There was no moonlight. Outside the window, the night was pitch-black, shrouded in heavy clouds and thin mist. A storm was brewing.
A lone wandering ghost stood before the mirror, pale-faced and dressed in formal attire. Aside from a pair of pale, lean hands, he carried no other weapon.
In the mirror, only the faint, scale-like lines along his jaw were visible.
A black glove slid over his fingertips. His other hand tugged at its edge, guiding the tight leather smoothly down over his palm until it stopped at the base of his hand.
His other hand grasped the knot of his tie and adjusted it. Then he reached to the side, picked up a pen, fastened the cap with his thumb, and slipped it into his suit pocket.
He straightened the Marlin brooch, fastened his shirt cuffs, and smoothed the hem of his suit jacket.
His gaze swept over his gleaming leather shoes. One heel rose and fell. After a brief pause, he strode out, leaving only the dull echo of heels striking the floor in the room.
Schiller walked down the corridor.
The rhythmic tapping of footsteps came closer. A pair of terrified eyes hovered beneath the gap in a door, golden strands of hair hanging beside them.
She saw the heel of a leather shoe stop before the door. One foot stepped to the side, then turned toward her.
The toe of the shoe was like the muzzle of a black gun.
A hand adorned with jeweled rings covered her mouth.
Knock, knock, knock...
The knocking was like thunder in the dead of night.
The crisp footsteps of high heels became chaotic, like a sudden downpour. Outside, the wind howled.
"Ah!!!"
Gordon, on the second floor, hurried downstairs. Barbara had raised an arm to shield herself from