Disclaimer: ALW owns you.

A/N: Sorry it took so long!

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The Phantom walked slowly through the candlelight, her eyes aflame with the golden light. She shunned the gilt and mirrored walls and moved instead to the shadows, where the velvet and silk curtains hung. Taking off her gloves, she caressed the fabric with sensitive fingers and let her mind wander.

She was not fond of gambling. She'd seen far too many lives ruined by that so-called 'sport'. No. If anything was going to be won, it was not through luck and chance. It would be through careful calculation and meticulous planning. But over the past few days she had played a game of dice. She'd taken a gamble and risked everything. And for what? And why? She barely understood it herself.

Perhaps it was pity which had moved her. Pity - something she barely understood yet knew so well. Yet, perhaps it was not pity. Maybe it was understanding, a shared suffering of a tormented love. Perhaps it was some kind of honourable rivalry, where both she and Rebecca had to be on equal footing. Or perhaps it was because that the Phantom knew that Christian loved Rebecca more. Or maybe it would be guilt - Christian's blade, after all, had been meant for her, not Rebecca. Perhaps it was tit for tat - Rebecca had saved her life, so the Phantom saved hers. Whatever the case, she'd bandaged the Countess' wounds and offered her both an apology and a place to watch Christian perform. She'd taken a gamble. An immense one.

The Phantom pulled away from the curtain and replaced her gloves. She walked slowly, each step slow and measured, going nowhere and not caring. She just walked, and with each step she remembered what she had done, but not why.

The Phantom glowered through the bone of her mask. This was a huge risk. One brief moment of pity - or whatever it was - and now the game was up in the air. A huge gamble. Perhaps she should not go ahead with her plan. It would not do fitting to save the Countess' life only to end it. Even she, the Phantom of the Opera, was not that sadistic. But then… Christian. Would he ever come to understand? The Phantom buried her head in her hands for a moment. He wouldn't understand. He saw only the Ghost now, not the Angel of Music. The music of the night was horrible and unwanted. The Phantom sighed. She should stop this. She could stop this.

No. There was no going back now.

The Phantom lifted her head, and found herself staring into her reflection. Behind her was her shrine, her collection of drawings and music and things which reminded her of Christian. Before her was the masked face of her greatest enemy.

Behind her were her dreams. Before her was her reality. And how bitter and brutal it was. She could not even meet her own eyes.

The Phantom turned away, feeling something stirring in the pit of her stomach. Dread? Fear? Disgust? Resignation? Or all of this and more?

There, on the organ, was the score to the latest performance. The original copy, of course - she would not have given her precious originals to the bumbling fools who owned her opera house. With barely a thought, the Phantom had crossed to the instrument and the sheet music, and was stroking gloved fingers along the ivory keys. She sat down and gently began to play. The music swelled and filled the cave. The gentle love sonata.

The suspicion was growing in her mind that perhaps she had saved Rebecca because she knew that when the play was over, there would be only one woman standing. Everything that had occurred had all led up to this. When the curtain fell the outcome would be decided, not before.

Everything would be over then. The end of the play would be the end of all things.

The Phantom looked back over her shoulder. In the mirror, she looked like some fiend. Perhaps she was. Heaven knew she was a monster. But would a monster show pity? Would a monster save someone's life? Would a monster be able to play and sing and love as she did?

She'd planned everything. Everything except Christian's desire to be free. She hadn't known he hated her so much. How swiftly did his feelings change… how cruelly had he hurt her… Perhaps there could be some way to end this without suffering. Perhaps she could…

The music died abruptly, the echoes dying feebly in the darkness. No suffering? Hah. Someone would suffer. Someone always suffers. She would go ahead with her plans.

The Phantom of the Opera does not compromise. There could be no going back.

Her smile was small at first, but widened slowly to a predatory smirk. What was life without an element of risk? While certainty would have been preferable, this game may yet play in her favour.

She stood up and swept past. The candles, startled by the sudden movement, flickered and shrank, only to grow large again in the Phantom's passing.

There was only one more month of rehearsals. The Phantom planned to be there for all of them. She wanted everything to be perfect.

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Christian breathed heavy behind the red curtains. This was the night. Months had gone by, and now it was opening night. He'd learned his lines, his songs, his positions and his dances with the rest of the cast, and now, tonight… Tonight, the performance. Opening night. The only night. The end of it all.

