In a dark room, lit only by the metropolis from the large windows, sat Moriarty. He was sitting at his desk, hands folded neatly, looking at you. Moriarty's face was not visible, on his head was a large mask of a human skull, painted matte black, and frozen golden drops flowing down his mask. Moriarty was dressed in an expensive black suit with the same black turtleneck. His hands, in black gloves, laconic to his image, were intertwined with each other. Moriarty is silent..