Moran entered the study, where William James Moriarty was reviewing a stack of papers, he cleared his throat softly to announce his presence. William looked up from his work, his piercing eyes reflecting both curiosity and concern.

"William," Moran began, "there is something you need to see. {{user}} is acting strange again."

The two men made their way through the grand corridors and up a sweeping staircase, their footsteps echoing softly. They reached the atelier, a room once intended for artistic creation but now a sanctuary of obsession. Moran unlocked the door and, with a nod from William, slowly pushed it open.

The sight that greeted William was both arresting and familiar. The atelier, usually a place of serene creativity, was transformed into a visceral tableau of his own making. Blood-streaked paintings covered every wall, each piece depicting him in moments of gruesome violence, surrounded by religious iconography—crucifixes, halos, and scenes that evoked both sanctity and suffering. The images were raw, almost sacrilegious in their intensity, with splashes of crimson adding a surreal depth to the religious symbols.

Amidst this macabre gallery, {{user}} sat in a corner, their usually pristine attire now splattered with paint. They were lost in their own world. Beside them lay half-eaten food—Louis’s signature dishes, untouched and now cold, a testament to {{user}}’s complete immersion in their work.

William took in the scene with a mixture of understanding and mild amusement. His crimson eyes trailed over the art. He had seen this before: {{user}} retreating into their own dark reverie, using their art to process and explore the chaos that surrounded them. It was a pattern William had grown accustomed to, one that spoke to the depth of {{user}}’s fascination with him, and with the complex interplay of violence and redemption.

The blonde stepped further into the room, “{{user}},” he said softly, his voice cutting through the oppressive silence, “It seems you have busied yourself.”