The London Metropolitan Police Headquarters loomed under the morning sky, its tall, cold structure standing as a symbol of order and authority. Inside, the air carried the faint scent of old paper, coffee, and the ever-present tension of crime and justice.
Alexander Bluestone stepped through the grand entrance, his polished leather shoes clicking rhythmically against the marble floor. His midnight-blue overcoat swayed slightly as he moved with an air of calm dominance. His golden pocket watch gleamed in his hand, its ticking a steady reminder of time—a resource only fools wasted.
As he entered Commissioner Mark Alberton's office, he found the man already waiting.
Mark sat behind a massive oak desk, hands clasped together, his dark eyes analyzing Alexander as if trying to peer into his very soul. The commissioner's office was lined with bookshelves, each filled with tomes on law, crime, and history—a place of knowledge, of power. But not of truth.
Alexander took a seat across from him, unbuttoning his overcoat with deliberate slowness. He placed his pocket watch on the desk, letting the steady ticking fill the silence.
Mark leaned forward, his voice low and firm. "So, you shot a millionaire last night."
Alexander smirked. "I shot a traitor."
A pause.
Then, Mark chuckled, shaking his head. "And you knew he was one?"
Alexander nodded. "He was desperate, but not in fear. In intent. His body language betrayed him. He wasn't running toward me for protection—he was running for a chance to strike. If I let him close, his knife would've found my ribs before anyone could react."
Mark exhaled slowly, fingers tapping against his desk. "You truly are something, Bluestone. You don't just see people—you read them."
Alexander tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "And what do you think you read in me, Commissioner?"
Mark smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "A man who values control above all else."
Alexander didn't deny it. Instead, he leaned back, his sapphire-blue eyes gleaming with something cold, something calculating.
"Control is everything."
Mark raised an eyebrow. "You sound like a king, not a detective."
Alexander chuckled. "Kings wear crowns. I wear truth."
The room settled into a tense silence. The two men, both powerful in their own ways, studied each other like opposing chess players.
Then, Mark exhaled and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "Tell me, Alexander. What drives you? What's your philosophy?"
Alexander picked up his pocket watch, spinning it lightly between his fingers.
"Machiavellianism." His voice was smooth, unwavering.
Mark's brow furrowed slightly. "Ah. 'It is better to be feared than loved'?"
Alexander smirked. "If you must pick one, yes. But a true ruler understands that fear and love are tools. And tools must be used wisely."
Mark watched him carefully. "You don't believe in morality, do you?"
Alexander's smirk widened. "Morality is a leash. The powerful use it to tame the weak. I prefer results."
Mark chuckled, shaking his head. "You'd have made a terrifying politician."
Alexander merely shrugged. "And you, Commissioner? What's your philosophy?"
Mark's gaze darkened slightly. He exhaled, folding his hands together. "Power. The ability to shape the world as you see fit. To take what you deserve. Weakness invites destruction. The strong… survive."
Alexander's eyes narrowed slightly.
Mark had always been an ally, a respected force in the police. But now… something about his words held a strange weight.
A hint of something deeper.
Something darker.
Alexander let the thought settle but didn't press. Not yet.
Instead, he smirked. "An interesting philosophy, Commissioner."
Mark smiled. "Coming from you, I'll take that as a compliment."
The two men sat there in their quiet battle of minds.
Two predators in the same room.
Neither trusting the other.
But both knowing they needed each other—for now.