The soft chime of the elevator docking echoed through the marbled expanse of the Blackwood Tower's ground floor, cutting through the quiet hum of distant conversations and rustling preparations. The ornate, hand-carved wooden doors glided apart with a fluid elegance, revealing Alexander standing motionless at the center of the lift. His broad frame was wrapped in a thick, double-breasted raincoat, its collar turned up against the weather. In one gloved hand, he held his car keys—sleek and metallic, with a weight that spoke of both age and precision craftsmanship. For a long moment, he didn't step forward. Instead, he remained inside the elevator, gazing upward at his reflection in the polished mirror panels that lined the walls, his aged face lit softly by the chandelier's golden glow above.
He looked tired—but not weak. The fatigue was deeply rooted, like that of a man who had lived through too many winters and carried more memories than he could afford to keep. There was resolve in his gaze, but also resignation. He looked like a man not walking toward destiny, but toward a reckoning—one he had anticipated for far too long.
With a deliberate motion, he stepped out onto the marble floor. The elevator doors closed behind him with a delicate click, sealing away the warmth of its dim interior. His boots, recently purchased from a boutique tailor in the upper district, made a faint squeaking sound against the high-polished stone as he walked. They were elegant, new, and well-made—crafted of dark leather with silver eyelets and reinforced heels—but tonight, they would not remain pristine. Whether muddied by grime, or soaked through by blood, they would be dirtied by the night's end. And that, in his mind, was right. Because all things of value—tools, weapons, even men—eventually earn their filth. A clean blade is one that has never been tested.
And though he was no longer the soldier he once was, Alexander understood what it meant to march toward danger, fully aware of the trap waiting at the end. He had little doubt that Seymour had received a letter just like his own—cryptic, nostalgic, perfumed in pretense. And he had little doubt that his brother would also suspect deception. Yet still, they would both arrive, after all these decades, drawn by the same string of curiosity and unfinished memory.
As he moved through the atrium, he passed a flurry of activity. Dozens of staff moved with practiced urgency, decorating the cavernous lobby for the upcoming Blackwood Ball. Rich velvet banners were being unfurled from the balconies. Golden wreaths were placed atop marble pedestals. Strings of lights shimmered like constellations overhead. Yet Alexander barely noticed. His mind was elsewhere—entrenched in older halls, darker times, and a bar tucked away on a forgotten street.
The sharp staccato of approaching footsteps snapped him from his reverie. A man approached him at a brisk, purposeful pace—tall and self-assured, with the poised bearing of someone accustomed to moving through rooms where silence carried more weight than words. He was clad in a finely tailored black suit, every seam and fold falling perfectly into place, as if tailored that very morning. His long black hair hung loosely across his forehead in elegant disarray, strands occasionally catching the low light. His eyes—an peaceful shade of deep green—locked onto Alexander's with a composed intensity. It wasn't confrontational, nor was it reverent. It was simply the gaze of a man who observed everything and forgot nothing. His height alone gave the impression of dominance, but there was no arrogance in his stance—only attentiveness, and the silent precision of a man who measured twice before speaking once.
"Ah, Jackson," Alexander said with a faint, knowing smile, the lines around his eyes softening momentarily. "Is there something you need?"
Jackson—meticulous, well-dressed, and one of Alexander's most capable aides—was chiefly responsible for managing the intricate logistics of the evening's gala, particularly the much-anticipated Blackwood Ball. His dark suit fit with almost architectural precision, his long black hair slightly tousled, giving him the air of a man constantly in motion but never in disarray.
"No, nothing urgent," Jackson replied in a voice that was both deep and evenly measured, like a slow-turning gear. "I simply wanted to remind you that the ball begins in…" He paused, glancing down at his wrist, where a polished silver watch glinted in the low lighting, "twenty-seven minutes."
There was a short, expectant silence before he added, "So may I ask where you're headed? Especially this close to the start of the event?"
Alexander blinked slowly, his eyes narrowing in mild amusement as the question drifted between them like steam rising from a cup. Then, with a low chuckle, he shook his head.
"I'm not an infant in need of supervision, nor an overexcited puppy prone to bolting at every open door," he said dryly, his tone clipped with an edge of wry humor. "My age may limit me, yes, but I assure you, I remain perfectly capable of fulfilling my role as CEO. And more importantly, I am still your employer. So do mind your tone."
Jackson inclined his head slightly, a gesture of formal apology. "My apologies, sir. I was merely concerned. Your presence is requested at the ball's opening, and I was curious as to your whereabouts."
