A few moments ago—
"Are you certain this is where he shows up?"
"Yes. Almost every night. He doesn't miss it," the woman replied, sliding a thin file across the desk.
Detective Marcus Hale leaned back in his chair, the leather groaning under his weight. He was a man with years carved into his face, not from age but from cases—every unsolved murder he'd cracked, every syndicate he'd burned down. His name carried weight in the precinct. The one who cornered the Ashvale Butcher. The one who exposed the Black Fang cartel. The man who had never let a trail go cold.
He flipped open the file, eyes narrowing at the single word scrawled across the page. "Kane. No surname. What's that about? Daddy issues? If not, maybe he could've at least used his mother's name. Or…"
"He's got a parent issue," one of the younger cops muttered from the side, smirking.
The group broke into quiet laughter, a few stifled chuckles bouncing off the walls.
Marcus didn't laugh. He just closed the file slowly, fingers tapping against the cover. His eyes lingered on the name, as if it held more weight than the others realized.
"Alright, let's move."
Marcus slid the safety off his gun and gave a quick signal. The officers stormed into the bar, boots heavy on the wooden floor.
"Hands in the air!" he barked. "Now!"
Glasses clattered as patrons froze mid-drink, arms shooting upward in fear. The whole room stiffened—everyone except for two men at the counter. Kane and Abel didn't so much as flinch, still locked in their own world.
"I said hands up!" Marcus snapped again, his eyes narrowing on them.
Kane let out a long breath, swiveling his gaze toward the detective. His voice was calm, almost bored. "You can cuff whoever you want. But do we really need to play along too?" Then he turned back to Abel, ignoring the guns trained on him. "I hope not to see you for another fifty years. You're unbearable."
He tossed a few bills onto the counter, pushed his stool back, and started walking.
"Not so fast." Marcus stepped forward, handcuffs ready. "Kane—you're under arrest for the murder of Patrick Noel. Your boss."
Kane stopped mid-step. His shoulders stiffened. Slowly, he looked at Abel, eyes narrowing. "Is this another one of your little jokes?"
Abel grinned, sipping from his glass like none of this concerned him. "Sorry, brother. Not this time. This one's real."
Kane sighed, dragging a hand through his white hair before turning back to Marcus. His tone was flat, edged with annoyance. "Listen. One—I've never even met Patrick Noel. Two—I couldn't care less about him. And three… if I did kill someone, Detective, you wouldn't have the slightest clue. You'd never trace it back to me. I don't make sloppy mistakes. So get out of my way."
Marcus didn't blink. Instead, he nodded to the woman officer beside him, who stepped forward and dropped a manila envelope on the counter. She slid a few photos across the wood.
The first showed Patrick Noel's body, pale and stiff, throat torn open. The second—security footage. Grainy, but clear enough: a tall man with white hair, black eyes, walking through the hallway minutes before the death.
The last photo was worse. A still frame of Patrick's office, the mirror catching the reflection of the same man. Kane.
The bar fell silent.
"Still think it's a joke?" Marcus asked, his voice low but sharp. "We've got footage. Witnesses. And the timing doesn't lie. All of it points to you."
Abel chuckled under his breath, swirling the last drops in his glass. "Looks like you've been busy, brother."
Kane didn't even glance at him. His eyes stayed on the photos, unreadable, though the faintest frown pulled at his mouth. He tapped a finger once against the counter, the sound sharp in the silence.
"You've made a mistake," Kane said finally. His voice was steady, but there was weight behind it. "That's not me."
Marcus raised a brow. "Then who is it?"
"I don't know who that is, but it's not me," Kane said, his tone sharper now. "I've got no reason to kill that man. This is either my brother stirring up trouble, or someone setting me up. And between the two, I'd bet on the latter." He let out a long breath, almost annoyed at himself. "I've spoken more tonight than I have in a hundred years, and I'm already tired of it."
Marcus stepped closer, cuffs in hand, his voice steady and firm. "Kane, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney—if you can't afford one, the state will provide—"
"Save it," Kane cut in, shaking his head. "That speech doesn't work on me."
"Turn around. Hands behind your back," Marcus ordered, reaching for his wrist.
But the moment his fingers brushed Kane's arm, the air shifted. Kane didn't move much—just a subtle twist, a small shift of weight—and Marcus found his hand pushed back with surprising force. The cuff clattered to the floor.
The officers raised their guns instantly, shouting over one another. "Don't move!"
Kane's eyes darkened, the dim lights of the bar reflecting like twin voids. He glanced at the drawn weapons, then back at Marcus with a sigh, almost pitying. "I told you. You don't want to do this."
Marcus tightened his grip on the other cuff, refusing to back down. "You're resisting arrest."
Kane leaned in slightly, his voice low, carrying an edge that cut through the noise. "No. I'm refusing a mistake."
The bar was silent, every patron frozen, waiting for who would move first. And in the corner, Abel sipped his drink with a wide grin, enjoying every second of it.
The tension hung thick, every officer's finger trembling against their trigger, eyes locked on Kane. His posture stayed relaxed, but there was a weight in the room now—something that pressed against everyone's chest, making it hard to breathe.
Then, a laugh broke through it.
Abel slid off his stool, drink still in hand, moving between Kane and the raised guns like he hadn't a care in the world. "Alright, alright," he said, his tone dripping with amusement. "Everyone calm down before somebody does something stupid. And by stupid, I mean shoot at my brother here and end up regretting it for the rest of your very short lives."
"Step aside," Marcus snapped, keeping his weapon trained.
Abel raised his free hand lazily, the other still swirling the liquid in his glass. "Easy, Detective Hale. You want him alive, yeah? Trust me, pointing guns at him is the fastest way to make sure you don't get your wish."
"Move," Marcus barked again, jaw tight.
Abel tilted his head, his grin widening. "You don't get it, do you? Kane's not resisting because he can't be arrested. He's resisting because… well, he's Kane. The man's been walking this world since long before you were a thought. If he wanted you dead, you wouldn't have had the chance to read him his rights."
The officers shifted nervously, their eyes darting between Abel's calm smile and Kane's unreadable gaze. The pressure in the room hadn't lifted, but Abel's casual tone was breaking the edge.
Kane finally sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You're making things worse, Abel."
"On the contrary," Abel said, stepping closer to Marcus. His grin faded into something sharper. "I'm saving you from pulling that trigger. Because if you do, this whole place will turn into a bloodbath—and not one of you will make it out."
Marcus held his ground, though his grip on the gun faltered for the first time. He could feel it—the truth in Abel's words.
Abel glanced back at his brother with a playful smirk. "So, big brother, what's it gonna be? You wanna play nice and follow them? Or should we call it a night and let me buy you another drink while the good detective here finds himself a new case?"