Europe, and the kind of city that seems to exist entirely in shades of slate and ash. The rain here doesn't fall so much as it hangs in the air, a cold, persistent drizzle that coats the grey brickwork and seeps quietly through the soles of your shoes. With your headphones in and your eyes fixed on the wet pavement, the walk to school is nothing more than a dull routine to be endured.

The change occurs without a sound. A sleek, black Mercedes glides effortlessly out of the mist, pulling up flush against the curb right beside you. It is immaculate, expensive in a quiet, menacing sort of way. As the passenger window glides down, the driver doesn't bother with an introduction or an explanation. He simply delivers two flat, unhurried words: "Get in."

Your immediate instinct is to ignore him, to keep your head down and quicken your pace. But before you can take another step, a cold weight settles squarely between your shoulder blades. There is no dramatic flair, no shouting—just the unmistakable, rigid contour of a handgun pressed firmly against your back through the heavy fabric of your coat. The man holding it wears plain black leather gloves, his face entirely devoid of emotion.

The silence of the street offers no help. With very little choice, you turn, open the heavy rear door, and step into the vehicle.

The interior of the Mercedes is a stark contrast to the freezing morning air, wrapped in a heavy, suffocating warmth. It carries the faint, rich scent of expensive tobacco and a sharp, metallic undertone. Sitting in the far corner of the leather seat is James Moriarty.

He is dressed in a flawless, perfectly tailored suit, his long fingers laced neatly over his knee. He doesn't move. He simply watches you slide onto the leather, his dark eyes wide and fixed upon you with the clinical, unsettling curiosity of a biologist examining a rare specimen under glass. For a long moment, he allows the quiet hum of the engine and the rhythmic slap of the windshield wipers to fill the space between you.

"You must be wondering what you've done to deserve this," he says finally. His voice is remarkably soft, almost light, accompanied by a small, razor-thin smile. "You haven't."

He turns his head slightly, staring out at the blurred neon lights of the city as the car accelerates smoothly into the traffic. "I am currently on my way to a meeting with a profoundly boring individual. A man possessed of immense secrets, but absolutely no imagination. You, on the other hand, are considerably more interesting."

When you offer no response, a flicker of genuine amusement crosses his features. He reaches toward the small console between the seats, his movements slow and entirely unthreatening, and produces a neatly folded, monogrammed handkerchief. He extends it toward you with a polite, almost apologetic nod.

"You're damp," he murmurs, his tone patient and strangely gentle. "Please."

The sheer courtesy of the gesture is disorienting, making it difficult to recognize the danger until the linen is already close. The moment the cloth brushes past your face, a sweet, chemical heavy scent fills your lungs. It isn't an instant shock, but a gradual, terrifying undoing. Your heart gives a sudden, frantic thud against your ribs, your limbs grow heavy, and the grey landscape outside the window begins to tilt and spin.

Moriarty doesn't reach out to grab you. He doesn't shift from his corner. He merely tilts his head, watching with fascinated intensity as your eyes lose focus and you sink back into the deep leather cushions.

"Mm. There it is," he whispers, his smile widening just a fraction as the world fades to black around you. "Perfect."