Lucien Blackwood watched silently as the detective escorted the trembling old man toward the interrogation room. The crowd slowly began to disperse, the earlier excitement fading into murmurs and quiet conversations, but Lucien remained where he stood for a moment longer, his expression thoughtful rather than satisfied.
There was no pride in exposing a fraud like that.
Just confirmation.
People like that old man existed everywhere—leeches who thrived on exploiting fear, desperation, and ignorance. But what made this one interesting wasn't his greed.
It was his method.
Lucien's gaze drifted slightly, unfocused, as he replayed the situation in his mind.
There was always an "art" to these scams.
First, choose the right target.
Never aim too high—never provoke someone with power, influence, or connections beyond your control. Those people didn't negotiate; they crushed.
Instead, aim for someone just vulnerable enough.
Someone with something to lose.
Someone who couldn't afford trouble.
Karl fit that profile perfectly.
A police officer from a modest background. Hardworking. Straightforward. The kind of man who valued stability over conflict. Someone who would hesitate before escalating a situation, especially one that could damage his career.
Then came the setup.
Fake evidence.
Forged certificates.
Carefully staged "accidents."
And finally—the price.
Three million dollars wasn't a real demand. It was pressure. A psychological ceiling.
Push high first… then "compromise" later.
Lower it gradually until the victim feels relieved accepting a much smaller—but still outrageous—amount.
A classic tactic.
Clean. Efficient.
Experienced.
Lucien exhaled slowly.
"An old hand," he murmured under his breath.
But even experienced predators made mistakes.
This one had miscalculated two things.
Karl's actual standing within the force…
And Lucien Blackwood.
A faint smile touched his lips, though there was no warmth in it.
"As they say… walk by the river long enough, and eventually your shoes get wet."
Justice didn't always arrive immediately.
But it arrived.
Behind him, footsteps approached.
"Thank you, Lucien," Karl said sincerely, stepping forward with visible relief in his expression. "If you hadn't stepped in, this could've gotten messy."
Lucien glanced at him briefly, then shrugged lightly.
"It was obvious," he said. "You just needed someone to say it out loud."
Karl let out a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Still… I owe you one."
Lucien tilted his head slightly.
"Are you just going to let it go through normal procedure?" he asked casually.
Karl's expression shifted—subtle, but noticeable.
A hint of something sharper flickered in his eyes.
"Oh, no," he said quietly. "That guy talks too much. We'll… have a proper conversation with him."
There was meaning behind those words.
Lucien held his gaze for a second longer, then gave a small nod.
"Good."
Some lessons needed to be learned the hard way.
And some people only understood consequences.
With that, the tension finally dissipated.
The officers returned to their duties, conversations resumed, and the station slowly regained its usual rhythm.
That's when Lucien noticed her.
She had been there the entire time.
Hidden in plain sight.
Scarlett.
Even with her face concealed beneath a mask, hat, and sunglasses, her presence stood out. Not because she demanded attention—but because she didn't.
Controlled.
Observant.
Careful.
She stepped forward just as Karl turned to leave.
"Are you here to file a report?" Karl asked automatically, slipping back into professional mode.
Before she could answer, Lucien spoke.
"She's here for me."
Karl paused, then glanced between the two of them.
Understanding dawned instantly.
"Ah," he said, stepping back. "Then I'll leave you to it."
No further questions.
No unnecessary interference.
Smart man.
As Karl walked away, Scarlett turned toward Lucien fully.
For a brief moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Lucien broke the silence.
"Miss Johnson," he said calmly. "I assume."
Scarlett gave a small nod.
"Yes… Master Lucien."
The title sounded slightly awkward on her tongue, but she didn't correct it.
Lucien studied her for a second—not rudely, not intrusively, but perceptively.
She wasn't tall.
Not imposing.
And yet, there was a presence about her that couldn't be ignored.
Some people carried themselves differently.
Even in silence.
Even in disguise.
She was one of them.
"This isn't a good place to talk," Lucien said. "Come."
He didn't wait for her response—just turned and walked.
Scarlett followed.
—
A few minutes later, they were seated at a quiet outdoor café just across the street.
The noise of the city surrounded them, but it wasn't overwhelming—just enough to create distance from the world they were about to discuss.
Lucien ordered two coffees without asking.
Scarlett noticed.
But didn't comment.
They sat across from each other, a small round table between them.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Lucien began.
"I've already heard everything from your father."
Scarlett leaned back slightly, listening.
"The plane," he continued. "The passengers who were supposed to die… didn't. Because of you."
Her fingers tightened slightly.
"And after that," Lucien went on, "they began dying anyway. One by one. In the order they should have died."
Silence.
Scarlett nodded slowly.
"Yes."
Lucien's gaze sharpened slightly.
"And you call that force… Death."
At the mention of the word, something shifted in the air.
Subtle.
Cold.
Scarlett felt it immediately.
A faint chill ran down her spine.
"…What else would you call it?" she said quietly. "It's not random. It's not coincidence."
"It's… correction."
Lucien didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he leaned back slightly, studying her.
"Or," he said calmly, "it's just something you don't understand yet."
Scarlett frowned.
"That's not helpful."
"No," Lucien said. "It's honest."
He leaned forward slightly.
"There's a difference."
She held his gaze.
Testing him.
Measuring him.
And he let her.
"I don't believe this is fate," Lucien continued. "And it's definitely not some divine will."
"Then what is it?" she asked.
Lucien's lips curved faintly.
"Something that follows rules."
That made her pause.
"Rules?"
"Yes," he said. "And anything that follows rules… can be broken."
Scarlett's breathing slowed slightly.
Hope.
Dangerous.
But there.
"You're very confident," she said.
Lucien met her gaze directly.
"You came here because you don't want to die."
A beat.
"I'm telling you… you don't have to."
That… hit differently.
Not dramatic.
Not emotional.
Just… certain.
Scarlett exhaled slowly, tension easing just slightly.
For the first time in days… she felt like she wasn't suffocating.
Around them, life continued.
People laughed.
Children played.
A man walked past with his daughter on his shoulders.
Normal.
Peaceful.
Fragile.
The coffees arrived.
"Cappuccino," the waiter said, placing one in front of Lucien. "Caramel macchiato for you, madam."
Scarlett nodded slightly.
"Thank you."
For a brief moment—
Everything felt… still.
Then—
Impact.
A child running behind her bumped into her elbow.
The cup tipped.
Coffee spilled.
Hot liquid spread across the table.
Scarlett reacted instantly, standing up—
Her chair tipped backward.
Rolled.
Toward the street.
Lucien's eyes shifted.
Everything slowed.
Not physically.
Perceptually.
A delivery rider—
Startled—
Brakes—
A pizza box—
Air—
Wind—
Truck—
Blocked vision—
Horn—
Screech—
Metal—
Momentum—
Lucien stood.
Too late?
No.
Not yet.
Never "too late."
Not while he was here.
Because this time—
Death wasn't unopposed.
And it had just made its move.