Hello Zane; can you post something here please? I will reply in kind and we can work from there.

There was a pair of silk stockings, pristine white and expensive, set upon a lacquered table to the left of the bed which, despite its sleeping occupant, appeared to be freshly made. Dawn; the light of the newly risen sun was just beginning to creep past the blinds, striking the delicate weave of silk and making it shine but not quite reaching the eyes of the man sleeping with the stillness of the grave. Peaceful did not quite define one who slept so stiffly, arms crossed just below his diaphragm, covers neatly tucked a precise quarter of an inch below his neck; silent was a more fitting descriptive.

An alarm clock, inlayed with mother of pearl, chimed once. The sound was soft, but it might have been a wailing klaxon for the response it got; the eyes of the man in the bed snapped open, a long, skeletal hand shooting out and striking the clock once, sharply; it died with a resonant bell-sound cry. The bed, which had remained a resolute paragon of perfection for so long, fell into disorder as its occupant rose, carrying the stiffness that he had possessed in sleep into the bathroom with him.

Exactly fifteen minutes later the man emerged, his eyes closed as he slowly traversed his Spartan bedroom, the unnatural pallor of his skin accented to a sickly hue by the expensive dark fabric of his suit. He did not make the bed, sitting on the very edge instead so that he could put on stockings and shoes, the latter polished to a mirror shine. When he stood, still slow, still stiff, he left the bed as it had been, quietly moving along without so much as a backwards glance; clearly, he was not the one to order his home.

Shortly (seven minutes) before seven, the nondescript door of his quietly expensive home slipped open without a sound as he stepped out into an attractive but toned-down garden; at the front, there was nothing to show of the fountains and fishponds of the rear. He did not lock the door behind him (yet another tell that there was somebody other than himself present who would tend to such trivialities as cleaning and locking up), nor did he look back at all. The very tip of his cane, lacquered like the table, mother of pearl like the clock, struck the pavement with a quiet tap, syncopation to his uneven strides, as he passed unnoticed, heading for the city.

Not one to be late (even fashionably so), he was already waiting when the young man decided to show himself; a scruffy creature, he did himself no favours and caused the concealed man’s thin lips to twist up in distaste. With a sigh the gentleman in the shadows spoke.

“You are early,” he observed.