The days in Erik's underground domain blurred together like watercolors, each one painted with music and growing trust. He was a demanding teacher, but his passion for music ignited something in me I never knew existed.

"Again," he instructed, his fingers dancing across the organ keys. "Feel the music in your soul, not just your throat."

I took a breath, letting the notes of "Think of Me" fill my lungs. The aria that had once been Christine's now felt different on my lips – less innocent perhaps, touched by the knowledge of real loss and love.

"Better," Erik nodded, but I could hear the exhaustion in his voice. He'd been pushing himself too hard again, composing late into the night, teaching me by day.

"You need rest," I said softly, placing my hand on his shoulder. He stiffened slightly at the touch – he always did – but didn't pull away.

"I'm fine."

"You're not." I moved to sit beside him on the organ bench. "Why do you push yourself so hard?"

He was quiet for a long moment, his fingers tracing silent patterns on the keys. "Because," he finally whispered, "I fear when you see what lies beneath this mask, the music will end."

My heart ached at the pain in his voice. "Erik..." It was the first time I'd used his name – he'd told it to me days ago in a moment of vulnerability – "I've seen enough of the world to know that true monsters rarely hide their faces."

His hands stilled on the keys. "You say that now..."

"Then show me." The words left my lips before I could think better of them. "Trust me as I've trusted you."

Above us, in the opera house proper, Cal Hockley paced the manager's office, his expensive shoes clicking against the wooden floor.

"The trap is set," he announced to Ruth and the others. "Our little performance tonight should draw him out nicely."

"And Rose?" Ruth's voice wavered slightly.

"Will thank us when this is over," Cal assured her smoothly. "The posters are up all over Paris – 'One Night Only: Christine Daaé Returns to the Opera Populaire.' Our phantom won't be able to resist."

Back in the lair, Erik's hands trembled as they moved toward his mask. "You deserve to know," he said quietly, "before we go any further. Before..." He swallowed hard. "Before you give your heart to a ghost."

"My heart," I whispered, covering his hands with mine, "has already chosen."

Slowly, together, we removed the mask. I heard his sharp intake of breath, felt him trying to turn away, but I held firm. The scars and malformations that had caused him so much pain were there, yes, but they couldn't hide the soul I'd come to know through his music.

"Erik," I said softly, touching the marred side of his face with gentle fingers, "thank you for trusting me."

Tears filled his golden eyes. "How can you..."

I silenced him with a kiss – our first – pouring into it all the understanding of someone who had also lived behind masks, albeit different ones. When we parted, I saw wonder replace the fear in his gaze.

"Now," I smiled, picking up the sheet music again, "shall we continue my lesson? I believe you were telling me I needed to feel the music in my soul."

A real smile – perhaps his first in years – touched his lips. But before he could respond, a sound drifted down from above: posters being pasted to walls, excited whispers, and a name that made him go rigid.

"Christine..."

I felt him tense beside me, saw the conflict flash across his now-exposed face. "Erik?"

"It's a trap," he said quietly, his hands clenching into fists. "They're trying to draw me out."

"Then don't go," I pleaded, though I knew it wasn't that simple. Christine had been his first love, his obsession, his muse. Even now, years later, her shadow lingered.

"I have to know why," he stood, reaching for his mask. "And if they think they can use her to get to me..." His eyes hardened. "Then perhaps it's time for the Phantom of the Opera to give them one final performance."

"Erik, wait—"

But he was already moving through the shadows, his black cape swirling behind him. And somewhere above, Cal Hockley smiled, checking the pistol hidden beneath his evening jacket.

The game was about to begin.