Two weeks later, the police department buzzed with restless energy.
Sebastian Blackwell stood near his desk, skimming through case files while the distant hum of typewriters echoed through the building. Sunlight filtered in through tall windows, illuminating floating dust particles that drifted lazily in the air. On the surface, everything appeared routine. Beneath it, tension lingered like an unspoken question.
"Seb. Seb."
The voice cut sharply through the noise.
"Sebastian."
Julian Moore's shout rang out from the department balcony, drawing more than a few curious glances from nearby officers.
Sebastian looked up, one eyebrow lifting slightly in quiet amusement.
Julian leaned over the railing, a folded newspaper clenched tightly in his fist. His expression was a volatile mix of anger and disbelief.
"Hey. Look at this," Julian said as he descended the stairs two at a time.
He slammed the paper onto Sebastian's desk.
"Some bastard wrote an article about you. Are they trying to start something with us?"
Sebastian glanced down at the headline without immediately picking it up. He already knew what it would say. He had known the moment whispers began spreading through the department earlier that morning.
"Rising Star or Privileged Heir?" the bold letters declared.
Julian scoffed. "Nepotism.
That's what they're calling it. As if you didn't earn every inch of your rank."
His voice lowered, thick with frustration.
"I've watched you work yourself half to death for this. They have no idea."
Sebastian finally lifted the newspaper, scanning the article with practiced calm. The words were sharp but calculated. Not outright defamatory. Just enough doubt sewn between praise and insinuation to stir public curiosity.
He folded the paper neatly and placed it back on the desk.
"Hey, Julian,"
Sebastian said evenly.
"Don't mind it. As long as they didn't write something truly vile, I am not going to lose sleep over it."
Julian stared at him as if he had just said something outrageous.
"Like what?"
Julian snapped.
"Accusing you of frequenting brothels? Though honestly, even that would be less insulting than this."
He shook his head.
"Nepotism. As if your father dragged you up the ranks by the collar."
Sebastian allowed a faint smile to surface. It was subtle, controlled, and carefully placed.
"You know what I mean,"
he replied.
"This sort of thing comes with the territory."
Julian crossed his arms, eyes narrowing.
"You are far too calm about this."
Sebastian leaned back slightly against the desk, gaze drifting toward the window. Outside, London sprawled beneath a thin veil of fog, its rooftops and chimneys blending into a gray maze.
"Calm is a requirement,"
he said quietly.
"If I react, they win. If I ignore it, the story dies faster."
Julian exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.
"I hate it. I hate how they look at you. Like they are waiting for you to fail just so they can say they were right."
Sebastian glanced at him then. For just a moment, the mask slipped.
"They have always been waiting,"
he said.
"This is nothing new."
Julian fell silent. He understood that tone. He had heard it before, late nights after cases that went wrong, after bodies that could not be saved. It was the voice of someone who carried expectations like armor. Heavy. Necessary. Suffocating.
A beat passed.
Julian scoffed softly.
"You know, for someone accused of being born lucky, you work harder than anyone I know."
Sebastian's lips curved slightly.
"Seems like we truly are birds of a feather."
Julian snorted.
"Two idiots who refuse to quit."
"Something like that."
The moment lingered, unspoken loyalty hanging thick between them. Outside, the city continued its endless motion. Inside the department, whispers had already begun to circulate. Ink had been spilled. Opinions had been formed.
And somewhere beyond the police walls, the article was already finding its readers.
The game had begun.