leather material gently wrapping around Stone’s uneasy hand.

Stone looks up to face the Doctor, seeing the man wore a gentle smile. With a nod of approval from Stone, the Doctor led him into the passage, the door closing behind them with a soft click.

Everything raced within him. His mind, heart and seemingly his entire body as he was led through the hidden door, the mysterious passage swallowing them both. The attic, the theatre, and the life Stone had known were left behind as he stepped into an unknown world of the theatre.

Chapter Text

1882 - April (1 Month later)

“And listen to this one!” Director Walters fumed as he sharply paced the length of his office, shaking a crumpled letter in his hand. “‘Norma is a fine opera, and I approve of its selection. What I do not approve of is your choice of lead, Agnes Willoughby.’” He slammed the paper onto his desk before throwing his arms up in exasperation. “This is Agnes’ Paris debut, Inspector! The biggest moment of her career, and this—this Phantom does not approve! Can you believe this nonsense?”

Inspector Bennington, stood by the office window with his hands clasped behind his back, let out an exasperated sighed. “It’s just a note, Walters. It could be a joke.”

“A joke?” Walters scoffed. He shoved open a drawer, pulling out a stack of neatly folded papers. “This has been going on for months, Inspector. Nearly every single day I come into my office and find a letter on this very desk. Insults, demands! This is more than a joke. Who ever is responsible for this harassment and claiming to be this Theatre's Phantom is certainly not joking. Here, look at this one!” He unfolded another sheet and read aloud, his voice dripping with frustration: ‘I expect Box Five to be reserved for my personal use at every performance. Signed, The Phantom of the G.U.N. Theatre.’

Bennington took the note, scanning the scrawled words before glancing at Walters. “I was told that Gerald always had the habit of keeping Box Five locked. It would seem I now know why.” 

“Well, I’m not Gerald. Am I?!” Walters snapped. “And I will not be bullied by some lunatic playing a ghost in my theatre. They will not be getting any special treatment from me! Not in my theatre!” With a furious gesture, he tore the letter in half and tossed the pieces onto the desk. “Whoever this Phantom is, he’ll soon learn that it is I who runs this theatre—not him.”

Bennington remained silent for a moment, studying the torn letter before meeting Walters’ gaze. “Then I suppose we’ll find out how this Phantom responds to being ignored.”

A month had passed since Stone had taken the Doctor’s hand and stepped into the theatre’s unknown. What had begun as a single fateful decision had now become a nightly ritual—his secret lessons, stolen away into hidden corridors and shadowed passages lit by torches, moving as if the theatre itself had swallowed them whole. Once a week at night, the Doctor would appear in Stone’s attic room, always in his masked guise, always waiting with an outstretched hand. And each time, Stone would take it without hesitation, and together, they would disappear into the labyrinth beneath the theatre.

The passages were like something out of a dream—or a nightmare. Twisting corridors, secret doors that melted into the walls, staircases that led to places Stone could not begin to map in his mind. He often wondered how far they extended. Did they remain within the theatre, or did they stretch beyond, beneath the city itself? Once or twice, curiosity had nearly gotten the better of him. He had lingered by the hidden entrance in his attic room, wondering if he could retrace his steps.

But the Doctor had warned him. “Those corridors are a labyrinth of shadows, Monsieur Stone. You step in alone, and you may never step out again It was not built for those who wander blindly."

The words had held weight, more warning than mere statement. And so, Stone had resisted the temptation to explore alone.

Their sessions were intense, thrilling, and—if he were being honest—a little unnerving at first. Who wouldn’t be? Taking secret lessons from a masked man who appeared and disappeared like a phantom? But as the nights passed, the nervousness dulled into something else. Anticipation. Excitement. A thrill unlike anything he had ever felt before.

The Doctor’s knowledge was undeniable, his passion relentless, and his methods were unlike anything Stone had ever experienced. He was demanding, precise, and expected nothing less than perfection. He pushed Stone past his limits, beyond what he thought himself capable of, urging him to feel the music, to command it, to make it his own.

Yet, despite the mystery surrounding his enigmatic tutor, life at the G.U.N. Theatre above carried on as usual.

The golden chandeliers cast warm light across the polished marble floors, the grand staircases stretching toward the higher balconies. Actors and stagehands walked about, chattering about the upcoming opera, their voices a lively hum against the theatre’s endless echoes.

Stone wandered the grand halls of the theatre, after a particularly long night of practice, exhaustion weighed on his limbs. He nearly jumped when a familiar voice called out to him.

“Stone!”

He turned to find Tom rushing towards him. “I’ve been looking all over for you,” he said, slightly out of breath.

Stone instinctively straightened his posture. “Tom,” he greeted with an easy smile. “Didn’t expect to see you so early.”

