Dead Men Do Tell Tales (Moriarty's daughter)

"The click of their heels on the pavement reminded you of what power sounded like."
Weeks turned into months, and months into just short of a year since the rule of James Moriarty and his daughter VIolet ended when they drew their last breath, engulfed in flames. Since that day, no one has heard of them anymore, the only thing left of them being their charcoaled bodies and ashes.
Somewhere, in the heart of the city of London, walked a girl with beautiful, dark brown hair, covering one side of her face. Yet, through the strands of her waving hair, you could see the scars that covered the left side of her face. They where etched into her skin, making a part of her skin look ivory, flames were burning behind her eyes. She wasn't scared of fire, she was the whole fucking fire.

Alongside her walked a man, dressed in a suit tailored to his size. His hair slicked by with gel, but the same types of waves that the girl beside him had, still noticable. One of his hands was had the same short of ivory glimmer as the burned skin on the girls face. And as they walked next to eachother, their heels clicked against the pavement, reminding everybody that passed them of what power sounded like. They had been to hell and back, and something about the smirks on their faces told the people that passed by that they were the bosses down there too.

(Reminder that this story is still ongoing, but I am aiming to update it every day/every two days)