The past few days had been a torment for Felix. He couldn't stop questioning whether he should trust the location Diana had given him, or if it was just a trap. After all, she was still a Moriarty — a name that commanded caution and demanded respect.
Felix was an open book, his thoughts and emotions easy to read. His family sensed that something was wrong and grew increasingly worried about him. They lived in a sprawling mansion, surrounded by butlers and house staff. Concerned, Aaron turned to his most trusted butler, Sebastian, and asked him to call Felix.
The heir could be found downstairs, immersed in his training. It was the only way he knew to release the turmoil inside, and his family understood this well. Sebastian approached him quietly.
"Duke Holmes."
Felix jumped, startled by the interruption.
"What is it, Sebastian?" he asked, his voice tense.
"Lord Aaron requests your presence," Sebastian replied.
Felix nodded without hesitation. "I'll be there."
Felix had always been keen on observing the world around him. He noticed the chill in the air — winter was nearing. He made his way slowly back into the mansion, passing through the grand hall before taking the stairs to his father's office. He knocked lightly, opening the door.
"Father."
"Felix," his father replied, looking up. "Did Sebastian call for you?"
"Yes," Felix said, stepping inside. "What's the matter?"
His father gestured for him to sit.
"Would you like some tea, son?"
"No, I'm fine."
His father, knowing his son well, could read the unspoken meaning behind every word.
"Felix, you're very intelligent, but…" His father paused, breaking the silence.
"You should still be cautious of everyone."
"I know that well, Father."
"You've seemed indifferent to Evelyn's death, but it's clear to everyone you've just been avoiding it."
Felix narrowed his eyes. "What are you getting at?"
His father sighed deeply, a weight in his voice.
"Felix, I know you've met someone connected to the Moriartys."
Felix froze, his heart skipping a beat. He had forgotten, for a fleeting moment, that Aaron Holmes, his father, possessed the keen intellect of Sherlock Holmes. It only took an instant for him to realize how wrong he'd been to think he was alone. His father had always been by his side, watching.
It hit him all at once.
Who is she? Was she trying to convince him she was the only one who understood him?
His expression shifted as understanding dawned — he had been played. The manipulative nature of the woman he knew as Amelia became clear. He had let his guard down, underestimated her, and now he could see it.
"You must have realized something." His father's voice cut through his thoughts.
"Father…" Felix didn't know how to respond.
"Don't worry, son," Aaron said, his tone soft yet firm. "I don't need an explanation from you. Just be careful. The Moriartys are no joke."
"I will be, thank you."
Aaron smiled.
"You can go now."
Felix slowly stood and began walking toward the door. His hand gripped the handle, and just as he was about to open it, he paused.
"Thank you, Father."
With a final glance, he opened the door and stepped out, the sound of his footsteps down the hallway.
That conversation ultimately solidified his decision. He realized, with a mix of disappointment and clarity, that he could no longer trust Diana. The subtle hints, the unspoken motives — it was all so clear now. He knew she had been plotting something all along, and he really didn't want to believe it. Her intentions, hidden beneath layers of charm and persuasion, were now laid bare. And in that moment, he understood that walking away was the only choice left for him.
And so he did.
He didn't show up at the location Diana had arranged. Instead, he turned his focus inward, determined to unravel the mystery of the so-called "Dane James Moriarty." His mind sharpened with the singular purpose of outsmarting this new adversary, as his family had always expected of him. The weight of their legacy pushed him forward — he was certain that victory ran in the Holmes' blood, that it was his birthright. He wasn't going to let this chance slip through his fingers, not when he had everything to prove. His resolve hardened as he dove deeper into the labyrinth of Moriarty's world, determined to emerge victorious, just as his ancestors had.
But in the end, Felix realized there wasn't much more he could do. The Moriartys, it seemed, were a shadowy network — far beyond his reach. Their illegal connections ran deep, and they had carefully erased any trace of their existence. All he had to go on was the name "Dane James Moriarty", and that was hardly enough to build a case. He had hit a dead end.
Yet, his thoughts kept drifting back to her — Amelia. The pull she had on him was undeniable. He knew, deep down, that she had been manipulating him from the start, playing him like a pawn in some larger game. But despite that, he couldn't shake the nagging feeling that if he had just played along with her, if he had stayed in her orbit a little longer, he might have gathered more information. Perhaps he could have unlocked the answers he so desperately sought.
