The scent of freshly brewed tea curled through the dimly lit office, intertwining with the weight of unsolved crimes and whispered ambitions. Alexander Bluestone sat across from Commissioner Mark Alberton, their polished teacups resting on matching saucers, the surface of the amber liquid rippling slightly with each slow movement.
The desk between them was cluttered with case files—each one a puzzle, a story of bloodshed left by the elusive Grim Reaper.
Alexander took a sip, his sapphire-blue eyes scanning the reports with an almost leisurely ease. The murders had a pattern, but a shifting one—almost as if the killer was challenging them to keep up.
Mark, too, was absorbed in the files, his dark eyes flickering with something deep, unreadable. The steam from his cup curled upward, but he barely touched his drink.
The quiet between them was tense yet familiar. Two men of intellect, each knowing the other held secrets of their own.
Then, a sudden knock at the door.
A government officer stepped inside—a middle-aged man in a black suit, his posture stiff with authority.
"Gentlemen," he greeted, his tone formal, professional. "The British government has taken a deep interest in the Grim Reaper case. His continued existence is a stain on our nation. As such, an official reward has been declared."
Alexander and Mark both stilled.
The officer continued, "Whoever successfully captures or eliminates the Grim Reaper first will receive an honorary medal, an increase in rank, and significant government funding for their respective division."
A pause.
Then, both men exchanged glances.
A slow, knowing smirk spread across Mark Alberton's face.
An equally dangerous, sharp grin curved Alexander's lips.
For a moment, the air between them was charged with something unspoken.
A challenge.
A game had just been declared.
And only one hunter would claim the kill.