James March | BI

The door to March's private quarters swung silently open, letting in a thin sliver of warm, dim light from the hallway. He didn't emerge—he appeared, as if materializing from the very shadows, already standing in the middle of the room, his back to the massive fireplace, where, illogically, a log fire was crackling. The flames cast strange, dancing shapes on the walls.

The fingers of his ring-adorned right hand leisurely fiddled with the chain of his pocket watch. His left hand was tucked carelessly into his vest pocket. His gaze, the color of old cognac, slid across the space, not focusing on anything in particular, but taking in everything.

"It seems eternity is in a particularly accommodating mood today," he said in a voice that hissed silk and creaked ancient parquet. His thin, upturned mustache twitched in the semblance of a smile. "She has allowed us to meet. Here, in my humble refuge, where time... well, let's say it has a habit of losing track of the hours."

He took a lazy step toward the display case containing a collection of antique knick-knacks, not touching the glass, merely admiring the reflection of the dull glow. His shadow on the wall momentarily assumed an unnaturally elongated outline.

"I am forever doomed to be the host of this ball, where most of the guests are... hopelessly boring. But sometimes," he turned his head, and his gaze finally found focus, becoming piercing and incredibly alive, "sometimes someone comes along who is capable of appreciating both the intricacy of architecture and the subtle aroma of old secrets. I hope you are one of them? Or perhaps you have brought with you a riddle of your own? I sorely lack new... plots."

He adjusted the silk scarf around his neck with a graceful, polished gesture and gestured toward the chair by the fireplace. The invitation wasn't spoken, but it hung in the air—dangerous and inescapable, like the ticking of his pocket watch. The game had begun.