A/N: Hello! This is my attempt at a dark, modern day POTO fanfic. This fic features a very much lethal Erik, and a more mature Christine. This is un-beta'd so I apologize for typos. Reviews and constructive criticism are very much welcome!

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"Robert! Dad!"

Another wave of fire blazes through the walls, incinerating every piece of furniture in its path. Christine tried her best to cover her nose, but every breath took her a step closer to unconsciousness. "Robert! Dad! Where are you?" she yelled again.

The house—their house was on fire.

"Christine! It's me! Dad's unconscious; you have to help me!" Robert replied, trudging along his father's motionless body. Christine could see her older brother's silhouette not far from her, and rushed toward him. The two tried to lift the limp body out the door, but a long piece of wood dropped from the second floor, effectively barricading their exit.

"Dad! Please! Wake up!" Christine and Robert screamed those words like a mantra, until clouds of black smoke invaded their eyes. Christine could feel her own heartbeat slowing down, along with the oxygen in her lungs rushing out. "Rob—Robert," the young woman mustered, "I'm—I can't..."

"Don't do this, Christine! You need to stay awake!" Robert shot back, panic coating his voice. She swore she heard more words from him, but they all became muffled as her eyes drooped down.

And then nothing.

[-]

"Christine? Christine!"

I jerked my head up and turned my attention to Meg. "Sorry, I'm zoning out again, aren't I?" I whispered, blushing slightly. Meg shook her head and sighed, "I don't mean to bust your balls or anything, but if you keep on having these weird lapses in class, I'm gonna run out of excuses to say to our professor."

I mumbled an apology to Meg and let my eyes wander across my copy of Macbeth; and underneath the booklet my old index card peaked out. I haven't used it in months. Not since my last therapy session, anyways. I took it out and read it silently.

'My name is Christine Daaé. I am twenty years old. I am a senior at Juilliard. I am on scholarship. I have a father, Gustave Daaé. He is currently in a coma. I had a mother, Evangeline Nilsson-Daaé. She died of tuberculosis when I was five years old. I had an older brother, Robert Daaé. He died six months ago, because of our house fire. I have a best friend, and her name is Meg Giry. Her mother, Antoinette Giry, takes care of me.'

My then-therapist, Philippe De Chagny, made me read that index card once a day. Up until now, I still have no idea why he made me do it. But for some odd reason, it helped in keeping me sane after what happened.

Ever since that fire, I was scared that my soul would just float away from my body, leaving my mind and body in reality. It seems weird, I know. But that's what trauma does to you. Exactly two weeks after the incident, Mrs. Giry sent me to Philippe De Chagny's office. She said that it would help. And it did. For a while.

I visited Philippe's office thrice a week for about three months; until I felt substantially stronger, and mentally competent enough to go back to college. Philippe insisted that I should continue my visits, but I felt more and more of a burden towards him. I kept on telling him the same things, and he would reply with the same things as well. It became a tiresome routine more than a therapy session. 'That's because you're not fully opening up to me.' Philippe once said. He was right—but God forbid I would tell him the truth; why I'm always so somber, so frail. No one could ever know.

After I ended my visits to Dr. Philippe, Meg always tried her best to cheer me up. We would go out and watch movies, have spa days, all those typical girlfriend-bonding things. That went on for another month or so, and then she met Andrew Yussuf. The moment she laid eyes on him, she couldn't get enough of him. Not a week passed and they were already dating. I was happy for her, of course, but our bonding time became a lot less frequent after that.

A few more weeks passed, and there I was in class, studying my lines for Macbeth. I had to land a leading role, of course. I was absent for a little over a month; and in Juilliard, just because your brother died and your father fell into a coma doesn't mean that you can waste your student absences on crying and going to therapy. But I had cinched the role of Lady Macbeth after two minutes into reading her lines.

My forté wasn't acting, per se, but more in singing. But the package I received from my scholarship included an acting course, so why not?

Still, I've always wanted to travel around the world, singing in various opera houses. My dreams were a little far-fetched, but not even a mentally scarring event could stomp my hopes. Also, my dad promised me that he would live long enough to see me sing at an opera in London, or maybe even Paris. Those were the types of dreams that I would never give up on. Even in my pitiful state of disposition.

Suddenly, my thoughts were interrupted when our professor ended the class.

"We'll start on-stage rehearsals tomorrow at noon, yes? I need a perfect attendance tomorrow, especially from Mr. Weaver and Ms. Daaé."

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As I walked towards the Blue Café, I heard Meg walk behind me. "Christine!"

When she caught up, she handed me a white envelope. Curious, I tore it open and pulled out its contents. "Three tickets to Fred Gilderbaum's Laughtery?" I asked.

