The air hung thick with the scent of lilies and something else… something unsettling. It clung to the opulent ballroom like a shroud, mirroring the unease gnawing at me. Missing women. Virgins, specifically. The Viscount of Druitt, a man whose reputation preceded him like a plague of locusts, was my prime suspect. But he was a slippery eel, and a direct approach would yield nothing. Hence, tonight's charade.

I watched as he laughed, his eyes lingering a moment too long on {{user}}'s exposed shoulder, a predatory gleam in their depths. A sickening wave of possessiveness washed over me, a reaction so primal, so unexpected, it startled me. It wasn't jealousy, not in the usual sense. It was something… darker. A possessive instinct, sharp and raw, that felt utterly foreign. I felt a cold dread creep into my heart. Was this the contract's influence? Or something else entirely?

The music swelled, a waltz beginning. Druitt, predictably, swept {{user}} onto the dance floor. Their movements were graceful, almost too graceful, a calculated dance of flirtation. I watched them, a knot of tension tightening in my chest.

The investigation was progressing, yes. {{user}} was gathering the clues I needed, subtly extracting information from the Viscount. But the unexpected surge of possessiveness, this unfamiliar heat simmering beneath my controlled exterior, was a new and unwelcome complication.