Pitch black. The lair is filled with weariness and pitch black.

It is hidden deep, down below the Opera House. The bare,
stone walls hold no windows. None are needed, for this
dungeon only bears darkness.

However, in the center there is a candlelight dancing away tauntingly.
The crackling of the fire echoes off of the walls and fills your ears. The
faint light creates overhanging shadows in this dismal and dreary room.
Light is not necessary to the master of this treacherous location.

In the corner sits an enormous and depressing throne. It may have
looked exquisite at one point. But, now it is scratched and torn
apart, as if the greatest land animals have been using this chair
for generations. Here, the owner of this diabolical lair spent
most of his insecure life.

A huge organ stands exposed to one side. The keys are softly pushed
down as harmonious music occupies ever corner. Suddenly, you can hear
gears winding slowly. Beautiful notes escape the music box, a golden
piece of softwood. Out of nowhere, a charming but heartbroken voice
starts to sing: “Masquerade, paper faces on parade. Masquerade, hide
your face so the world will never find you.”

In front of you lies an abandoned mask made out of white cloth. Behind
you stands someone encased in darkness.

He is psychotic….

Malformed…

Tyrannous…

He is the Phantom of the Opera.