Tom gave him a knowing look. “And I didn’t expect to find out you were living in the theatre attic.”

Stone stiffened; his smile faltered slightly. He hadn’t told Tom he was living in the attic, but he had found out somehow.

“I know you’ve been staying here. Maddie mentioned it, but don’t worry, no one else knows.” Tom sighed, crossing his arms. “And I get it—you need a place and Paris isn’t exactly cheap. But it won’t be long till someone else finds out you are and reports you to Walters. So, I managed to find somewhere better for you.”

Stone frowned slightly, shifting his weight. “What do you mean?”

Tom grinned. “I have a friend who’s willing to let you stay in his apartment for nothing. It’s small and nothing fancy. But it’s warm, you’ll have a proper bed, and it’s safe and far better than a dusty, cold attic. You wouldn’t have to hide up in the rafters and worry about Walters finding out and throwing you out.”

Stone opened his mouth, then hesitated. He should be grateful. He should take the offer. It was what he had wanted, wasn’t it? A proper place, a roof over his head that wasn’t tied to secrecy.

A month ago, he might have leapt at the offer, grateful for any semblance of stability.

But now…now there was the Doctor. The lessons. The nights spent in secret, learning things no one else could teach him. Leaving the attic would likely mean leaving the lessons. It meant breaking the strange, intoxicating rhythm that had become his life. It meant severing whatever fragile bond had formed between him and the Doctor.

Stone swallowed, guilt creeping in. Tom had always meant well, and he knew he should be grateful for the offer—but he couldn’t leave. “I… I appreciate it, Tom,” he said carefully. “Really, I do. But I’m fine where I am.”

Tom frowned. “Stone, c’mon. You don’t have to live like that.”

“I want to stay,” Stone said quickly, forcing a reassuring smile. “It’s quiet. I can practice my violin without disturbing anyone. And it’s—comfortable.”

Tom studied him for a long moment, skepticism clear in his expression. But then he sighed, shaking his head. “Alright, if that’s what you want. Just know the offer’s still open if you need to.”

“It is,” Stone said, perhaps too quickly. “Thank you, though. It means a lot.” He then excused himself and hurried off, as he did, he resisted the urge to look back. He didn’t need to see Tom’s expression to know that the man was still watching him.

Stone ignored the unease creeping into his chest. He didn’t have time for doubts. He had to get through the day and be prepare for tonight’s lesson.

The grand halls of the G.U.N. Theatre swelled with life as everyone was preparing for its night performance. The scent of candle wax and perfume filled the air. Patrons, draped in their finest silks and adorned with glittering jewels, filtered into their velvet-lined seats, murmuring in eager anticipation. The chandeliers above cast a golden glow over the house, illuminating the excited, expectant faces of the audience.

But away from the grandeur, beyond the reach of the stage lights, The Phantom watched over them from the shadows.

From a concealed vantage point, he observed the various flurry of backstage activity. Performers adjusted their costumes and warmed up their voices. Last-minute instructions were exchanged in hushed whispers, and stagehands hurried to their stations adjusting set pieces, tightening ropes, and ensuring that every prop was in place.

It was a well-rehearsed chaos, a symphony of movement and anticipation.

Yet, midst of it all, Ivo’s attention was drawn to one figure alone.

Stone.

Ivo’s eyes followed him, studying his every move as he darted between actors and crew, carrying out his duties with quiet efficiency. At one point, Ivo watched as Stone approached Agnes Willoughby’s dressing room, delivering a bouquet of fresh roses for an admirer.

The woman received them with an air of self-importance, barely acknowledging Stone before placing the flowers aside with the casual indifference of someone accustomed to such gestures.

Ivo’s jaw tightened. She shouldn’t be performing tonight.

He had made his opinion clear. Agnes was unworthy of the role, an overrated performer chosen out of favouritism rather than true talent. And yet, Walters had disregarded his warnings, dismissing his letters.

And here she was, preening through her mirror with a sneer, oblivious to Ivo's presents behind the walls of her dressing room.

His gloved fingers curled slightly at his sides. If words would not be enough to make Walters see reason, then a demonstration was in order.

His sharp gaze flicked to the shelf where a collection of Agnes Willoughby’s wigs rested on stands. One of them she will wear for the night’s performance.

A slow, calculating smile curved onto Ivo’s lips.

It was almost too easy.

Ivo moved towards the shelf from behind the wall. Luckily for him, the wig was sitting right in front of a hidden panel of the shelf he had discovered during one of his many explorations of the theatre’s forgotten spaces. It was a small, inconspicuous sliding panel. From this vantage point, he could reach through without ever being seen.

The room bustled with activity. Agnes sat at her vanity, focused on her reflection on the mirror, fussing with her makeup while an assistant flitted around, adjusting the intricate details of her costume. Another handmaiden was busy with jewellery, sorting through pearls and rubies. None of them looking his direction.

