Chapter 26: Can Even a Junior Servant Be Harassed by a Top Tenor in the Workplace?

The enormous sound of the pipe organ surged like an invisible beast, rampaging through the empty theater.

“Dang—!!!”

The last note crashed down heavily, and backstage had already descended into utter chaos.

“An earthquake! It’s an earthquake!”

“It’s not an earthquake! It’s the Phantom! I saw the keys moving on their own!”

A group of girls in sheer ballet dresses shrieked like startled quails as they ran past Vivian.

Vivian pressed herself tightly against the corner of the wall, doing her best to make herself invisible.

Although that fraud Cicero had said “the actors are onstage,” he had thrown her at the backstage entrance and then vanished into who knows which dark corner, grandly calling it, “You’re the insider, I’m the outside brain.”

Amid this wailing chaos, a sudden and jarring voice rose above the rest.

“Bravo!!!”

It was a man’s voice, loud and full of vigor, rich and resonant, with a series of rolling trills.

“Bravo! Bravissimo! Now that is music! Now that is heavenly sound!”

Vivian paused in surprise and poked her head out.

In the shadows at the wing of the stage, a man was wildly applauding toward the empty orchestra pit.

He was dressed in a glittering theatrical costume, wearing a pharaoh’s crown bristling with ostrich feathers—that was the attire of Radamès, the male lead from .

Only, at this moment, the “Egyptian general” looked as if he’d just taken some drugs. His eyes were shining, his face flushed, and his whole body trembled with excessive excitement.

“Listen to that furious bass! Listen to those chords of despair!” The man spread his arms wide, as if embracing the ghost in the air.

“Only death! Only death could play such a trembling symphony!”

“Who is this guy?” Vivian muttered under her breath. “Does he have two tweeters stuffed in his head?”

Beside her, an old lighting technician who hadn’t managed to run away yet stammered in reply, “That’s Bastian… our lead tenor… They say he’s got the biggest lung capacity in all of Paris…”

Bastian seemed utterly oblivious to the fear all around him. He spun around in delight, the sequined armor he wore clattering noisily.

Suddenly, his movements froze.

Those feverish eyes pierced through the panicked crowd, locking precisely onto Vivian hiding behind a prop trunk.

Vivian instinctively drew her neck in.

She didn’t look too good at the moment. Her gray stagehand’s dress was covered with bronze rust stains, and her face was streaked with two smears of black ash.

But in Bastian’s eyes, it seemed she was a different vision entirely.

“Oh…”

He let out a moan, almost operatic in its fervor.

“Look what I’ve found! A wild rose blooming amidst the ruins!”

Bastian strode over with exaggerated operatic steps, closing the distance in three great bounds.

“Don’t come closer, I’m allergic to feathers.” Vivian backed away warily.

But the tenor clearly didn’t understand human language. He seized Vivian’s hand in his own.

“Look at these dust-stained hands! So rough! So real! This is the untouched beauty of raw nature!”

Bastian was so excited that he spat as he talked, even leaning in, as if to kiss the back of Vivian’s hand.

Vivian’s brow twitched—her body moved faster than her mind.

Just as Bastian’s lips were a mere 0.01 centimeters from the back of her hand—

Vivian flipped her wrist, caught Bastian’s in a reverse grip, lowered her center of gravity, twisted her waist, and exerted force.

“Off you go!”

“Whoosh—”

The greatest-lunged tenor in all Paris traced a golden arc through the air.

“Thud!”

A dull crash echoed.

Bastian landed sprawled five meters away on the floor, his ostrich-feather crown rolling away into a corner.

The place fell silent in an instant.

Even the panicked ballet girls paused mid-flight, mouths gaping at the scene.

Vivian maintained her follow-through pose from the throw, coughing awkwardly.

“Um…” She glanced tentatively at the old lighting technician from earlier. “Does this count as a workplace injury?”

Bastian didn’t move on the ground.

“Oh no, did I kill him?”

Vivian was just about to step over to check if he was still breathing.

“Heh… heheheh…”

A strange laughter rose from the floor.

Bastian abruptly sat up.

His nose was bruised and bleeding; twin streams of blood trickled down his handsome face, clinging to his lips.

“Hiss—”

He drew in a breath, his eyes blazing even more brightly than before.

“Ow! That hurts!”

Bastian sprang to his feet from the ground, as agile as a monkey.

“What vivid pain! What a clarifying blow!”

He charged right back up to Vivian, his bleeding face nearly pressing against hers.

“Who are you? Are you an angel sent by God to punish this vulgar body of mine?”

Vivian’s mouth twitched. “I’m the new stagehand. Can you please keep your distance? You’re about to drip blood on my shoes, and they’re very hard to clean.”

“Stagehand? Ha! What a perfect disguise!”

Bastian didn’t listen at all. He still stared at Vivian with a look of hair-raising obsession.

“That throw just now was the epitome of violent aesthetics! That centrifugal force, that mastery of gravitational acceleration…”

“Are you a masochist?” Vivian finally couldn’t help but blurt out, “You get thrown and you’re happy about it?”

“M?” Bastian froze, then broke into a meaningful smile.

“If that means ‘connoisseur of pain,’ I gladly accept it.”

