The London Metropolitan Police Building—New Scotland Yard—was on high alert. Valerian Black's death in Geneva had triggered a wave of bioterror panic across Europe, flooding local police departments with false emergency calls from paranoid citizens. Phones rang nonstop, officers rushed around carrying stacks of documents, and the heavy scent of sweat mingled with stale coffee in the air.
Valerian walked through the automatic glass doors. He was in no hurry. His sharp eyes scanned every detail of the room: the placement of the CCTV cameras, the positions of the armed guards, the layout of the entrances and exits, even the body language of the detectives interrogating suspects at their desks. In ten seconds, he had identified three critical security gaps that could be exploited if he ever needed to smuggle something into the building.
"Oi, Pendelton!" a deep voice called out from the direction of the coffee machine.
Valerian turned and saw a large man with a protruding belly and a wrinkled shirt. Detective First Class Miller. According to Arthur's memories, Miller was his partner—a passive-aggressive bully who was always dumping administrative work on Arthur's desk while mocking his gambling debts.
"You're two hours late, Arthur," Miller grumbled as he approached with two cups of coffee. He shoved one toward him. "Take this. And clean up your desk—you reek of alcohol. The captain's furious over the Geneva incident, and we just got a report of a body down at the Thames docks. I don't want you ruining this case with your laziness."
Valerian looked at the cheap coffee in Miller's hand, then met the big detective's eyes. He didn't take it. Instead, he straightened, staring at Miller with an icy intensity that made the man instinctively take half a step back.
"I don't drink cheap coffee, Miller. And if you want my desk clean, you can grab a rag and clean it yourself," Valerian said in a low, slow voice that radiated blood-chilling authority. "Now, give me the details about the body at the docks. My time is too valuable to waste listening to you ramble."
Miller's mouth fell slightly open. He blinked several times, frozen in place. The Arthur he knew would have lowered his head, nervously apologized, and immediately swallowed that stale coffee without complaint. Who was this predator-eyed man standing before him? The intimidation in the air was so real that Miller felt as though he were being reprimanded by the Commissioner General, not his low-ranking partner.
Before Miller could respond, the meeting-room door opened. The entire floor suddenly fell silent.
A young woman stepped out of the room in a tailor-made black suit that fit her slender frame perfectly. Her black hair was neatly tied back, highlighting her sharp Caucasian features and ice-blue eyes. She held a digital tablet in one hand, projecting a professionalism and intelligence that contrasted starkly with the chaos in the police office.
Valerian's memories flickered. He recognized her instantly.
Inspector Elena Rostova of MI6. The brilliant woman who had cracked The Syndicate's clandestine ledger in Macau, triggering the chain of "apocalypses" in Geneva. She was the woman who had cornered Valerian Black—and ironically, the same woman who had indirectly helped legitimize his staged death.
"Everyone, listen up," Elena's voice cut through the noise, clear and firm. "Starting today, MI6 and Interpol are taking control of intelligence operations in the London area. Valerian Black's death has thrown the underworld into chaos. We've detected movements by European mafia factions attempting to enter the city. Every unusual murder, every coordinated gang activity, must be reported to my desk. Is that understood?"
A chorus of "Yes, Inspector!" echoed from the detectives.
Elena's blue eyes swept across the room, scanning the faces of the police officers who would temporarily become her subordinates. Her gaze stopped when she locked eyes with Valerian (Arthur).
Something was strange. Every detective in the room looked at her with respect, admiration, or a hint of fear. But the man in the drab gray suit at the corner of the room looked at her differently. He stared at Elena as though he were looking at a particularly fascinating puzzle piece. There was no fear in those brown eyes. Only razor-sharp analysis—and an exceedingly thin, arrogant, asymmetrical smile.
Elena furrowed her brow slightly, unaccustomed to being looked at in a way that made her feel evaluated. She broke eye contact and turned to the police captain beside her.
"Inspector Rostova," Miller called suddenly, trying to draw attention away from his awkwardness with Arthur. "We just got a call. A body was found in an old warehouse near the Thames. Gunshot wound to the head, executed at close range. No wallet, but there's a raven tattoo on the victim's neck."
Valerian's eyes widened slightly at that, and his smile deepened. A raven tattoo. It was the mark of Lorenzo's Raven Faction. Those traitors really were cleaning out the remnants of The Syndicate's loyalists in London.
"A raven tattoo?" Elena listened more intently, stepping toward Miller. "That's not an ordinary street gang. It's an indicator of involvement by The Syndicate's European faction. I'll go to the scene. Who's the lead detective on the case?"
Miller swallowed, then reluctantly pointed toward Valerian. "That... would be Detective Pendelton, Inspector."
Elena looked Valerian up and down, assessing the disheveled appearance and mediocre reputation she had surely read about in his police file. "Detective Pendelton. I hope you don't mind if I take over the crime scene."
Valerian stepped forward. His movement was smooth, like a panther approaching its prey. He stopped in front of Elena, allowing the brilliant woman who had once hunted him to look directly into the eyes of the man who should have burned to death in Switzerland.
"Of course not, Inspector Rostova," Valerian replied in his new, deep, courteous voice, displaying the manipulative charm he had mastered so well. "On the contrary, I'm very much looking forward to working with you. I have a feeling this case at the docks... is going to yield something very significant."
The cat-and-mouse game had officially begun. Only this time, the mouse held the cat's leash, and the chessboard lay right inside the headquarters of the law-enforcement officers.