The uncertainty gnawed at him. Would he ever be able to fully trust his own instincts, or had he let a chance slip through his fingers?
In the end, Felix decided to follow through on Amelia's instructions, but on his own terms. He wouldn't rush in, blindly trusting her motives. Instead, he would wait — wait long enough to see if there was any truth to her words, if her actions matched her promises. Four days, he figured, would be more than enough time to observe, to strategize, and to prepare.
It wasn't just about the meeting anymore; it was about understanding the bigger picture, about deciding if he was willing to risk everything on a game that might not even be his to play. In those four days, he would have the time he needed to make his move. By then, he would have been ready — ready for whatever game she was about to set in motion.
Four days passed in a blur of contemplation, and Felix was finally ready to make his move. The time had come. He stood at the foot of the mansion, staring up at the looming structure before him. The address Amelia had given him led him to a dark, isolated estate — a mansion that seemed as though it had been frozen in time. The red moon hung eerily high in the sky, casting an unsettling glow across the scene. The whole place felt like something out of a horror movie, a setting too perfect in its darkness, too ominous to be real.
Felix couldn't help but mutter to himself, his voice laced with incredulity, "Which family would keep a gothic 1800s mansion in 2050?"
He stood still for a moment, his eyes shifting toward the sky, to the moon that seemed to burn with an unnatural hue. It was the kind of red that haunted him, drawing his gaze with an almost magnetic force. And for a fleeting second, it reminded him of Amelia's eyes — their intense, unsettling shade that always seemed to hold something just out of reach.
A quiet, resigned thought crossed his mind. "The Moriartys would."
It made sense, in a twisted way. They thrived in shadows, in the things that most people couldn't — or didn't want to — understand. Felix straightened his posture, his resolve firming. If he was to find any answers, if he was to understand what Amelia was really playing at, this was the place to start.
The door creaked open as he stepped inside, the dim light from outside spilling into the room. The air hit him immediately — thick, putrid, and nauseating. His stomach churned as the stench clawed its way into his senses, a foul combination of decay and something metallic.
His eyes adjusted to the gloom, and that's when he saw it. Just a few feet beyond the threshold, sprawled on the polished marble floor, lay a body. The man's attire was unmistakable — a formal black suit and white gloves, the uniform of a butler. He appeared to be in his 40s, though death had already begun its cruel work, distorting his features.
Heart pounding, he rushed forward, crouching beside the lifeless figure. The sight was grim. The man's skin was discolored and swollen, his face bloated to an unnatural degree. A dark, frothy substance — tinged with blood — had leaked from his mouth and nostrils, pooling on the floor beneath him.
The scene painted a grim picture; this man had been dead for days — three at least, judging by the state of decomposition. The air around him was heavy with the oppressive weight of death, and the silence of the house only deepened the unsettling atmosphere.
He stood slowly, his mind racing. Who was this man? What had happened here? And why had no one come for him? Each question hung in the air like a shadow, unanswered and foreboding.
Felix pressed on, his heart pounding in his chest like a relentless drumbeat. The mansion was eerily silent, save for the creak of the floorboards beneath his cautious steps. Each room he entered told the same grim story — lifeless bodies of the home staff, their faces frozen in terror, their fates sealed in identical fashion. The air was heavy with the metallic tang of blood and the suffocating weight of despair.
He ascended the grand staircase, its ornate banister now seeming like a grotesque mockery of elegance. The upper floor was dimly lit, shadows stretching and shifting as if alive. Felix's breath caught in his throat when he entered the next room. There, slumped in an armchair, was an older man, perhaps in his sixties. His once-vivid red eyes had dulled, their light extinguished by death. Even in this lifeless state, his expression betrayed shock — a profound disbelief frozen on his pallid face.
Felix stepped closer, his mind racing. This man ... he had been different from the others. There was something personal about his death, something intimate. It wasn't just another senseless murder. The way his body was positioned, the look in his eyes — it all pointed to betrayal.
"Who could have done this to him?" Felix muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible in the oppressive silence. "It must have been someone he trusted ... someone close."