He straightened out his rumpled costume. Although his nose was still bleeding, he forced himself into an elegant pose.

“Allow me to introduce myself, beautiful little hurricane. I am Bastian Saint-Croix, king of this stage, and a devoted follower of ‘chaos.’”

As he spoke, he pointed at his chest.

There, amidst a pile of flashy medal props, was a tiny badge.

It was a pure silver badge shaped like a shattered mask. The right eye of the mask was intact, its mouth smiling; the left eye was cracked and broken, as if crying.

Vivian’s heart gave a little jolt—she’d seen this design in the agency’s records.

“Montmartre… Art Association?” Vivian ventured.

Bastian’s eyes sparkled.

“Oh? So my angel is good for more than just heavy lifting.”

He lowered his voice, leaning in to whisper mysteriously in Vivian’s ear.

“Yes, we’re that group of ‘madmen’—that’s what the mediocre call us, but we’re just in pursuit of the ultimate.”

He pointed at the still faintly vibrating pipe organ.

“Do you know why this opera is so terrible, yet still gets staged at the Garnier Opera House? Do you know who’s paying to cover the fat manager’s deficit?”

Bastian grinned and tapped the shattered mask badge.

“It’s us.”

“For… that thing?” Vivian pointed upward.

“You know? You’re here for him too?” Bastian’s eyes became wild and deep.

“Only ultimate chaos can give birth to ultimate beauty. The Phantom—he is chaos incarnate. Every note he plays shreds the rules. Isn’t it mesmerizing?”

“We sponsor this performance just to build him a stage. Big enough, grand enough, mad enough for him to let loose!”

Bastian stretched his arms wide, as if seeing the vision unfold.

“Imagine! When he descends on opening night, when that giant crystal chandelier crashes down amid screams, when blood stains the white ballet skirts red… What a magnificent painting that will be!”

Vivian shuddered.

These people are terrorists. If Paris had twin towers, they’d probably be the ones to fly into them.

“So you deliberately hired such a dreadful lead soprano to lure him out?” Vivian cut straight to the point.

Bastian stiffened, then shamelessly shrugged.

“I wish I could claim it was part of the plan, but the Phantom clearly doesn’t care for ‘mortal voices.’ Still, no matter!”

He got excited again, reaching out to grab Vivian’s shoulder.

“But now I’ve found you! That throw just gave me inspiration! Explosive wildness… I think the female lead should be replaced! Kick that shrieking Celestine out! You are the true muse of this ‘drama of chaos’!”

“I’m not interested in being the female lead, I’m more interested in money.” Vivian sidestepped.

“And I have to get back to work, or Madame Armand will load me into a cannon and fire me out of the building.”

“Don’t go yet!”

Bastian clung to her like sticky candy, ignoring the “don’t mess with me” written all over Vivian’s face.

“Are you free tonight? I know a great underground tavern—it’s our association’s base. I want to introduce you to the other ‘followers.’ I know they’ll be blown away by your perfect throw!”

“I’m not going.”

“Don’t be like that! I’ll pay! One hundred francs an hour, how’s that?”

Vivian’s steps faltered.

One hundred francs?

Just as her steadfast revolutionary spirit began to waver in the face of money—

“We’ll discuss art! Discuss pain! Discuss how you twisted someone’s spine into that marvelous arc…”

Bastian kept chattering, reaching out to wrap an arm around Vivian’s waist.

“And your eyes are so beautiful, that trash-picking gaze of yours makes me so excited…”

“Whoosh—”

A sharp, slicing sound tore through the air.

No one saw where it came from.

They only saw a cable above the stage suddenly snap, and a sandbag weighing at least thirty kilos dropped like a guided missile, heading straight for Bastian’s still-chattering head.

“Bang!!!”

The sandbag didn’t hit his head, but landed with precise force on the floor right in front of the hand Bastian had stretched out to grab Vivian’s waist.

The massive impact shattered the floorboards instantly, sending wood splinters flying.

Dust billowed, smearing Bastian’s face.

He fell onto his rear in fright, his offending hand frozen in midair, just two centimeters from the crater.

If he’d taken another step forward, he’d have become a meat pancake.

Vivian looked up toward where the sandbag had fallen.

It was a shadowy corner on the second floor; nothing could be seen clearly, only a flicker of a black hem slipping away.

Vivian’s lips curled up slightly.

“Was… was that a warning?”

Bastian sat on the floor, staring blankly at the sandbag.

But quickly, he recovered that odd, fevered excitement—though this time, his voice trembled a bit.

“He’s watching me! The Phantom is watching me! He’s jealous! He’s stopping me from touching his muse!”

Bastian whipped his head around to Vivian, eyes now tinged with awe.

“I see… I see! You’re the ‘chosen’ one!”

“Um… I think it’s just telling you to shut up.”

Vivian pointed at the sandbag.

“If you keep blathering, next time it might not stop at the floor.”

With that, Vivian ignored Bastian’s reaction and dove into the chaotic crowd, heading for the second floor.

Leaving Bastian sitting alone in the rubble, rubbing the hand that had nearly been ruined, a look of delight spreading across his face.

“How interesting… Far too interesting…”

He caressed the shattered mask badge at his chest, murmuring softly.

“Seems tonight’s gathering will have a new story to tell.”