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Chapter 6 - CHAPTER 6

The London night is your ally. Shadows dance in the narrow alleys, concealing your movements, your preparations. Your plan is set in motion, a complex scheme spreading like a spider's web, encompassing Lord Ashworth and his family, as well as some lesser pawns—agents of the secret society whose loyalty is questionable. Anonymous letters, secret meetings orchestrated in smoke-filled pubs, cleverly planted false leads: everything is calculated, every detail meticulously refined to push Holmes in the desired direction. You manipulate events with surgical precision, weaving invisible threads that connect the different pieces of your deadly game.

Every encounter, every conversation, is a carefully planned step, a macabre dance where you direct the movements of your puppets, and where Holmes, unaware of his own manipulation, plays the leading role without knowing it. You watch Holmes from afar, see him investigate, following his instincts. His intelligence, his sharpness, fascinate you, but his blind trust in his own methods is your weakness. A cold smile twists your lips. The stage is set.

The curtain rises. You observe patiently as the gears of your infernal machine begin to turn. The game has begun. The tension is palpable, a feverish tension that feeds you. You feel the weight of manipulation, the perverse pleasure of controlled destruction.

You wait. You watch. You wait for the precise moment when Holmes, trapped in your web of illusions, will be forced to play the role you assigned him—the executioner.

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