|𝙵𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝟷𝟷𝚡|
There's a war in London. No one knows how it started, but those caught in the fray can either struggle or thrive due to the nation-wide influence of two formidable factions: the Crimson Syndicate and the Brotherhood of the...
"Mr. Kendrick-Carson. It's a pleasure to meet you. Take a seat, I'll serve you some green tea," a slinky voice said.
It was like he was being forced, only nicer. Lennox stole a look at Ren's so-called leader and immediately sat down. He never knew that a voice could match someone so perfectly.
Mitsan had honey-gold eyes that seared through Lennox's very being, and a stature that demanded respect as they sat tall in their chair. Flawlessly applied eyeliner added a sophisticated and alluring appeal to the person who sat behind the dark desk. They were a mix of both islander descent and what seemed like Japanese, if the compound's design was any indication. Tea was poured, and Ren slunk off to stand at Mitsan's side.
"So, rumours have been going around about your mischief with Ren. Tell me, boy, how did you manage to disarm our best sniper not once, but twice?"
Lennox was nineteen years old; it was unfair that they assumed he had a solid plan for controlling what happened that night. And Ren was their best sniper? He found that hilarious.
"Erm, I'm not exactly sure, Mx. I mean, it all happened quite suddenly..." He wasn't sure how to address the leader of the Syndicate, and he was willing to bet that it wasn't helping his already wretched case. Moreover, Ren would be furious if he made it sound as if he was easy to beat. His pride couldn't withstand the hit.
The florist sniggered at the thought.
"What was that? Did you have something you'd like to add?" Mitsan's gaze hit him head-on, and Lennox felt like a deer in headlights, unable to move out of harm's way.
"No, Mx. I'd just like to get back home as soon as I can. You have a family who depends on you too, don't you?"
Mitsan stole a glance at Ren, then turned back to their prisoner. Without warning, the Syndicate leader crossed the distance between them and the florist, unsheathing their dagger to drag it across the skin under Lennox's chin. Their movements were smooth, fluid, and precise. "No, not really. Your lame attempts at relating to me won't work, Mr. Kendrick-Carson. Now answer the question. How did you do it?"
The knife pricked his freckled skin, drawing a bead of blood from his neck. From the corner of his eye, the florist noticed Ren wince. It was only for a split second, causing Lennox to wonder if he'd imagined it.
Until the sniper spoke up in his defence.
"I don't think he knows, Sir. The whole thing was very spur-of-the-moment, and—"
"Ren, did I ask for your opinion? If neither of you can explain yourselves, I'll have to resort to more... drastic measures."
When those words left the leader of the Crimson Syndicate's mouth, Ren froze.
Lennox had an increasingly bad feeling about the Syndicate member's reaction.
"It was me, Sir. I had a moment of weakness and I allowed myself to be overcome by someone weaker than me," Ren confessed.
It was downright spiteful for someone who seemed to be covering for Lennox.
"And that's all that happened? He got a hold on both your guns and tossed them off the building, where they became unserviceable?"
"Yes, sir."
The room went silent. For what felt like hours, Mitsan just sat still—terrifyingly still. The cowhide chair beneath Lennox was becoming uncomfortably hot, but he didn't dare move lest he cut himself. From somewhere behind him, the ticking of a clock grew louder and louder as time went on. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't think.
Finally, Mitsan shifted in their seat, voice returning to its silvery purr as the dagger was pulled back. They looked Lennox dead in the eyes, clasping their hands together. "If that is all, please step outside for a moment, Mr. Kendrick-Carson."
He was shocked. Was that the end of it? Were they really letting him go, just like that?
"I would like to have a conversation with Ren. Alone."
