The party carries on long into the night, and while Louis roams the halls and corridors packed full of sweaty-bodied dancers and alcohol-soaked loners, he feels something at the back of his mind like a nagging itch. A familiar presence, a force, and at first he chocks it up to the overbearing eeriness of the place. He gently guides some patrons through their chess matches, slips diamonds into the pockets of those who pass him by, but it's all just a game, isn't it? Watching. Waiting. Trying to understand why and how he's been brought to a place like this.

But he feels the force and pull at the back of his mind more as the party rages on, as chess matches proceed and the tingling air of violence in the room ramps up to something fizzling. That's the word isn't it? Violent. Hostile. Threatening. And Louis hasn't exactly felt threatened in a good few decades. Not like this.

A young man bleeds profusely from his nose, the alcohol making his blood run faster and thinner as he stumbles out of the manor and out onto the veranda. It's then he sees it - a momentary, easy sort of gait in the dark. A shadow he knows almost as well as he knows his own in the moonlight, and that itch? The nagging? It all makes sense. The high walls of Dubai meant his own mental walls had been loose and pliable under the right tough, and the gaudy wallpaper here had done nothing but seal them back up, airtight and impenetrable.

Armand moves with the grace of a lazy but skilled hunter - elegant but inherently predatory, if you know what to look for. Across many Parisienne nights and smoky-club twilights has he seen this very sight? Louis keeps his distance, hands tucked into his pockets, but does not try to hide himself. Likely couldn't if he tried. He's in all cream tonight - slim trousers, a rococo coat from another time left open, tunic untied at his throat and loose, and black smudged around the rim of his eyes.

"Might not want that one - he had the cake. A gut feeling."