Ruthven sat in his office, writing at a piece of parchment. His only eye was occasionally glancing at the window, which had a view at the Parisian rooftops. His clawed hand trailed to the corner of the page, bending it deep in thought as he pressed his sigil on the page. Charlatan was going to act tonight, and he was supposed to ignore it. To turn a blind eye. His train of thoughts was cut off by a knock at the door.

He quickly hid the parchment in his desk.

“Yes? Come in.” He said.