Erik leaned his shoulder against the door behind him and chuckled some more, shaking his head. "Doctor, it was really quite terrible -- but I had no idea it would move you to such decisive action!"
Erik himself wouldn't have killed an understudy for ruining his part, not even in the darker days in Paris. He would have haunted the man, certainly, stalked him through the dark halls, driven him quite mad - or driven him out. But murder was reserved for those who had threatened him directly. It had been thus, ever since he escaped from Persia with the forced promise to his daroga still bitter in his mouth.
When he'd gotten himself under control again, Erik stepped around the pooling blood, around the good doctor, and squatted down to stare into the eyes of the wretched understudy. This man was in his late fifties, having never married, having never marked life with much of anything save his music -- and it was clear that the man had given up on even that, in the last few years. He was a carry-over from the time before Erik arrived, a stand-in that Erik had not yet bothered to dismiss. He laughed again, mostly to himself, when he realized that Hannibal had done a good enough job of dismissing him, himself!
"In Persia," he said softly to the dying man, "I would have tied you hand and foot to the beams in the Shah's sitting room, and waited for your substantial weight to suffocate you to death. It would have taken days, unless we all grew tired of your piteous sounds. My pianist shows mercy to you. You should thank him; you certainly didn't earn anything like mercy tonight."
Erik stood, then, and gestured dismissively at the man at his feet. He moved away far enough to keep the blood from dotting his perfect suit.