"It's quite alright," Alexander replied, his voice softening like worn leather. "I need to step away briefly to deal with... personal matters. But I shall return before the opening toast. If I'm delayed—begin without me. It is, after all, the Blackwood Ball, not the Alexander Blackwood Ball. I'm not the centerpiece."
They stood for a moment in contemplative silence, the distant clatter of decorations being arranged echoing faintly from deeper within the building.
Then, from across the polished marble floor, another man approached. He wore a sharply cut navy suit and moved with the quiet discipline of long habit. His voice, when he spoke, was nearly subdued.
"Your vehicle is ready, sir," he announced with practiced formality. "The driver will be here shortly."
"No need," Alexander said, adjusting the edge of his raincoat with a practiced flick. "I'll be driving myself tonight."
Jackson's brow drew into a subtle crease. "Sir, I must insist. It's a matter of your safety."
Alexander turned toward him, his gaze sharpened by something unspoken. "If you're that concerned," he said, tone light but edged with challenge, "why don't you accompany me?"
Jackson paused, caught off-guard for just a second. "I thought it was a personal affair?"
"Ah, yes, well," Alexander replied, waving one hand dismissively as he pivoted toward the main entrance. The rain now streamed down the high glass panes in cascading ribbons, refracting the city lights like stained glass. "The vultures in the media will have their version of the story by the week's end, no matter how well I try to bury it. So what's the point in pretending it's secret?"
He stopped at the front door, resting one hand on the handle, the cold brass catching the light.
"You coming?"
Clearing his throat, Jackson gave a quiet nod, then moved to follow, his footsteps falling in sync beside the older man's.
They moved together toward the tower's grand entrance. Rain streaked the tall glass windows, tracing rivulets across the glowing view of the city beyond. The night stretched wide before them—washed in neon signs, blinking advertisements, and the comforting flicker of apartment windows far above the street. A pair of crows perched atop a nearby lamppost, silhouetted against the gray sky like grim totems.
And then Alexander saw it. His car.
It waited in the circular driveway, parked beneath the soft glow of overhead lanterns—a restored muscle car, black as midnight, the paintwork polished to an obsidian sheen that caught the light like lacquered glass. Unlike many muscle cars of its era, which favored boxy aggression and brute dimensions, this one was elegant—low to the ground, long in the frame, with a sweeping fastback design that flowed like liquid metal. Its front grille was wide and imposing, crafted from deep-set chrome with vertical slats that evoked the jaws of a predator. The headlights, hidden when idle, had emerged now, twin beams cutting through the mist as if searching for something long lost. Even idle, the vehicle seemed alive—an old beast awakened.
Chrome rims glinted beneath flared wheel arches. The exhaust tips gleamed with a predator's sharpness. Every inch of the machine spoke not of raw power, but of controlled fury. The kind of car that whispered before it roared.
Alexander pressed the ignition on the key fob, and the engine stirred—first a low purr, then a guttural growl that rumbled through the concrete like distant thunder. He rounded to the passenger side, nodding for Jackson to take the wheel.
Jackson slid in, hands steady on the controls, adjusting the seat with the precision of someone who knew how serious this vehicle was—not just in value, but in meaning.
"Music?" Jackson asked, reaching toward the dashboard.
"Sure," Alexander said, reclining slightly. "Whatever's on."
Jackson flipped the dial. A dissonant blend of smooth jazz and mumble rap slithered from the speakers.
"Oh, God no," Alexander groaned with a grimace, immediately twisting the knob to silence it.
"Not to your taste?" Jackson asked, smirking.
"I'm too young for jazz," Alexander replied with a grin, "and too old for rap."
Jackson chuckled under his breath.
Alexander reached into his coat, producing a crumpled piece of paper. He handed it to Jackson. Written in hastily scribbled ink was an address: 117 Mappleburough Street.
"This is well outside the city limits," Jackson noted, glancing over the note.
"Then I suggest you drive fast," Alexander said with a dry chuckle, patting him on the shoulder.
Jackson looked over at him—half amused, half concerned.
Alexander's tone darkened slightly. "That wasn't a suggestion. Drive fast, damn it."
He rolled down the window, extending a hand into the rain. The cold drops splattered against his weathered skin, trickling down his sleeve, soaking the fabric of his coat. It was a chilling rain, but not unwelcome. It carried with it the scent of earth, concrete, and change. A rain that washed away the dust of old memories.
It was a good rain.
A nice rain
A cool, cold rain.
A rain worth driving into.