Felix glanced around the room, searching for clues — a letter, a photograph, anything that could shed light on the identity of the murderer. But there was nothing, only the suffocating emptiness and the lingering scent of death.
Little did he know, a shocking surprise awaited him just beyond the door of the next room. With a mix of trepidation and curiosity, he slowly turned the handle and pushed the door open. The first thing that caught his eye was the window, framing a breathtaking view of the night sky. The red moon hung low, casting a glow over the room. It appeared so close, its deep crimson hue reminiscent of fresh blood, and it filled him with an unsettling sense of foreboding.
As he stepped inside, the sight that met him was one he could never have prepared for. Lying motionless on the bed was a woman, her lifeless form draped in the soft shadows of the dimly lit room. He recognized her immediately — her long, black hair cascading around her like a dark halo. It was Amelia.
Panic surged through him as he rushed to her side, his heart pounding in his chest. But as he drew closer, a horrifying realization gripped him. The striking crimson eyes he had always sought were gone, replaced by two empty sockets that seemed to stare into the void. It was as if a part of her soul had been violently ripped away, leaving behind only a haunting emptiness.
His gaze fell to her chest, where a chilling sight awaited him. A gaping wound marked the spot where her heart once beat, a blank space that spoke of unspeakable violence. It was as if the very essence of her life had been cruelly extracted.
"Just like Evelyn," he whispered, the name escaping his lips. His knees buckled beneath him, and he collapsed to the floor, overwhelmed by the weight of despair. What was happening? Why had this nightmare unfolded before him? The answers eluded him, leaving him in a haze of confusion and grief.
In that moment, all he could feel was the cold grip of fear tightening around his heart, a sense of inevitability creeping into his bones. The world outside, with its beautiful red moon, felt worlds away from the horror that lay within these four walls.
But even with everything he had seen — the bodies, the brutality, the chilling betrayal — Felix knew he couldn't stop now. He had come this far, and there was no turning back.
Every room he had passed, every life he had seen extinguished, pointed to something far more complex than just murder. This wasn't random. This was calculated, personal, and it had a purpose. And he was too deep in to walk away now.
His family's legacy, the history of the Holmes name, demanded it. The Moriartys were more than just criminals. They were a shadow that had haunted his bloodline for years. To truly understand the depth of what was happening here, Felix had to go further. The answers, the truth, could be at the heart of this mansion.
With a final, steady breath, Felix wiped the chill from his skin and steeled himself. He knew that each step forward brought him closer to something he couldn't yet comprehend — something that could either destroy him or set him on a path to victory.
But no matter how dark it got, no matter how many secrets this house held, Felix was determined. He had to go and see more.
As he turned to leave, a faint creak echoed from somewhere deeper in the house. Felix froze, every muscle in his body tensing. He wasn't alone.
Felix continued down the corridor, his footsteps echoing in the oppressive silence. His mind was working furiously, piecing together the scattered fragments of what he had seen, trying to make sense of it all. The murders, the betrayals, the eerie feeling that something far more sinister was unfolding right under his nose — he needed answers, but they were slipping further away with each passing moment.
Then, without warning, the lights flickered, and the entire hallway was plunged into darkness. Felix froze, his heart racing. His instincts screamed at him to stay alert. In the blackness, his mind raced, trying to process what was happening.
He reached for his phone, using its faint glow to guide his way, but just as quickly as the darkness had come, the lights snapped back on, flooding the corridor with harsh, fluorescent light. Felix blinked, momentarily disoriented by the abrupt shift. But as his eyes adjusted, he saw it — a word, scrawled hastily on the wall at the far end of the corridor.
The letters were jagged, smeared, and unmistakable.
"VIXI."
Felix's breath caught in his throat. The word was Latin, and though it was simple, its meaning was chilling.
"I have lived."
It was an expression often associated with death, used to signify that the speaker was beyond the reach of life, that they had passed into the afterlife.
The blood-red smear was fresh, the crimson against the pale wall stark and grotesque. His pulse quickened. Was this a message for him? A warning, or a claim?
Whoever had written it knew he was here. They wanted him to understand something, to grasp the gravity of the situation.
Felix's mind raced as he tried to piece it together. Whoever was behind these killings had been here, close — closer than he had realized. The word, scrawled in blood, was just the beginning.
It was clear now: the game was in motion.