Ivo moved.

With the precision of a practiced hand, he slid the panel open just enough to slip his arm through. His fingers brushed against the wig stand, closing around the soft strands. A quick, fluid motion, and the wig was gone from its stand, vanishing into the shadows like a spectre in the night.

He shut the panel without a sound.

Reaching into his coat, he retrieved a small pouch of fine powder. A special mixture of his own creation—harmless, but effective. Carefully, he dusted the inside of the wig with the pale substance before smoothing the strands back into place.

A sudden cry shattered the peaceful moment.

“Where’s my wig!? My wig!” Agnes’s shrill voice rang out, sharp and frantic.

He listens to the panic erupted in the dressing room. Agnes flailing and shrieking in frustration, the sounds of her assistants scrambling to find the missing costume piece, voices rising in confusion.

Then with practiced precision, he opened and reached through the opening once more and returned the wig to its rightful place—seemingly untouched, undisturbed.

By the time the assistants turned back to search again, it was there, just as it had always been. “It’s here madame!” one of the assistants exclaimed, eyes darting around as if suspecting some trickery.

Agnes snatched the wig and, with an exasperated huff, secured it atop her head. “Finally! Do you all want me to go onstage bald?”

She stormed off, the fabric of her gown swishing dramatically behind her as she made her way out.

In the shadows, Ivo leaned back, a quiet chuckle escaping his throat. “Please, do break a leg, mademoiselle.”

The theatre hummed with excitement; the air thick with the anticipation of the night’s grand performance. In the balconies, noblemen and high society socialites fanned themselves idly, whispering about the spectacle to come. The orchestra warmed up beneath the gilded stage, their instruments tuning to a perfect pitch.

And in the shadows, unseen by all, Ivo moved. His presence nothing more than a flicker in the shadows.

The performance was about to begin, and there was only one place he intended to watch it from—Box 5. His box.

It was the perfect vantage point, allowing him an unobstructed view of the stage while keeping him veiled in secrecy.

It was also there that he had first watched Stone perform. A night that had ignited something within him—an intrigue, a fascination.

As he reached the booths secret door and slid it ajar, he heard murmurs of conversation.

Ivo scowled.

There were intruders in his box.

The intruders—two well-dressed gentlemen and a lady draped in expensive furs—chatted idly, oblivious to the mistake they had made.

Ivo took a slow breath, then let his voice slip into the darkness, smooth and controlled, a mere whisper at first. "Excuse me, this box is mine." he gently murmured, his tone low and deep, manipulating the acoustics of the booth with his practiced skill, manipulating his voice as though it came from nowhere and everywhere at once.

The effect was immediate. The voices stilled. The soft rustling of fabric as the occupants turned their heads, searching.

“Who’s there?” one of the men demanded, squinting into the dim corners of the box.

Ivo did not answer. Instead, he let his voice shift, weaving it through the space with the practiced skill of a ventriloquist. “I would appreciate it if you left."

Panic flickered across the lady’s face as she clutched at her companion’s sleeve. “This box is haunted,” she whispered harshly.

“Nonsense,” the man scoffed, though his fingers twitched against the armrest. “It must be a draft.” though the unease in his voice betrayed his bravado.

But then, Ivo struck the final blow. He let out a low, breathy chuckle—unnatural, lingering, drifting around them like an unseen spectre’s amusement. It slipped through the air, curling at the edges of the room, directionless—inhuman.

That was all it took. The woman let out a shriek, bolting to her feet. The two men followed, their dignity abandoned as they stumbled out of the box, muttering about spirits and curses.

The door slammed shut behind them, their frantic footsteps fading into the distance.

Ivo chuckled as he could finally emerge from his hiding place, stepping gracefully into the dim light. He adjusted the cuff of his glove, his sharp eyes glinting with amusement. “I suppose there are perks to being a Phantom of this theatre,” he mused, his lips curling into a smirk.

With measured ease, he strode to the door, turning the lock with a decisive click. Now, finally, he could enjoy the performance—undisturbed.

Ivo settled into the comforts of the shadows, leaning against the velvet-draped wall and fixed his eyes on the stage below, waiting for the night to become even more… entertaining.

A hush fell over the grand theatre as the orchestra struck the first notes of the overture. The audience bristled with anticipation. Then came the blare of the trumpet fanfare—Norma’s entrance cue.

From the wings, Agnes stepped onto the stage, draped in flowing robes, her hands curled around the handle of her ceremonial sickle prop. And her posture commanding—at least, it was supposed to be.

Even from his place in the shadows, Ivo could see it. The tension in her shoulders. The barely concealed grimace on her lips. She lifted her ceremonial sickle prop, her fingers twitching.

