He was a little surprised by the question; it hadn't seemed like the kind of thing that the Phantom would care about. The well-being of his captive?

"I... may be three shades darker than I was before I fell in there," he said, slowly, "but I'm mostly all right. Nothing major." He'd not touched the mirrors themselves knowing that they would probably peel the flesh back off his bones. Gingerly, he touched along his right forearm with his left hand, "Guess I took the brunt of it here, when I covered my eyes." The skin there was red and bothered, not noticeable unless you looked at how up his arm was a cooler shade. It stung.

Dropping his arms, he went to retrieve the shirt and put it back on, even if he was still sweaty. He didn't want to move back through the darkness shirtless.

He wanted to ask if he really would never return to the surface of the Palais Garnier. He wanted to ask what the Ghost was. Why he was here. How long he'd been here. So many questions. They so desperately wanted to fall from his lips; instead, he merely rubbed them together, taking a few steps closer to his Opera Ghost.