Back in her tent, Polly lay awake for a long time, unable to sleep.
Eric was not an ordinary person.
No one recovered from wounds like that. Not so quickly. Not so quietly.
And what unsettled her more was his silence. He clearly could speak—his ventriloquism alone proved that—but he chose not to. It made him seem more like a silent madman than anything human.
Polly couldn't help but wonder if she had done something—anything—before transmigrating to end up in this twisted world.
But no… she hadn't done anything out of the ordinary. She'd tossed her hiking pack into the trunk of her car, stretched out in the back seat, and clicked on a random movie while waiting for a friend.
It was an old film, a bit slow-paced. She dozed off within minutes, and when she woke, half the movie had already played.
The scene was dim and atmospheric: a man in a long black coat and a black top hat stood behind a woman dressed to the nines. His face was obscured beneath the brim as he calmly pulled on a pair of black leather gloves.
Polly had thought it was just some period romance. That was, until the man abruptly looped a garrote around the woman's neck and strangled her—without a flicker of hesitation.
By the time the guests noticed, the woman's body had already been dumped into the banquet hall's boiler. Her head boiled to mush, lace dress floating in the soup like patches of congealed fat.
Polly had paused mid-order on her food delivery app.
Only then did she glance at the title of the movie: The Phantom of the Opera.
Polly: "???"
A quick internet search revealed that this was not the romantic musical she remembered—it was a 1970s horror adaptation, infamous for its gratuitous gore and buckets of fake blood.
In the original, the Phantom fell in love with a young ballerina at the Paris Opera House, secretly training her while threatening the theater's manager to give her the starring role.
When the prima donna refused to step aside, he somehow made her croak like a frog during her performance—publicly humiliating her.
In this version? He simply strangled her with a noose and dumped her in the furnace.
The original Phantom did abduct the heroine, locking her away in a labyrinth beneath the opera house. But after she kissed him, he was moved enough to let her go—to let her be with the man she truly loved.
Not this one.
This Phantom had no soul. When he was finally unmasked, he didn't just take off a mask—he ripped off his own face.
And he wasn't "redeemed" by love. He wanted the heroine to die with him.
Of course, the heroine didn't kiss him either. She set him on fire.
But like most old-school Western horror films, it wasn't actually scary.
Polly had ended up ordering food anyway.
Truthfully, the film had been only slightly above average. Like many Western horror flicks—plenty of blood and gore, but little psychological weight.
That is… when she was still in the real world.
If she'd somehow transmigrated into that version of The Phantom of the Opera?
That would be far scarier than any East Asian horror film.
At least in East Asian horror, you're usually fine as long as you don't mess with the spirits.
But in Western horror?
People die for everything.
You have a quiet little brother? You die. Your mom cheated once? Dead. You went camping? Dead. Had a picnic? Dead. Kissed someone at a party? Definitely dead.
The more she thought about it, the more chilled Polly became.
She would never again say Western horror wasn't scary.
How had she ever thought being chased by a psychopath wasn't terrifying?
It took her a long time to calm her heartbeat.
Sure, Eric wore a mask. Sure, he could sing, throw his voice, and do sleight of hand.
That didn't mean he was the Phantom.
Not necessarily.
And maybe—just maybe—she'd ended up in the original version.
...Although, come to think of it, there wasn't much difference.
The original Phantom was still a madman. When the heroine refused him, he threatened to blow up the entire opera house.
The musical version Phantom seemed a little more sane, but then again… he hypnotized the heroine, kidnapped her, and nearly hanged her fiancé.
The only thing he didn't do was threaten to blow the place up—but who knows what he might've done if pushed.
Polly consoled herself: her name was Polly Claremont, and this wasn't the Paris Opera—it was a circus. No relation to The Phantom of the Opera at all.
Even if Eric was the Phantom, it wasn't like he'd blow up Paris just for her.
With that thought, she finally closed her eyes and drifted off.
The next morning, just before dawn, Polly woke naturally—this body seemed to have a built-in alarm clock. She blinked drowsily, pulled out the gold pocket watch, and checked the time.
Five thirty.
She was about to lie back down when she jolted upright.
The medical kit.
She'd left it outside.
She'd tried finding a hiding place last night, but the tent was tiny. In the end, she'd buried it under a pile of dirty clothes.
Definitely not a long-term solution.
She needed somewhere better—somewhere that didn't reek of sweat and mildew.
Outside, the camp was already stirring. A chaotic chorus of roosters, birds, footsteps, chopping wood, coughing, spitting, and water sloshing into the boiler filled the air.
Polly took a deep breath, pulled on her coat, and stepped out.
The fog was thick. Morning sunlight gilded the mist in soft gold, but the air smelled like stale tobacco, sour sweat, and yesterday's leftovers. Flecks of dried spit dotted the ground.
