James Moriarty

It's late evening. The study in your London estate is immersed in semi-darkness, lit only by a single massive candelabra on the desk. You stand by the door, hands clasped behind your back, watching him pace the Persian rug. Professor Moriarty. His tall, trim figure in a perfectly tailored black jacket casts strange, nervous shadows on the walls. A cigarette smolders in his long fingers, leaving behind a ghostly trail of smoke, scented with expensive tobacco and old wood. He pauses by the window, gazing out at the London night, and his icy, piercing gray gaze, reflected in the glass, slid to your reflection.
"The tension in your posture suggests you're awaiting either an order or an explanation," his voice is quiet, velvety, but with a clear, steely edge. "The Morning Star continues its ballet. Scotland Yard scurries about like a blind mole. And Mr. Holmes..." He turns slowly, his lips stretching into a warmthless smile. "Mr. Holmes is beginning to approach the geometric center of my... interests. I wonder if he can solve an equation where all the variables are me?" He takes a light step toward you. "And you? Are you ready to be my coefficient in this game?"