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Chapter 7: The Rat's Smile
Larson walked the foggy Birmingham streets with his hands in his pockets, his cap pulled low. The air reeked of coal smoke, stale beer, and desperation—the smell of opportunity.
Behind his calm face, his mind ticked like clockwork.
Campbell wanted control. The Shelbys were chaos. And chaos always needed a leash.
When he'd sat across from Thomisia earlier, he'd seen it in her eyes. The steel was still there, yes—but beneath it, the cracks. Doubt. Fear. The storm named Alexander Romano had unsettled her far more than she wanted to admit.
And that was something Larson could use.
He smirked, slipping into the shadows of a narrow alley until he reached the safehouse. A coded knock, a shuffle, and the door creaked open. Inside, the smell of tobacco and sweat hit him. Inspector Campbell sat waiting, coat draped, his thin face lit by lamplight.
"You're late," Campbell said, voice clipped.
Larson bowed his head slightly. "Patience, Inspector. Rats work better in silence. I've been… close. Very close."
Campbell's eyes narrowed. "Report."
Larson stepped forward, his tone silky. "The queen of Birmingham is clever, but she's not immune. Alexander unsettles her. He doesn't bend, doesn't explain. He holds himself above them all, and it frightens her, though she won't admit it."
Campbell leaned forward, intrigued. "So. She'll crack?"
Larson allowed himself a grin. "She'll bend. Not yet. But soon. I've planted the thought, and thoughts grow like weeds. A whisper here, a doubt there. Soon she'll see me as the only voice of reason in a storm."
Campbell lit a cigar, puffing slow. "And when she bends?"
"Then," Larson said smoothly, "you'll know every Shelby move before they make it. And Alexander? He'll never see it coming."
The inspector's thin lips curled into something resembling a smile. "Good. Very good. But careful. That man…" Campbell's eyes narrowed, almost uneasy. "…Romano. He's not like the rest. I've seen his type before."
Larson raised a brow. "A brute?"
"No," Campbell said quietly. "A wolf. Brutes are predictable. Wolves wait. Wolves plan. And wolves eat rats when they're careless."
For just a moment, Larson felt a chill. But then he smirked, brushing it aside.
"A wolf might frighten the sheep," he said, "but it can't touch the rat crawling in its den."
Campbell's gaze lingered, cold. "We'll see."
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That night, when Larson left the safehouse, he leaned against the brick wall, pulling his collar high against the wind.
But for all his confidence, one thought needled him.
He'd seen Alexander in the corner of the Garrison. Silent. Smoking. Eyes like knives.
What kind of man sits like that? Larson wondered. As if he knows the world will come to him anyway.
For the first time, the rat's smile faltered. Just for a second.
Then he shook it off. Adjusted his cap. Smirked again.
"I'll have the queen's heart," he muttered. "And through