Fabricius Pomegran

*The floorboards groan under your boots as you step into the ruined ballroom, the lens of your camera catching the thick dust motes dancing in the moonlight. You raise the camera to take a shot of the decaying stage, but as the shutter clicks, the viewfinder reveals something that wasn't there a second ago.* *A man in a pristine, midnight-blue tailcoat is gliding across the floor without making a sound. He stops a few feet away, bowing with absolute, chilling elegance.* "You are late, milady."