THE NEW CASE
Morning sunlight streamed through the window of Alexander Bluestone's detective office. The room was silent except for the soft rustling of newspapers as he flipped through the latest edition. His sapphire-blue eyes scanned the bold, black print that stretched across the front page:
"WINCENT BRACEWELL: THE GHOST KING OF CRIME"
A ruthless mafia leader. A man whose empire ran on smuggled drugs, human trafficking, and the corpses of the innocent. No police force had been able to touch him. No witness had ever dared speak against him.
But none of those people were Alexander Bluestone.
He set the paper down and smirked.
"Looks like we have our next target."
His crew—Rose, Madison, and Darmian—stood nearby, watching.
"Wincent Bracewell," Alexander continued, leaning back in his chair. "The most untouchable crime lord in the country. He has fifty men under him. All dangerous. All loyal."
Darmian crossed his arms. "And you think we can take him?"
Alexander let out a quiet chuckle. "Darmian." His voice was calm. "If I thought, we wouldn't be having this conversation."
A heavy silence filled the room. His certainty was absolute.
Then, Alexander stood, grabbing his coat.
"We move tonight."
THE FORBIDDEN MANSION
Midnight.
The forbidden mansion loomed before them, its high iron gates separating it from the rest of the city. Inside, fifty men roamed, patrolling the grounds. All of them were killers.
But the real monster was the one walking through those gates.
Alexander Bluestone led his crew straight in.
The first guard never even saw the bullet coming.
Then—chaos.
Gunfire erupted as the battle began.
Madison's fists shattered ribs.
Darmian's knives sliced through flesh.
Rose dodged, struck, and fired with precision.
And Alexander?
He was untouchable. Every shot was calculated. Every movement was lethal.
One by one, the mafia fell.
Then—a sudden click.
"Don't move."
The words sliced through the air.
Alexander's sapphire-blue eyes flicked up.
And there, standing amidst the chaos, was Wincent Bracewell.
A gun pressed tightly against Rose's temple.
His grip was firm. His expression was unreadable.
"Drop your weapons," Wincent ordered, his voice steady. "Or she dies."
Madison and Darmian stiffened.
But Alexander?
He simply smirked.
"Wincent Bracewell." His tone was disturbingly casual. "So, this is your move?"
Wincent's fingers tightened around the trigger. "I don't think. I know. Step back, or I put a bullet in her skull."
Alexander's expression didn't change.
He simply stared.
Silent.
Calculating.
Thinking.
What was the best move?
How should he end this?
And for the first time that night—he paused