The smell of gunpowder stings your nostrils. The silence, heavy and oppressive, follows the chaos. You orchestrated it all—every movement, every scream, every drop of blood that spilled. Lord Ashworth, his face twisted in terror, brandishes a revolver, the barrel trembling in his hand. He threatens Holmes, bloodshot eyes glaring. For a moment, you fear the plan might go awry. But no. Too late.
Watson, nerves on edge, screams. Lord Ashworth's family, panicked, rushes at Holmes, knives in hand, inarticulate cries escaping their lips. The scene is perfect—chaotic, bloody. A masterpiece painting, in which you are the sole spectator.
Holmes, trapped between the threat of the revolver and the knife assault, has no choice but to fire. Gunshots echo through the manor, cutting short the screams. Silence returns, even heavier, even more chilling. A sweet satisfaction washes over you. The game is over. The canvas is painted.
You watch the scene, hidden in the shadows, a cruel smile curling your lips. Holmes, the great Sherlock Holmes, has become your pawn, an instrument of destruction in your expert hands. He executed your plan perfectly, killing not only Lord Ashworth but also his family and his loyal companion. The irony is delicious. London's brightest detective has become the unwitting author of his own massacre.
Even Watson, Holmes's faithful friend, is now a victim of your manipulation. He will watch, powerless and traumatized, the disaster he was unable to prevent. You trapped them all, playing with their minds and emotions like puppets in a macabre dance.
Victory is yours. For now. But the taste of success is already fading, replaced by another wave of boredom and an insatiable thirst for new games… new victims. A wave of unease washes over you. The game is over, but the match is far from finished.