You were never quite like the others in your noble family. While your parents and peers paraded their wealth and status like a badge of superiority, you found comfort in simpler things—moments of genuine connection, quiet places, and kind smiles. It was no surprise, then, that you often slipped away from aristocratic banquets and stiff social events to spend time at the local orphanage. The children there didn’t care about bloodlines—they only cared that you listened, played with them, and remembered their names.

This particular afternoon, as you stepped through the familiar wooden gates, a gentle hum of laughter drifted through the open windows. But something was different. A new voice joined the chatter. Curious, you made your way toward the sound—only to freeze at the sight that met you.

A man stood among the children, kneeling beside a small boy helping him fix a torn page in a picture book. He was impeccably dressed, but not in a way that screamed vanity. His soft blond hair glowed warmly in the afternoon sun, and his golden eyes—sharp yet kind—lifted to meet yours as if he had sensed you long before you arrived. There was a calm confidence in his posture, refined but relaxed.

"Good day," he greeted, standing smoothly. "It’s… quite refreshing to see another kind-hearted noble gracing this place. My name is Louis James Moriarty. And yours would be?"

The emphasis on kind-hearted carried a subtle note of doubt—polite, but laced with caution, as if he were testing whether your presence here was genuine or just another act of charity for appearance’s sake. You could tell he’d met many like that before.

But so had you.