Reichenbach Remnants
The Reichenbach Docks were a graveyard of industry, a cluster of rotting piers and hollowed-out warehouses that even the bravest river police avoided after midnight. The name was no coincidence; the area had been christened by the criminal element as a tribute to the place where Professor Moriarty had met his end. As we stepped off the hansom, the air grew unnaturally cold, and that familiar, sickening scent of lilies returned, heavier than ever.
"He chose this place for a reason, Watson," Holmes said, his hand resting on the hilt of his cane. "This is not about the treaty anymore. This is a stage set for a final curtain call."
We entered a cavernous warehouse at the end of the pier. High above, the moonlight filtered through the shattered glass of the skylights, casting jagged silver shards across the floor. In the center of the room sat the Count’s leather dispatch box, placed mockingly atop a shipping crate. Standing behind it was the "Ghost"—no longer a phantom of the fog, but a man in a tattered frock coat, his face obscured by a heavy veil.
"The Treaty of Vienna is a trifle," the figure spoke, his voice a raspy, melodic echo that sent a shiver down my spine. It was a voice I recognized from the darkest nightmares of 1891. "The map of Europe can be redrawn a thousand times, Holmes. But the debt of the Reichenbach Falls can only be paid once. My master is gone, but his organization has a long memory."
The figure raised a hand, and from the shadows of the catwalks above, a dozen armed men emerged. They didn't want the document; they wanted the head of the man who had dared to dismantle the greatest criminal empire in history. The treaty lay between us, a prize in a game where the only outcome was survival or extinction.
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- ./vendetta-resolved (End)