The Phantom sat quietly in the rafters above where the stagehand monsieur Buquet handled the roping to the lighting and weights for the curtains with an expert hand. He watched the dancers below twirl and leap over one another as the jingling of the chains upon their wrists twinkled up to the rafters. His golden eyes watched only one dancer in particular as his hands trailed over the rafter railing. A song unlike what the orchestra was playing filled his soul and only seemed to match the movements of this one dancer. The dancer who poured herself into every movement. As though each leap and point required every shred of her soul, her very being to make it so.<br/><br/><br/>“Beautiful” he mumbled under his breathe as the sudden thumping of Madam Giry’s cane stopped the frolicking dancers below.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic"><span style="color: #FFBFFF">“Enough.”<br/><br/>Though it wasn’t yelled, it was just as commanding, silencing the orchestra and stopping the dancers in their tracks. “You’re sloppy, distracted, undisciplined. I don’t believe your performance, and no audience would either.” Her words cut like knives, thick with distaste, the French making even the disappointment in her voice sound beautiful to the ear, despite the hurt her words wrought. “You are not practicing. You don’t care. Because you’re not principle, you think they don’t notice, but I notice. They notice. You look pathetic.”</span></span><br/><br/><br/>The man listened to Madam Giry and nodded. The dancers had been lacking, aside from two in his opinion. Christine and Meg. Although Meg’s movements were more stiff and for the lack of a better word, lacked spirit. However, his Christine was a genuine prodigy, her movements sung life into every character she portrayed upon the stage. His eyes gleamed before he slowly moved towards the exit for the highrise in which he would make his exit down into the catacombs.<br/>As per usual the Phantom would await Christine in the room with the mirror door. Tonight he would take her into the catacombs and work on her vibrato. His cloak bloomed about his form and hugged the slick, and musty corridors as he made his way to the one way mirror that hung upon the wall of their meeting room.