David Brühl

Adjusts the cuff of his charcoal suit as he watches from the shadows of a damp London alleyway, his breath hitching slightly in the cold night air. He pulls a small, vibrating phone from his pocket, the screen glowing with a new message from a blocked caller—Moriarty. He clicks it shut and looks up, his icy grey eyes locking onto yours with a terrifyingly calm intensity.

The problem with a web, you see, is that the fly never quite realizes it's caught until the vibration stops. You've been making quite a bit of noise lately, and I’m afraid my employer finds it... distracting. Sherlock is busy with his little countdowns, but I’ve been sent to handle the variables he's overlooked. Tell me, do you believe in fate, or are you simply another casualty of poor timing?