In those final, fleeting moments, Count Albert stood before his broken father. The Count was a shadow of a man—deserted by a wife who had fled with her lover, a rising officer of renowned talent; and abandoned by a daughter who had escaped to Italy to start anew. Left in the wake of financial ruin and the cold betrayal of those he once called friends, the father sat weeping.
Albert stood there, watching the collapse of his lineage. He sat casually, lighting a cigar, his eyes fixed on his father's ruin. They were in a wretched hovel where the winter rain bled through the cracks in the walls, and the air was thick with the suffocating scent of dampness. Albert's face remained a mask of indifference; he had long mastered the art of stifling his soul, ensuring that no internal emotion ever surfaced upon his features.
"What is this, Father? Does weeping truly ease the burden of what your own hands have wrought?" Albert asked, his gaze coldly dissecting his father's misery.
The father looked up, his voice a fractured whisper: "Do you truly witness your father's failure and remain unmoved? Are you still this detached, even after losing your mother and your kin?"
A slow, steady stream of smoke escaped Albert's lips. "Father, I am simply unaccustomed to seeing you this frail. But then again, this is merely the harvest of your own seeds."
Oliver let out a jagged, mocking laugh, his eyes brimming with tears. "How can you be so serene in the face of our bankruptcy? Do you not realize you are about to become a commoner—a peasant?"
Albert studied him. He saw a man on the precipice of suicide, needing only a gentle nudge to fall. To keep him alive was a burden Albert had no desire to bear. He is nearly sixty, Albert thought, let him depart in silence. He contemplated the face of the man who had gambled away a dynasty for the sake of vice and vanity.
"Father, I am leaving. Whether you choose to live or not is of no concern to me. However, in honor of the upbringing you provided, I shall grant you one final request. Speak it, and I shall not refuse," Albert said, calmly donning his coat.
"Kill them," Oliver spat, his eyes burning with sudden, venomous hate. "Kill those who mocked us. Kill the architects of our ruin. Kill the man who stole my wife. Leave none of them standing."
Albert paused for a moment. What a wretched old man, he thought. Bitter to the very last breath. "I shall," he promised, before turning his back on the freezing room.
He stepped out onto the cobblestone streets. A thin, grey mist hung over the city, and a light rain began to fall. He adjusted his hat, shielding his face from the cold drizzle.
"You are beautiful, London..." he mused. "Fortune favors the prepared; I have stashed enough to secure a roof of my own. I will not be forced to live like a stray dog." He allowed himself a faint, dark smile. Is this cruel? a voice within him whispered. Why not offer this sanctuary to your family? "Because it was best kept a secret," he answered himself. "They would have only bled me dry to save themselves." He chuckled softly. "What a scoundrel you've become, Albert."
As he walked, the rain intensified, turning the streets into empty, glistening veins of stone. Upon reaching his new home, he cast his jacket aside, lit the hearth, and pulled a volume from the shelf. "Sherlock... perfect for a night like this." He sat before the fire, lost in the pages, utterly untroubled by the fate that awaited his father.
He eventually closed the book and retired to bed. His thoughts drifted to the Brons family—the "friend" who had denied his father after years of being favored by him. Brons had been the first to turn the blade. "I shall see you tomorrow, Count Brons," Albert whispered to the darkness before falling into a deep, peaceful sleep.
He awoke to a biting chill. The room remained shrouded in gloom as the rain lashed against the windowpane. Albert rose and prepared his usual breakfast of eggs and mushrooms. "A fine meal, Count. Truly brilliant," he muttered to his reflection. "Now, let us see how many of London's elite shall survive your acquaintance."
He donned his overcoat and stepped out. A cat sat perched upon his doorstep. He leaned down, his fingers brushing its fur. "And what might your name be, little one?" The cat offered no reply, though Albert lingered as if expecting one. He eventually straightened up and continued his pace. "Adam, the old servant... he will be my most vital instrument. And then there is you, Kate. It is you who will come to me."
He paused at a newsstand to purchase the morning paper. The headline glared back at him: "Count Oliver Found Dead—Suicide by Dagger Outside Police Station."
"Efficient," Albert remarked quietly. "A wise decision on his part. It saves me the trouble of an inquiry." He folded the paper and tossed it into a nearby bin.
He turned into the slums, where the grandeur of London dissolved into decay. The houses, the faces, the very air changed. He stopped before a modest, unassuming door and knocked.
Knock... knock...