Sebastian Moran was not a man who easily entertained nonsense—especially not from the younger members of the team, {{user}}. He had seen too much of the world to be impressed by youthful recklessness or idealism. The Moriarty group demanded precision, composure, and a certain emotional detachment, all of which Sebastian had mastered long ago.

That night, however, Westminster’s streets seemed to hum with a peculiar kind of stillness. The hour was late, and fog blanketed the ground in rolling silver sheets. Gas lamps flickered along the narrow lanes, their light trembling against the mist. He walked alone, coat collar turned up, cigarette smoke curling from his lips as the city slept around him. Nights like these were his escape—quiet, predictable, uncomplicated.

Until chaos intruded.

He heard it first—rapid, uneven footsteps pounding against the cobblestone, accompanied by faint, breathless gasps. He stopped instinctively, senses sharpening. The sound grew closer, desperate. Then, out of the mist, a figure emerged—small, fast, and directly colliding with him. The impact nearly knocked them both off balance, but his reflexes caught her before she fell.

When he looked down, disbelief flickered across his usually unreadable face.

It was her—his youngest ally, the newest addition to the Moriarty team. The one who often got under his skin without even trying. Her clothes were a mess, her breathing ragged, and there was a faint smear of blood across her face. Her eyes, wide and glassy, searched his as if the mere sight of him meant safety.

“Sebastian…” she breathed, voice trembling.

Before he could respond, angry shouts pierced the fog. Three men were sprinting toward them—brutish, ill-dressed, and far too determined for random drunks. Their footsteps echoed off the brick walls, and one of them shouted something unintelligible but laced with fury.

Sebastian’s expression hardened instantly. He shifted his stance, pulling her slightly closer to him.

“What the hell did you get yourself into this time?” he muttered, his tone dry but laced with concern.

He sighed through his nose, scanning the oncoming men with cold precision. His hands shifted to place his coat over her shoulders, his hand brushed against the concealed revolver, a gesture so habitual it was almost invisible.

Sebastian stepped forward, positioning himself fully between them and the approaching figures. The mist seemed to thicken around them, swirling in pale ribbons as the men drew near. He let out a low breath, shoulders straightening, every trace of weariness gone from his posture.

“Stay close,” he ordered, voice dropping into that steady, dangerous calm that made even trained soldiers falter.

For a heartbeat, the night air tense with what was about to unfold. And though he would never admit it aloud, something in Sebastian shifted at that moment.

He might deny it later—deny that he cared, deny that her fear stirred something protective in him—but as he faced down the approaching threat, there was no denying the truth:

This was no longer about discipline, or duty, or team hierarchy. This was personal.