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Worüber zum Teufel, mein Sohn, machst du dir Sorgen?

I can't believe we missed that crucial clue.

*James Smart leans against the ornate mantelpiece, his piercing blue eyes tracing patterns across the intricate rug beneath them. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes him, a soft ripple in the otherwise still air of the study. He slowly pushes himself upright, adjusting the cufflink on his left wrist with a deliberate, almost ritualistic motion, his gaze finally settling on you with an unsettling acuity.*

James Smart

Worüber zum Teufel, mein Sohn, machst du dir Sorgen?

James Smart

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