Author's note: I don't own anything; "The Phantom of the Opera" was written by Gaston Leroux, and this particular version is copyrighted to whomever owns 21st Century Films.

I love Destler and think there should be more fic for that version! This story hints at a couple of things I'm going to explore in more detail in A Shadow in the Darkness, but I think it does well as a stand-alone piece too. Thanks to jennyfair for nudging me to post this. ;)

Erik sat in the steam room with the critic’s body slumped at his feet. He had killed the man with a towel – an innocuous scrap of cloth in most hands, but a lethal weapon in his own. It had been a creative death, far more than the idiotic man had deserved, but he was feeling particularly imaginative tonight. He had Christine to thank for that, really; she never failed to inspire him in all of the right ways. She’d be horrified to know what he had done in her name…or, perhaps, the knowledge that a man had murdered for her would give her a secret thrill. She played at being a good girl, but he knew her far better than even her would-be fiancé did.

Erik had known her for decades, after all. The fact that she had been dead for most of those years didn’t count, at least in his mind; he had always been fixated on her, always, and now Fate – or the devil himself – had given him another opportunity to make things right. He was a different person this time; he was not the shy, awkward piano player she had known when working in that brothel all of those years ago. Erik Destler was a force to be reckoned with now, as the critic had discovered too late to save his miserable life, and he wouldn’t let anyone – not even Christine herself – destroy the plans he had for her, for them.

Once she was his, he’d take her away from this place; London had lost its appeal long ago, as had living beneath the Opera. Besides, Christine’s talents were obviously not appreciated here; she’d fare better in Italy, perhaps, or France. And with her by his side finally, he would compose – oh, how he would compose! Erik would write such masterpieces that those fortunate enough to hear them would weep with joy or sorrow, depending on his whim. The entire continent would know their names and become enraptured by the music that they made together – Erik, the composer, and Christine, the instrument through which the world could hear his creations perfectly. He could see it all now; finally, the fame that he had bargained away his soul for so many years ago would belong to him!

The only thing he had to do was convince Christine to be his, one way or another…

Nudging the body on the floor with one toe, he wrinkled his nose in distaste. It seemed a shame to waste all of that skin, but the man had been old and saggy. Erik would have to find someone younger to replace his mask… He ran one long finger along the seams on his face and grimaced; he could feel the skin pulling apart and cracking. Erik had hoped to have the time to find a new victim before fetching Christine today, but that would be nearly impossible now. At least he had already made his first impression with her decades ago, even if he had been embarrassingly backwards at the time. It could be worse.

He wiped off his blood-splattered face and chest before exiting the steam room, leaving the man’s corpse for some ill-fated soul to find. He had an appointment to keep – and, if he was a very lucky man, a youthful person to skin along the way.