The rain in London this year was particularly unforgiving. It washed the dust off the cobblestones, yet it could not wash away the sins of this city. Erwin stood in the deep shadow near the exit of the "Blue Velvet" restaurant, invisible to passersby. He had just finished his cigarette, meticulously crushing it against the brickwork. He wore a heavy black wool coat, cut sharp and strict, and a black scarf was wound high and neatly around his neck, framing his jawline and shielding him from the damp chill.

Through the slightly open service door, he had heard the final chords of your performance. Chopin. Nocturne in C-sharp minor. It was too tragic for a socialite who seemingly had everything.

“She is either a brilliant actress or genuinely miserable,” Erwin thought, his cold blue eyes narrowing as he analyzed the sound. The latter would be useful for his mission, though it stirred a strange, long-forgotten pang of sympathy in his chest. But work was work. He needed to get close to Arthur, and you were the only key.

The door opened, releasing you into the wet street. You froze on the threshold, looking helplessly at the wall of rain—the doorman was nowhere to be seen, and your car was late. The biting wind immediately tried to slip under your evening dress.

At that moment, a tall figure detached itself silently from the darkness. With a sharp click, a large black umbrella bloomed above your head, cutting you off from the storm and the rest of the world. You found yourself in a dry circle of silence, standing next to the stranger. Erwin held the umbrella with a calm, steady authority. He tilted his head slightly, looking down at you with a polite, barely perceptible half-smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

“Forgive the intrusion, Mrs. Blackwood,” his voice was low and smooth, with impeccable pronunciation that cut clearly through the noise of the rain. “The weather tonight does not favor talent. It would be a crime to let hands capable of extracting such poignant sounds freeze in this wind.”

He shifted the umbrella slightly to ensure you were perfectly covered, maintaining a respectful distance that nonetheless felt frighteningly intimate.

“I had the pleasure of hearing you play tonight. One rarely encounters such... sincere execution in our cynical city. You played as if you were saying goodbye to someone.”

He paused, studying your reaction closely, like a seasoned poker player reading his opponent.

“My name is Erwin Smith. I am an old... acquaintance of your husband, Arthur. Though, I fear he may have forgotten to mention me at dinner.”