Then, she began to sing.

"Are there those who dare
to raise seditious voices,
warlike voices, before the altar of God?"

Her voice, usually shrilled but steady, began to waver.

Ivo’s smirk widened as Agnes lifted the sickle—not to gesture dramatically as she should, but to rake it through her hair, her fingers twitching in discomfort. She hesitated, then tried again, her voice rising:

"Who dares to question my inspired words,
seeking to hasten the ordained fate of Rome?"

Her movements grew more frantic. She dropped the sickle, her hands clawing through the thick curls of her wig, her composure unravelling before the audience’s eyes. Her discomfort turned to outright distress. The audience murmured, confused by the strange, unscripted movements.

Ivo’s smirk widened as she let out a shuddering breath, struggling to maintain composure.

The powder was working.

Gasps rippled through the theatre as she let out an undignified yelp, shaking her head furiously. "That will…that will not come through human efforts—"

With a desperate yank, Agnes tore the wig from her head. A collective gasp rang through the theatre, followed by a beat of stunned silence. Then—

Laughter. It rippled through the audience like wildfire.

Agnes stood frozen in horror; the once-grand illusion of her regal character shattered in an instant. Her covered scalp was speckled with remnants of the powder.

The laughter rang through the theatre like music to Ivo’s ears. From his secluded perch in Box 5, he let out a satisfied hum, eyes gleaming as he watched her humiliated rage unfold.

Tonight, G.U.N theatre had truly delivered a performance.

The attic flickered with warm candlelight as Stone carefully lit the last wick, the small flame dancing before settling into a steady glow. The scent of melted wax and aged wood filled the space, wrapping it in an oddly comforting familiarity. The air smelled of melting wax, old parchments and dust, the various scents that had become familiar to him over the past month. He had settled into this strange, secret life, yet every time the clock neared the hour of his lessons, there was still a flutter of anticipation in his chest.

A soft creak from the far side of the room made Stone turn.

From the darkness beyond the candlelight, the Doctor stepped into view, his figure tall and poised.

“Doctor,” Stone greeted, offering a nod.

“Are you ready for our next lesson?” The Doctor’s voice was smooth as he moved forward, his gloved hand reaching for the candle holder. The flames reflected faintly in his mask, casting shifting patterns of gold against the surface.

“Yes,” Stone replied, securing the violin case at his side.

The Doctor extended an arm toward him, the gesture both formal and strangely reassuring. Stone placed his hand upon it, the fabric of the Doctor’s sleeve cool against his fingertips.

The Doctor then reached for the concealed latch, pressing it open with a soft click. The secret door slid back, revealing the darkened passage beyond. The air inside carried a faint chill, a contrast to the warm glow of the attic.

Together, they stepped forward, the candlelight flickering against the stone walls as they descended into the labyrinth of passages. The moment the door closed behind them, sealing them away from the world above, Stone spoke. “Did you get to see the performance tonight?” he asked, glancing at the Doctor as they walked.

The Doctor hummed thoughtfully. “No, I didn’t.”

Stone raised a brow at the vague response but let it slide. “Well, have you heard then about what happened to Agnes’ part of the performance?”

The Doctor’s step didn’t falter, but his voice remained flat. “No. What happened?”

“Well…” Stone bit back a laugh, already grinning as he recalled the moment. “Her debut was a disaster.”

The Doctor’s pace remained steady. “Aw, that’s too bad,” he said in a tone that sounded anything but sympathetic.

Stone couldn’t help but chuckle as he recalled the scene. “It was the funniest show I’ve ever seen. Right in the middle of her aria, she started clawing at her head like a madwoman! She nearly yanked all her hair out before she realized it was just the wig. And then—” He broke off, chuckling. “And then, right on the final note, she just ripped off her wig in front of everyone!”

The Doctor let out a quiet chuckle, the sound echoing lightly against the narrow passage walls.

“Everyone was howling with laughter. I’ve never heard an audience laugh like that during a tragedy,” Stone continued, shaking his head. “And I don’t think I’ve ever seen Walters turn so red.”

The Doctor let out a quiet, knowing hum as they continued down the passageway. “Oh, poor Agnes,” he mused. “I can only imagine how humiliated she must have been.”

Stone nodded. “Oh, she was furious! She stormed off the stage and refused to come back for the second act. Walters had to get the understudy to step in.”

“Yes, very tragic,” the Doctor murmured, though his smirk was anything but sympathetic.

Stone shot him a curious glance, but before he could ask what he meant, they reached the end of the corridor, and the Doctor moved to push open the heavy door leading to their practice room.

“Come now, my dear student,” he said smoothly, guiding Stone inside. “We have much to accomplish tonight.”

Whatever lingering suspicion Stone might have had was quickly overshadowed by the determination of the lesson ahead.