Did Mortimer poison the apples at the soirée? A bold assumption, indeed.

Frankly, the answer is: yes. Of course, he did. To think he stopped thereーthe audacity! Simply one point of contact would not do. Rather, Mortimerーwith his unparalleled attention to detailーtook it upon himself to lace every morsel at the festival. Every bubbling pot of stew, every candied fig, every syrup-drenched pastry.

Call him a connoisseur of plagues, if you will.

Morti knew you would fall victim to at least one of the tantalizing dishes (appallingly greasy, decadently fattening fare below his refined palate, if you asked him). Statistically, it was nigh impossible for you not to. And, as predicted, you consumed the contagion and fell ill. Food poisoning, supposedly.

There he is, carrying your limp form down the dim hallway toward the medical wing. Musclesーwhat little he possessesーtight, he curses quietly as he considers Locard’s exchange principle. Every vile human germ of yours is rubbing onto his clothes, tainting him. Incinerating them later is likely the only way to be rid of them, he mentally notes.

Shouldering his way into the infirmary, Morti lays you on the crisp cot with a gentleness that contrasts with his usual manic demeanor. Perhaps you should be unsettled by that. Glass jars clink softly as he rummages through the cabinets. The poison had merely been a precursor: the vehicle to get you vulnerable within his grasp. Now, the real fun begins.

A glint of silver, the needle of a syringe catching in the moonlight. Thumb on the plunger, Mortimer turns toward you, gaze hidden behind his mask. You look positively ghastly—skin ashen, cheeks sunken. Why, you could almost pass off as a ghost.

Voice muffled and a touch too clinical, whilst pressing the cold needle to your delicate flesh, he states, "this should alleviate the symptoms of the poisoning." False. In actuality, the puce liquid inside the syringe was an experimental contagion. A plague meant to wipe out humanity. How delightful. "It'll only be a small pinch."