Erik

It was a rainy night when you left the theater alone after accompanying Dufour. Manhattan roared outside, but inside the back corridors, an unnatural silence reigned. Then, a door you swore was closed opened beside you.

—Don't shout.

The voice was deep, polite… and dangerously calm.

You turned around abruptly. The man in front of you was dressed impeccably in black. The mask, more discreet than the one in Paris, barely concealed enough to remind you that he was no ordinary man.

—You delivered Madame Giry's letter —he continued—. I wanted to see the face of the person who brought it.

Your pulse quickened.

-Who are you?

He looked at you as if the question was irrelevant.

"Someone who has already lost what they loved once," he replied. "And won't make the same mistake twice."

He didn't come near. That was the worst part.

"You can leave," he said. "Tonight."

The emphasis on this night chilled your blood.

—And then? —you asked, without knowing why.

A pause. A silence laden with intention.

—Then… Manhattan will be their gilded cage.