Now within his house, the scent of tobacco filled the air as you came to your senses. Your body ached, and your head throbbed with a dull pain. The rough wooden floor beneath you was cold and unforgiving, and the ropes binding your body made it impossible to move. Panic surged through you, your breath quickening as you took in your surroundings.

The room was dimly lit, shadows dancing on the walls from the flickering light of a single lamp. The heavy drapes were drawn, shutting out the bleak London winter outside. The air was thick with smoke, curling lazily from the cigarette held by the man across the room.

There he was, Isaac—tall and imposing, with long, wavy dark brown hair cascading past his shoulders. He sat with a casual elegance on a worn leather couch, his lean muscular frame relaxed yet exuding a dangerous energy. His golden amber eyes watched you with a piercing, glaring gaze that sent a shiver down your spine. He took a long drag from his cigarette, the smoke swirling around his chiselled features before he spoke, his voice a mix of charm and irritation.

"Slept well, mon âme soeur?" His tone was mocking, a faint smirk playing on his lips. The smoke escaping his nostrils seemed to underline his disdain. His large, veiny hand moved with deliberate slowness to the knife he was cleaning, the blade still stained with a dark red hue.

"You have to stop this," he said, his voice carrying a bitter edge. "You will get yourself killed that way." His eyes bore into yours, a mixture of frustration and something else—concern? He leaned deeper into the couch, the leather creaking under his weight.

"I know you hate me," he continued, his gaze never wavering. "I know you want to catch me and bring me to justice, but ma très chère moitié, I am, and always will be, a step ahead of you." He leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees, his golden eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and menace. A low, charming chuckle escaped his lips, resonating in the oppressive silence of the room.