Holmes's investigation advances, inexorably. He feels the truth brushing against his fingertips with every new detail. Lord Ashworth draws nearer, like a shadow at the end of a corridor—intangible, yet unbearably present. Yet just as Holmes is about to seize the culprit, a twist shakes the fragile balance of his quest: your disappearance.
A flawless performance, as cold and calculated as your previous moves. You have vanished into the void, leaving behind an oppressive silence. Holmes, unsettled, wavers between the relentless pursuit of his investigation and a growing, silent worry. This sudden absence unleashes an inner storm where suspicion and doubt intertwine.
Soon, he uncovers irrefutable evidence—burning documents, damning testimonies—all pointing to Lord Ashworth. Yet instead of the expected triumph, a creeping unease settles within him. Everything seems too perfect, too orchestrated. A sense of incongruity, as if the puzzle had been crafted to lead him exactly where someone wanted.
Unaware that you are there, lurking in the shadows, an invisible spectator of the drama you have written. Like a patient director, you watch Holmes play his part, manipulated without even knowing it, until the curtain falls on a finale that feels tragically inevitable.
Your heart beats with an irregular rhythm—not from excitement, but from a heavy, almost painful anticipation. The moment is near. Soon, Holmes will be forced to cross a line he never intended to, sullied by hands he always believed pure. And you, unseen, will savor every moment of this carefully prepared spectacle.