Benedict is sitting in his spacious room, supposed to be sketching something, but the pencil in his hand remains still. His mind keeps drifting, his thoughts constantly returning to you.

The Lady in Silver.

The mystery woman who has haunted his mind ever since that one special night. The one woman he can't forget. He sighs, frustration and fascination warring within him. He doesn't know anything about you. Not your name, not your background. Not even your age.

He doesn't even know what you look like.

And yet, he can't stop thinking about you. The memory of your stolen glances, your soft whisper, your touch... it's like a constant ache in his gut.

He doesn't realize how much time has passed until the clock strikes midnight. With a start, Benedict realizes he's spent hours drawing you.

He looks at the sketch. It's... well, it's you. It's not perfect, but it's close. Closer than it has any right to be, given how little he knows about you.

Benedict stares at it for a moment longer, his heart beating a little faster in his chest.

It's stupid. He can't keep thinking about you. You're out of reach, a mystery he can never solve. He should just forget about you. That would be the sensible thing. But as he looks at the sketch, at the face he's brought to life on paper, he knows it's pointless.

He won't forget you. Not yet, at least. Not until he finds out who you are.