The flautist did not know that he was playing for his life. The first error, Erik forgave for the clear fear that showed in the man's eyes. But when the mistakes kept coming, Erik recognized that they were being driven by technical errors, not by nervousness. The man could have been wholly at peace and still would have made the mistakes he had. It was plainly clear that this man could not work in Erik's opera house.
His death had been ordained from the moment Hannibal led him down the cellar steps into Erik's domain. And now that Erik saw no redeemable beauty within the man, there was nothing left stopping what should be done.
With no visible movement on Erik's part, a nearly-invisible noose looped over the man's head and hoisted him up by the throat. It was not an easy death, but there were far harder ones. Erik watched the man thrash about and grapple at his throat for relief. The catgut noose held strong; it always did. And, because of how it molded to the skin, there was no way to get ones fingers under it.
There was no joy in it for Erik; merely a weariness. As the man grunted and kicked out the remainder of his life, Erik leaned against the wall closest to him. The death of this man was no lamentable thing, but neither was it Erik's choice. No, that had been Hannibal's. The flautist just as easily could have been dismissed. No, Hannibal wanted this man dead. And perhaps he wanted him dead by Erik's hand.
"Is that all?" Erik asked, above the choking. He wasn't asking Jordan.