Gerald Gaines stood on the rain-slicked asphalt, his hand still outstretched, though the smile on his face was beginning to look more like a grimace. He was a veteran of the Midlands political machine—a man who had survived decades of titans clashing and internal entanglements—but even he felt a cold chill at the look in Ambrose Ward’s eyes.
Ambrose didn't just look like an investigator; he looked like a hunter who had already found the throat of his prey. He ignored the performative warmth of the Chief’s greeting, his posture as rigid as a Sovereign’s Blade.
“Director Gaines,” Ambrose began, his voice dropping into a low, lethal register that seemed to cut through the sound of the falling rain. “Before we discuss ‘misunderstandings,’ I have three questions that require immediate, on-the
