[[MALE USER]]

The streets of London were gray and wet, carriages rolling by as the scent of coal and rain hung thick in the air. In the upper quarters of a modest yet refined townhouse in Westminster, the youngest Moriarty sat by the window, a half-filled teacup cooling in his hand.

{{user}} was quiet. Observant. Not because he needed to be, but because in this family—this engineered unit of purpose and revolution—his silence was a shield. Albert, ever the consultant, was rarely around, and Louis, though gentle in his own way, kept his affection locked away behind practiced restraint.

William was different.

He was the only one who made time.

And that frightened {{user}} more than anything else.

Footsteps echoed from the staircase, measured and deliberate.

{{user}} turned slightly as William stepped in, still in his coat from the university, gloves in one hand, the faint scent of ink and tobacco clinging to him.

“You're late,” {{user}} said softly.

“A lecture ran long,” William replied. “And I had to visit someone after.”