The Black estate sat on the edge of Victoria City like a fortress of glass and steel. Years ago, it was a marvel of design—reporters called it "the mind of Marcus Black built in architecture." Now its windows were dark, its gates locked, the walls overgrown with ivy that seemed to choke the life out of the place.
Jesse parked outside the front gate, the rain drumming on the hood of his car. He stepped out, his shoes splashing in shallow puddles, and flashed his badge at the intercom.
"Detective Jesse White, Victoria Police Department. I'd like a word with Mr. Black."
For a moment, silence. Then the gate clicked open.
Inside, the estate was quieter than a graveyard. The air smelled faintly of machine oil and dust. Jesse's footsteps echoed as he followed the long hallway until he reached a wide room filled with blueprints, scattered tools, and half-finished machines.
And there he was.
Deuce Black.
You didn't need a photograph to recognize him. The man carried an aura—shoulders squared, expression unreadable, the kind of calm that came from surviving storms most men never walked out of. His dark hair was slightly unkempt, his shirt sleeves rolled up as if he'd been working. The light caught his eyes, sharp and calculating, as though they were already dissecting Jesse before a single word was spoken.
"Detective White," Deuce said, voice low, measured. "I was wondering when the police would come knocking."
Jesse studied him carefully. He'd expected a wreck of a man—bitter, broken, hollowed out by scandal. Instead, Deuce looked steady. Almost too steady.
"You know why I'm here," Jesse said. "One of our informants was found dead. His body turned up in a warehouse you used to own."
Deuce tilted his head slightly. "Used to. Key phrase. I sold that property months ago."
"Quiet sale," Jesse countered. "No record on file. No public statement. Almost as if you didn't want anyone to know who bought it."
Deuce gave the faintest ghost of a smile. "Detective, I'm a businessman. Privacy isn't a crime."
Jesse's jaw tightened. "Neither is asking questions."
The silence stretched. Somewhere in the house, a machine whirred softly before clicking off. Jesse felt the weight of Deuce's gaze pressing down on him, testing him, probing for weakness.
Finally, Deuce leaned forward. "Tell me, Detective… do you believe I killed him?"
Jesse held his stare, unflinching. "I believe you're hiding something. And one way or another, I'll find out what it is."
For the first time, Deuce's expression shifted—just slightly. Amusement? Respect? It was hard to tell.
"Then I suppose," Deuce said, turning back to his workbench, "this is the beginning of a very interesting relationship."
The door shut quietly behind Detective White, leaving the estate in silence again. Deuce stood by the window, watching the taillights of Jesse's car fade into the wet streets of Victoria City.
He stayed there for a moment, breathing in the quiet, before he finally spoke.
"It's safe now."
From behind a partition, a small figure emerged—a girl of ten, clutching a sketchpad to her chest. Jane Black. Her dark curls framed her face, and her wide eyes darted nervously toward the door Jesse had just walked through.
"Was he here about… mom?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Deuce knelt down, placing a steady hand on her shoulder. "No. Different matter. But the police will always think I'm guilty. That's why no one can know about you. Not yet."
Jane nodded, her lips pressing into a thin line. She trusted him, but the fear never left her eyes.
When she slipped back toward her room, Deuce returned to his workbench. On the table lay a half-assembled suit—lightweight armor laced with circuitry, the kind of invention the world might have called genius had it been revealed. Next to it rested a collapsible baton, humming faintly with stored energy.
Deuce picked it up, testing its weight. His reflection in the polished steel of the window looked less like a man and more like a shadow.
"They're circling again," he murmured to himself. "The same rot that took everything from me."
He pressed a switch, and the armor came to life with a soft pulse of blue light.
"They think Victoria City belongs to them." He slid the baton back onto the table. "They're wrong."
The shadows of the estate swallowed him whole as he continued his preparations—Deuce Black, the ghost of a trillionaire, about to step back into the city that both hated and needed him.