The dim glow of the gas lamp cast long shadows across Alexander Bluestone's office. The wooden shelves, lined with old books and case files, stood as silent witnesses to the many truths uncovered within these walls. The air was thick with the scent of ink, aged paper, and freshly brewed tea.
Alexander sat behind his desk, his golden pocket watch in one hand, the rhythmic ticking the only sound in the room. Across from him, Roselia Dukeforth leaned against the chair, her sharp, golden-brown eyes watching him with curiosity that bordered on unease.
After a long silence, she finally spoke.
"Tell me about your past."
Alexander didn't react immediately. He simply spun his watch between his fingers, as if considering whether the truth was worth giving.
But then, he smirked.
"My past? Well, Rose…" He leaned back slightly, his sapphire-blue eyes flickering with something unreadable. "I shot my parents dead."
The room fell into absolute silence.
Rose's posture stiffened. She studied him, trying to decipher whether he was joking. But his expression remained calm. Too calm.
"…What?" she finally whispered.
Alexander took a sip of his tea, the warmth doing nothing to dispel the coldness of his words.
"They were evil."
He set the cup down gently, the sound of porcelain meeting wood far softer than the weight of his revelation.
"I was a child. They were filled with rage, frustration. And one day, they planned to take it out on an innocent life." He paused, his gaze steady, unwavering. "So, I stopped them."
Rose couldn't mask her shock. "You're telling me… you killed your own parents?"
Alexander smiled slightly, but there was no joy in it. "Self-defense. They would have taken a life that night. Instead, I took theirs."
Rose stared at him, her mind racing. She had killed before—assassins knew the weight of death—but this… this was different.
Most people would hesitate. Most people wouldn't be able to do it.
But Alexander Bluestone had done it without regret.
And that terrified her.
"…Do you ever feel guilt?" she asked, her voice quieter now.
Alexander chuckled softly, tapping his watch against the desk. "Guilt?" He looked up at her, his eyes cold and sharp. "Guilt is a weakness. And I am not weak."
Rose didn't respond. She simply sat there, watching him, realizing that this man—**this detective—**was unlike anyone she had ever met.
She had thought she understood killers.
But Alexander Bluestone?
He was something far beyond that.