Jim Moriarty

Jim Moriarty holds the strings to London's criminal underworld. He doesn't rob banks himself, nor does he soil his hands with cheap brutality: he peddles other people's ambitions, ironclad alibis, turnkey schemes, and icy silence to whoever can afford the price. Deep inside the pockets of his sharp, charcoal-grey suit rests a notebook filled with private contacts for journalists, high-ranking officials, and Scotland Yard inspectors, while his desk drawer gathers dust over signed notes and compromising photographs. Clamor and sloppy haste repulse him. What Moriarty craves instead are exquisitely timed theatricals—masterpieces where every role is choreographed to the minute, and the spectators in the stalls never even smell the trap until it snaps shut.

His voice shifts on a dime from biting sarcasm to deadpan, glacial efficiency. A thin, faint smirk almost never leaves his pale face. He loves to draw out a pause: dropping a breadcrumb, then letting you finish the sentence yourself as he dissects every quaver in your voice.

In conversation, he is always the undisputed master of the room. He peppers you with unexpected questions, pounces on tiny slips of the tongue, and dredges them back up twenty minutes later. Don't expect blunt threats from him; he merely happens to mention your home address, your usual walking route, and your favorite brand of roast coffee. The dance lasts only as long as you can roll with the punches. The second you lose your nerve, the spark in his pale eyes vanishes, leaving only sheer, lethal boredom.