Dudlene Roesbrewy — a distinguished gentleman by all accounts — bore none of that distinction this evening. Frantically, he rummaged through his lavish suite, one that cost him a full gold coin per day — a necessary expense for a man of his social standing in such a refined establishment.
Dudlene, round-bodied and adorned in a finely tailored three-piece suit, had the look of both a scholar and an aristocrat. A golden chain extended from the inside of his blazer to the buttons of his vest — a pocket watch dangling somewhere beneath. His brown suit gave him an air of refined confidence, yet now that very aura was marred by panic.
He darted his eyes around the master bedroom before quietly closing the door. Then, stepping out onto the balcony, he checked the dim street below, ensuring he wasn't being followed or watched. Satisfied, he locked the balcony doors and drew the curtains tight.
Taking a deep breath, Dudlene turned toward a large black suitcase resting atop the bed. His mind, however, was anything but calm — his thoughts spiraled in anxious mutterings.
"Damn that Moriarty… he knows, right? He must know. Otherwise, he'd never dare show his face at any social gathering if the man behind his assassination still walked free. No matter how he escaped last time — luck, intervention, or bribery — none of it matters. Why would he risk it now? A threat like that, still lurking in the dark… Even if Martyn's been bought off, he wouldn't stand a chance. But me — yes, if I can advance a Sequence, then even that wretched Apprentice won't dare come after me…"
His rambling grew faster, paranoia bleeding through every word. At last, trembling hands unlatched the suitcase. A soft hiss of air escaped — a faint, almost spiritual breeze swept through the room as the case's mystical seal dispersed, revealing the strange assortment of ingredients within.
…
Meanwhile, Moriarty had indeed laid a trap for Dudlene — though his timing had become his greatest constraint.
"How am I supposed to get in…" he muttered, pausing before smirking. "Ah, right — I'm William James Moriarty. Booking a room here wouldn't raise suspicion. I could casually steer the receptionist into mentioning his fellow scholars… yes, that might— no. No, too suspicious. If a man known to have ties, even rivalry, with Dudlene stayed in the same hotel he's found dead in, it would be suicide. The authorities would hound me, or worse a Beyonder organization might take over the case. Dudlene's no ordinary man, after all."
He stared at the grand Leone-style building before him. Its architecture was elaborate marble pillars rising in harmony with dark wooden beams and delicate carvings that glowed faintly in the lamplight. From his position, he could see the tiled floor and the golden chandeliers of the waiting hall within.
Just then, on the fourth floor — third room from the far right — a large, twitching man appeared briefly on the balcony before retreating back inside. Dudlene.
Moriarty blinked in surprise. "He looks… panicked? He was calm during the banquet. What could've—" He paused, then smiled wryly. "Well, at least now I know his room."
Keeping close to the wall, Moriarty slipped around to the far corner of the hotel, where a narrow alley barely wide enough for a man stood hidden between brick walls. Water pipes and steel fixtures lined the surface — not ideal, but climbable.
He grasped a pipe, pulling himself upward, boots scraping against the coarse wall for balance. Lowering his hips, he shifted into a crouched stance, springing up in short bursts. His movements were fluid yet tense, like a man rehearsing danger.
"At least it's not a V10," he muttered with a smirk — recalling the agony of his university days. rock climb.
Minutes later, he reached the fourth floor balcony. Kneeling by the locked doors, he examined the curtains drawn tightly from within, concealing the room's interior.
Drawing a thin wire and a metal toothpick from his pocket, he began to work on the lock. After a few delicate clicks, the latch gave way. Slowly, Moriarty eased the door open — and what he saw froze him in place.
Dudlene stood in the center of the room, his body convulsing, his once-kind face twisted in agony and madness. He groaned, clutching at his head as veins pulsed darkly across his neck.
"Possessed…? Can Beyonders even—" Moriarty's whisper faded. Confusion warred with disbelief.
Seizing the moment, he rolled silently into the room, ducking behind a nearby cabinet. His gloved hand reached toward a small jewelry box resting on a table. Opening it, he found a golden chain. Testing its strength with a quick tug, he glanced toward Dudlene, who staggered closer to the wall, back turned.
Without hesitation, Moriarty lunged. The chain looped around Dudlene's neck, and with a sharp kick to the man's knee, Moriarty pulled hard in the opposite direction.
A strangled gasp escaped Dudlene as his airways constricted. His struggles grew violent, desperate — and then slowly still. Even after silence fell, Moriarty held on, muscles trembling with strain, until he was certain.
When he finally released the chain, Dudlene's body slumped lifelessly. His face, once pale, now bore grotesque marks — the skin dry and cracked, eyes bloodshot, and a small, bony protrusion jutting from his forehead.
Moriarty stared, horror creeping into his usually composed mind. "He… lost control of his Beyonder powers?" he muttered, grasping at reason — the only explanation that fit.
A sharp pain cut through his palm. Glancing down, he saw the crimson impressions left through his gloves, the aftermath of the force he'd exerted. He clenched his fists, exhaling slowly, realizing the weight of what he had just done.