Ever since his visit to Katya, Bran could feel himself starting to unravel. It began subtly, with brief moments of tension that initially only afflicted small parts of his body at a time, and then progressed into something more. Every time he thought about Phantom, about Lotte, about his life and Erik's life; every muscle in his body would become like a coiled spring threatening to explode. At first he could control it with his music, escaping to the catacombs beneath the building so he could play in silence, but as the days passed he became more and more frustrated. His emotions, lacking proper control, mixed together and continued to build into something that threatened to consume him completely.
Then the anonymous post had come, and he discovered that it was apparently none other than 905 who had been responsible for the fable list. There was mention of a teacher, but he dismissed that - it was Ella who chose to speak out, which was enough validation for him. Lotte was Christine, he was sure of it, but she wasn't on the list. That had to mean that Ella was trying to protect her in some way, protect her from him. As if she had the right to judge, the right to assume that he would hurt her - but oh, that was what they all did. They all lied and cast judgment and stood on their high pedestals as if they were perfect. At least some accepted what they were instead of denying it.
Lotte was different, she was special, and Ella was trying to keep her from him. She was the worst of all, so high and mighty, pretending to be perfect and pure. Bran hated people like that. They infuriated him, because he knew what they really were with their morals and laws and hypocrisy. They all deserved what they got, so willing to dole out cruelty yet so horrified when it happened to them. Oh yes, he'd been kept in the darkness and denied for years; mocked and scorned and forced to do whatever necessary to survive, and yet he was the criminal and they were the fine, upstanding citizens.
He remembered his deal with the resident who called themselves Jack the Ripper, and he couldn't think of a better time to exact his revenge. The anonymous post had been filled with threats against her - if she was smart, she should have seen it coming.
Bran waited, lurking in the shadows of the ninth floor after the anonymous post had died down. She would be scared, he knew; and fear caused people to flee, as though it would help them in some way. He watched as she emerged from the apartment, and when she chose the elevator, he took the stairs. The long black coat he wore had been stolen specifically for its abundance of pockets, which were now filled with the tools of his trade as he silently descended the stairs to the first floor. It was almost too easy, especially when he saw the headphones. Silly, silly Ella.
He was wearing a hood, but beneath that was his true face - what it looked like without the prosthetic skin to cover the scars that devoured the left side of his face, a few stray lines trespassing on the right side. If he was a monster, then why should he hide it? Ella needed to see what she'd brought upon herself. His footsteps were practically soundless on the sidewalk behind her, not that it would have mattered either way. Once he was close enough, he struck - one arm went around her waist to pin her arms to her side, while the other hand clamped over her mouth to muffle her screams. Bran pulled her into the darkness of the nearest alley, his mind already skipping ahead to the next step: incapacitating her.