"A stand-up comedy show! C'mon, you'll love it. I was thinking that you, me, and Andrew could go together. Have some laughs, booze around."

My stomach swirled at the thought of being in a dusky, cigarette-filled bar for hours. I shook my head and chuckled, "I think I'm gonna pass."

Meg frowned, "Christine! Please? For your best friend in the entire world?" she flashed me a thousand-watt smile. I giggled at the sight of it, but my decision was made. "I know you mean well, Meg. It's just that I feel uncomfortable always having to tag along with you and Andrew. I look like a third wheel, and that's the last look I want people to see." I handed the envelope back to her and heard her sigh. "All right then, Christine. Next time though, I promise it'll be just the two of us. Deal?"

"Deal." I reply with a genuine smile. Meg left with a quick blow of a kiss, and I proceeded inside my favorite café.

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"Winter Melon Tea for one Christine?"

I handed over my receipt to the barista and took my drink, letting myself unwind for a while. I mindlessly looked at the colorful posters and designs inside the café, smiling at the feeling of calmness that flowed through me. I stared at the pictures for what seemed like hours, until I heard my phone beep. I took it out of my bag, wondering what it was for.

'4:30 PM—VISIT HIM.'

I looked at the clock on the wall. 4:12 PM.

The moment I saw the reminder, my mind snapped back into reality. Out of all the things I hate, next to him, was that feeling. The feeling of weariness filling my brain and soul, as if I was beginning to sober up from a fantasy and realize that I was living in reality—painful reality.

I ran outside and hopped on my bike, roughly strapping on my helmet. If I was late, he would punish me. I couldn't afford to be late. I zoom past the parking lot and head for Walter Boulevard—a shortcut I learned whenever I visited Philippe. I turned left, skated my way past an abandoned junk yard, and then another left.

I parked my bike on my usual spot and faced the run-down, abandoned-looking, two-story building in front of me. It looked like a cross between an abandoned clinic and a tornado-swept apartment. But you wouldn't see anything past the graffiti and the peeling paint. Without a moment's hesitation, I stepped inside the creaking metal door.

I head over to the second floor, where he lives.

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From the outside, the whole building—heck, the whole block seems inhabitable, but because of the architect he is, he made this ghost house his domain. Dark wood floors, grey to black marble decorations; it was quite dusty, since I assumed he never stepped foot outside of his bedroom, but it was... decent.

"My Christine!" his voice boomed. "I appreciate your punctuality, my love."

He always gave me the weirdest remarks.

"Thank you, Erik." I replied.

I stood there in the middle of his living room; and his voice was everywhere. Wherever I turned or went, his voice would always seem peculiarly close, yet so distant at the same time.

"You look beautiful today." he added. I blushed. I inwardly cursed myself for falling for it.

"Thank you, Erik." I said again.

"You seem so nervous, my pet. Have I done anything to make you act this way?"

This is what I hate the most about him. He knows. He knows why I'm like this. It's because of him. He just likes to tease me, to make me feel even more nervous.

"I'm not nervous. Just hungry. I haven't eaten all day."

I sensed his smirk. Even though I couldn't see him—even though I kept my eyes glued to my shoes, I could sense his smirk. I wanted to slap that goddamn smirk off of his face.

That is, if he had one.

I only saw his face once, I think. I was too weak to remember. But the aftermath; that was something I would never forget.

"It pains me to see you like this, my pet. Unfortunately, your poor Erik hasn't anything to feed you. Perhaps you should eat with Antoinette, yes?"

I kept myself silent.

"This is a bad time, isn't it, my dear? You have a play—Macbeth, and you mustn't have any distractions. Am I correct?"

"Yes. I mustn't have any distractions. I shouldn't waste my time." I said to him. I heard him click his tongue—he does that when he's about to say something insulting or hurtful.

But he says nothing.

"Very well then, Christine. As much as I hate to cut our daily meetings short, I shall see you tomorrow."

Ironic. He always says that, yet he doesn't let me 'see' him. He's just a voice. He always has been. I tell myself that maybe I'm just crazy; maybe his voice was just make-believe. I desperately wanted to believe that, too, because being crazy was definitely much easier than being a part of his world.

Without another word, I exit the building and drive as fast as I can home; wanting to feel the comfort the Girys' home.

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A/N: Who is Erik in Christine's life? Why does he scare the living bacon out of her? Why does Christine hate him with every fibre of her being? What is this sham of a mystery story? Why am I asking too many questions? Are these questions confusing you? Bloody geezers, they confuse me. Anyways, more will be explained in the following chapters. All the dirty little secrets will be uncovered bit by bit, so I hope you'll stick around to find out!