Rebecca would be watching from somewhere in the audience. She'd promised. And because of that, Christian was afraid.

All the months of rehearsals, he'd known that something was amiss. First of all, the play that Phantom had demanded was… barbaric. Set in Ancient Egypt, it told of a princess who demanded a slave boy to be her husband. A slave boy who was in love with a slave girl. As the play progressed, the Egyptian princess went mad with love, and ordered the slave girl killed so the boy would have to be hers. The two slaves would discover this plot, and die together.

Christian had no doubt that the Phantom intended for art to mirror life.

In addition to this, he had not felt the Phantom's eyes on him for any of the rehearsals. Though there had been incidents where her presence had been felt - such as El Cobalto's pompous disagreements silenced by the piano suddenly thundering out the chords to the opening number - it was as though the Phantom was gone.

That fact alone was enough to make Christian queasy. The Phantom always, always attended rehearsals. She loved to watch Christian perform, whether merely dancing or to listen to his voice. And Christian could always tell when she was there. And if she had chosen not to attend rehearsals… what could that possibly be a sign of?

Rebecca was surely in danger. That was why he had taken these steps.

"Make sure you don't miss," he reminded the policeman beside him. "If you don't kill her now, you'll never get another chance."

The man nodded, not looking at Christian. His eyes scanned the rafters, the rigging, the set, and his gun was held loosely but in readiness in both hands. Out in the audience, as well as around other strategic positions backstage, other gendarmes waited likewise. They'd been ordered - not just by Christian, but by the Opera's managers - to shoot to kill, and then once more.

"Christian," Meg Giry snapped, looking pale under her stage-paint, "This is foolishness! You mean to kill her?"

"She tried to kill Rebecca, remember?" He hissed back as the audience outside shushed themselves. The lie didn't taste so bitter after months of repeating it. Meg shrank back from him, acquiescing, but there was rebellious anger in her eyes.

Christian took a breath and adjusted his costume one last time as the entr'acte started to swell, and the curtains brushed wide. Taking a breath, Christian stared at the open space, settling himself into the role he was about to play.

The stage was his.

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Rebecca stared at the chair. The chair was no different from all the others in the various boxes, but this one had a reputation that few within the theatre - or without, for that matter - could ignore.

This was box number five - the Phantom's box.

Rebecca looked down over the railing of the box, unable to keep from being impressed. The Phantom had a perfect view from up here, of everything - the audience, the orchestra pit, the stage itself. She'd chosen well. Rebecca removed her gloves thoughtfully. The Phantom had seen fit to bestow this perfect seat to Rebecca. The Phantom given her the ticket, saying she meant to repair the damage her sins had wrought, saying she wanted to make things right.

Rebecca looked at the plush red chair curiously. On a table next to it was a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice, a small dish of sweetmeats, and a small letter, sealed with a death's-head in wax. One of the Phantom's notes. She recognised the seal. Curious. She'd obviously gone to no expense to see that Rebecca was comfortable. Was she still feeling guilty for her role in Christian's attack?

Rebecca's hand instinctively went to her stomach, where the old wound from the graveyard those long winter months ago was now nothing more than a thin white line. Rebecca pushed the thoughts aside as she surveyed the audience.

Christian had called the police, demanding armed guards on every floor, standing guard at every window and door, backstage and in the audience both. He was clearly expecting the Phantom to show up. And he did not want to see her live.

What has happened to my Christian? The countess wondered. I know he wants to be free, but surely violence and death will not solve this. When did the boy I loved turn into this man I fear? She was glad she had not told him where she would be sitting; she'd told him she'd be watching, but not from where. No need for him to worry if her life was in danger should she sit in Box Five. No need for him to wonder where she had gotten the ticket from, months before the show was even ready to begin.

The audience shushed themselves, and Rebecca quietened her thoughts. Gingerly, she seated herself in that plush red chair, and opened the letter. It was a simple enough message, but Rebecca frowned in concern. Was it her imagination, or did she hear the Phantom's voice, mocking in barely disguised amusement?

"Enjoy the show, Countess. O.G."

Rebecca looked up as the curtains opened, the entr'acte swelling around her, her heart in her throat. The letter slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor. The death's-head on the envelope seemed to be grinning.