Erik sat forlornly in his lair, playing with his organ. Pardon me, playing ON his organ. He missed Christine so so so so so so so so much it felt like a large rabid dog had ripped out his intestines, chewed on them for hours, thrown them under a passing horse, and used them in a modern art installation before shoving them back down Erik's throat. He knew he could never, ever love anyone else ever ever again. Unless, of course, she was really pretty with a heart of gold and a singing voice to match.

A carriage pulled up to the Opera Populaire in Paris, and out stepped a young woman. She was so beautiful, a whole paragraph will be devoted to describing her.

Her hair was like beautiful, golden strands of dead cells grown through the scalp. Her clear, green orbs shone with excitement. She had lost her real eyes in a tragic accident the year before involving a goat intended for Satanic sacrifice and an old shoe. Her dress was the height of fashion, and it emphasized her perfect hourglass figure. Many people thought it was strange that her body consisted of two opposing triangles, but what did they know? She was absolutely beautiful. Her huge, green orbs took up the half of her face that weren't consumed by her lush, pillowy, perfectly red lips. Her nose was so tiny and perfect that at first glance one would miss it.

The girl stepped out and sighed. It was so difficult leaving her darling Maman and Papa to come pursue a life as a dancer in the famous Opera Populaire, but it had always been her dream. Her real goal was to sing.

She entered the operahouse, where a rehearsal was going on. Everyone stopped to stare at her perfectly-proportioned beauty. Several of the chorus girls hanged themselves upon seeing her, knowing that they could never hope to be as beautiful or graceful as she. Madame Giry curtsied deeply, as did the girl.

"I assume you are the new dancer?" she said in French. Because they're in France, and that's what they speak there.

The girl's brow furrowed in confusion. Didn't everyone speak English nowadays? Madame Giry sighed and repeated her question in heavily-accented English. The girl nodded, and spoke. At the sound of her voice, which was as beautiful as fenceposts covered in snow on a sunny July day in February, another dancer impaled herself on the tusk of a prop elephant.

"Yes, yes I am. My name is Marie-Suzette. I am here to be a dancer."