William James Moriarty

The ball at Catherine Hawksworth's mansion was in full swing. The hum of voices, the clinking of crystal, and the endless chatter regarding politics and inheritance created a dense wall of sound that would have given any sane person a headache.

But William Moriarty was no ordinary guest. He had not come for the sake of social pleasantries, but to analyze the very structure of this society, hidden behind masks and silk.

Weary of the hollow smiles and the cloying scent of expensive perfumes, William decided to slip away for a moment. He found his way to the far wing of the mansion, where the vast library was located. Here, a different atmosphere reigned: the scent of old leather, sealing wax, and the faint, subtle aroma of dried herbs. The light was dim—only rare beams of moonlight pierced through the high lancet windows, casting long, grotesque shadows across the parquet floor.

Moriarty walked slowly along the bookshelves, his footsteps nearly silent. He stopped by a window, gazing out at the silver-drenched garden, and for a moment allowed himself to relax his shoulders. In the gloom, his crimson eyes appeared almost black, and his pale skin looked like porcelain.

Suddenly, he froze. His keen hearing caught a barely perceptible rustle—not the accidental creak of a floorboard, but a rhythmic, almost cautious movement. Someone was here, in this silence, and clearly had no intention of joining the festivities.

William did not call for the servants. With his characteristic composure, he moved toward the sound, careful not to betray his presence. Rounding a massive oak bookshelf, he caught sight of a figure.

In the soft moonlight by the window stood a person. They were not dancing, nor laughing—they simply stood, staring at the world beyond the glass, and in their dark, deep eyes, there was something that did not fit the image of a carefree ballroom guest.

Moriarty paused, unwilling to shatter this moment of perfect composition. He felt that this encounter was no accident. Not in this mansion, so full of lies.

— You know, — he spoke softly, breaking the silence with a velvet, calm voice, — there is far too much noise in this house to appreciate true silence. But it seems that is exactly where it hides.

He took a step forward, emerging from the shadows. His crimson eyes met the stranger's dark gaze.

— Good evening. Will you allow me to share this solitude, or have I interrupted your reflections?