Polly already felt like her clothes had absorbed the filth in the air.
She swore—whether she found a way home or not—she had to leave this place. Somewhere clean. Somewhere sane.
Suddenly, cheers and whistles broke through the murk.
No wonder she hadn't seen anyone—everyone was gathered up ahead, clapping and shouting.
The manager stood among the crowd, arm slung around a lanky man, laughing loudly. Behind them sat a plain-looking woman in a wheelchair.
Her skin was waxy white, and she wore a blue satin dress, trimmed with lace and bows—like a doll's clothing, too delicate and too tight. The skirt was pulled up to reveal… four legs.
Each leg was clad in striped stockings and red leather shoes.
It was unsettling.
The manager patted the woman's wheelchair affectionately. "Thank God Emily's found her long-lost brother! You remember what I always say—we're a family, brought together by the world's rejection."
"Mike's mother—my sister—gave me five thousand francs to take him in. We all knew what that meant. She didn't want him."
"I found Emily abandoned at the train station. Polly's mother was a lunatic who nearly stabbed him in the eye with a pen."
He smiled warmly. "Even someone as brilliant as Eric was cast aside by his own parents."
"But I promised you—if the day comes when you find your family, or someone who wants you, you're free to go. I won't stop you."
He turned to Emily. "Isn't that right, Emily?"
Emily didn't respond. Her expression was frozen, like wax.
But the manager took it as confirmation. With a grand gesture, he announced a party tonight to celebrate Emily's reunion with her "brother," complete with live music and dancing.
The crowd erupted in applause.
Polly tried to use the moment to study the other performers. But just then, the young boy from yesterday popped up in front of her.
"Polly! The manager says you and I are on warehouse duty."
She reluctantly turned away and followed him.
On the way, the boy leaned closer, voice low and conspiratorial. "You believe that guy's really her brother? No way. She hired him."
Polly thought of Emily's deathly pallor. "Why would she hire someone to pretend to be her brother?"
"You're so dense," the boy said. "She's a freak. She doesn't even have to perform—just stand there and people throw money. One guy like her in London got to meet a real princess!"
Polly muttered agreement, but she didn't believe it was so simple.
The manager was a profit-hungry predator. Would he really let go of a cash cow like Emily just because she found family?
Just yesterday, he was encouraging children to fight each other for attention.
Wait.
She'd nearly forgotten—Eric couldn't be more than sixteen or seventeen.
…And yet she'd been terrified into submission by a wounded teenager.
Still, she couldn't shake the image: him advancing, eyes blank behind the white mask, blade hovering inches from her throat.
He was a wild beast. Utterly inhuman.
If she had the choice, she'd never deal with him again.
The "warehouse" turned out to be an old caravan reeking of mold. Cobwebs draped between crates, and shelves were covered in thick dust.
A row of jars lined the top shelf, each holding organs of varying sizes suspended in cloudy fluid.
The work was physically taxing, and for a while, neither of them spoke. Only the creak of wood and soft clinks of glass broke the silence.
When they reached the final crate, the boy claimed he had to pee and ran off.
He didn't come back.
Polly waited, then gave up and opened the last crate herself.
Inside were bizarre exhibits—skeletal mermaids, giant bones, cursed paintings, dolls supposedly possessed by demons…
And at the very bottom—an infant specimen.
A tiny fetus, barely the size of her palm, slick and translucent, curled inside a jar. Its features were barely formed, but the ridges of its face hinted that its eyes could open at any moment.
Polly grimaced and was about to shut the crate when she noticed the label on the jar:
["Child born of the 'Four-Legged Woman,' Emily. We thank her for allowing this miracle of God to be preserved and displayed. Even deformity can give birth to life."]
Polly's skin went cold.
Her mind flashed to the boy's comment about how popular freaks were.
It wasn't hard to imagine what had happened: Emily had gotten pregnant. She wanted to leave. So the manager forced a miscarriage—and turned the fetus into a display.
That would explain her pale face. Her silence.
And if the manager would do that to Emily's child, would he really let her go?
Would he let anyone leave?
The jar was sealed tight, but Polly could almost feel the liquid inside creeping along her fingers, sliding under her skin, into her veins.
Only when the sensation reached her ears did she realize—this was what pure fear felt like.
Breathe. Focus.
She forced herself to calm down. Treat it like a horror survival game.
Objective: Escape the circus.
Known NPCs: The manager, Mike, Emily, the boy… Eric.
The manager was greedy and sadistic. Mike was his nephew. The boy seemed clever but naive.
Emily… Emily was a victim. Her unborn child had been turned into a trophy.
There was no way she could help Polly escape. She couldn't even walk.
Which left her… with Eric.
Again.
This circus was far too twisted. Polly couldn't get out on her own.
She had to work with Eric.
Even if he was the Phantom. Even if he might snap and kill her at any moment.
She had no other choice.