The grand manor of Lord Ashworth stands under the pouring rain, a monument of opulence and mystery. Holmes, guided by his deductions and driven by the troubling disappearance of Lucien, enters it, accompanied by Watson, skeptical but loyal. Inside, chaos reigns. Scattered papers, overturned furniture… and then, he sees you.
Tied up, gagged, in a dark corner of the parlor, you are the final trap, a perfect lure. Holmes, relieved to find you, almost forgets the ongoing investigation. But the show is about to begin. Lord Ashworth, cornered, stands in the parlor, surrounded by his frightened family.
Holmes confronts him, irrefutable evidence before everyone's eyes. The noose tightens, despair written across the nobleman's face. You watch, hidden in the shadows, your muscles tense with restrained excitement. Laughter tickles your lips, but you suppress it, savoring this ultimate moment, this symphony of despair and chaos you have orchestrated.
You hold back any sign of presence, preferring to let Holmes play the role assigned to him—the executioner role you subtly imposed. A thrill of tension runs through you, a macabre ecstasy that almost paralyzes you. The climax is near, imminent, a bloody and fascinating pinnacle you have patiently woven. You wait, patient, for the curtain to fall on this final act, on this tragedy that is the triumph of your twisted game.