Sebastian's faint smile lingered as Julian's expression shifted. The anger in his eyes sharpened into something far more dangerous.
Julian smiled wickedly.
"I have an idea,"
he said.
Sebastian sighed softly.
"That alone is concerning."
Julian ignored him and reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a small silver coin. He held it up between two fingers, the metal catching the light.
"Let's make this simple,"
Julian said.
"If I toss this and it lands on the head side, I win. If it lands on the tail, I lose. And if I win, we go straight to the center where these disgusting rumors are being printed."
Sebastian raised an eyebrow.
"And if you lose?"
"Then I walk away,"
Julian replied.
"For today."
Sebastian considered him for a moment. Then he shrugged.
"I have nothing to lose."
Julian grinned. He flicked the coin into the air.
The silver disk spun rapidly, glinting as it arced upward before clattering against the wooden floor. It rolled once. Twice. Then fell still.
Head side up.
Julian laughed.
"Of course."
Sebastian exhaled quietly.
"You planned that outcome."
"Possibly,"
Julian said, already grabbing his coat.
"Seb, let's go. We are paying a visit to the rat's house. I will settle this properly. Maybe tie their hands so they cannot write another fabricated article ever again."
Sebastian shot him a warning look.
"Do not make this worse."
Julian smirked.
"No promises."
They left the department moments later, boots echoing sharply against the stone steps as London greeted them with its usual fog and damp chill. The city moved on as if nothing had changed, unaware that a collision was already forming between ink and authority.
The journalist office buzzed with activity.
Typewriters clattered relentlessly. Papers were stacked in uneven towers. Ink-stained fingers moved with practiced urgency. The air smelled faintly of ink, dust, and stale coffee.
"Wendy. Wendy Fairchild."
The voice cut through the noise.
Wendy looked up from her desk immediately.
"Yes, Mr. Clarke?"
Edwin Clarke stood near his office door, arms crossed, eyes sharp and calculating. He held a bundle of freshly printed papers under his arm.
"You have nothing urgent right now, correct?"
he asked.
"No, sir,"
Wendy replied cautiously.
"Good."
He handed the stack to her.
"Go into town. Paste these where people will see them. Distribute the rest to the public."
Wendy's fingers tightened slightly around the papers as she glanced at the headline.
Her stomach sank.
She did not want to do this.
She knew exactly what kind of reaction the article would provoke. She knew how quickly words could destroy reputations. But she was new. Barely weeks into the job. Edwin Clarke had been a journalist for fifteen years. Refusing him now would mark her as difficult, insubordinate, ungrateful.
"…Understood,"
she said quietly.
She gathered the remaining copies, stacking them carefully, and rose from her chair.
As she headed toward the exit, her mind raced with unease. Journalism was meant to uncover truth, not distort it. Yet here she was, tasked with spreading something she had not written and did not agree with.
She pushed the door open.
And collided directly with someone.
The papers flew from her hands.
"Watch where you are going,"
Julian snapped.
Wendy staggered back slightly, blinking in surprise as pages scattered across the floor. Before she could react,
Julian bent down and picked one up.
His eyes scanned the headline.
His expression darkened instantly.
"So,"
he said coldly.
"You are the one spreading this kind of garbage."
Wendy stiffened.
"Excuse me?"
Julian stepped closer, holding the paper up.
"How exactly does someone like you become a journalist when you clearly have no integrity?"
Sebastian moved forward.
"Julian."
But Julian did not stop.
Wendy's jaw clenched.
"What the hell are you talking about? This is not my work. I am new here. My senior told me to distribute it."
Julian let out a sharp laugh.
"Oh. So you are the distributor then. The messenger rat."
His gaze flicked to her hair.
"What is it with you? Ginger head?"
Wendy's eyes flashed.
"Get lost."
Julian bristled.
"What did you say?"
"Enough."
Sebastian's voice cut through the tension like a blade.
Julian turned slightly, irritated, but stepped back half a pace. Wendy took a steady breath, bending down to gather the fallen papers with controlled movements. Her hands trembled only slightly.
"What is going on here?"
A calm but firm voice interrupted them.
Margaret Hale approached from inside the office, her sharp eyes assessing the scene in seconds.
She stopped beside Wendy.
"Margaret,"
Wendy said, relief slipping into her voice.
"They are accusing me of writing and spreading a vile article."
Margaret glanced at the paper Julian was holding. Then she smiled faintly.
"Young gentlemen,"
she said coolly.
"You have the wrong person."
Julian frowned.
"Then who wrote it?"
Margaret tilted her head slightly, eyes shifting toward the glass-walled office behind them.
"This article,"
she said evenly,
"was written by Mr. Edwin Clarke."
The air shifted.
Julian's grip tightened on the paper. Sebastian's gaze sharpened, finally locking onto the name printed at the bottom of the article.
Edwin Clarke.
Inside the office, Clarke stood frozen, watching from a distance.
And for the first time since the article was published, the story was no longer one-sided.
Julian exhaled sharply and stepped back, the tension draining from his shoulders.
"That is enough,"
he said. He turned to Wendy,
his voice firm.
"Do not distribute those papers."
Wendy froze.
"What?"
"I mean it,"
Julian said.
"Leave them here."
He shifted his gaze toward the glass-walled office, eyes cold and unwavering.
"Edwin Clarke,"
Julian called out clearly.
"I will see you again. Count your days."
The words were calm. Too calm.
Then, just as abruptly, Julian turned back. His expression softened into something almost polite. He offered a brief smile to Wendy and Margaret.
"I apologize for the trouble,"
he said.
"I wish both of you a pleasant day. May fortune be kind to you."
Margaret blinked, caught off guard.
Wendy stared at him in disbelief.
Julian turned on his heel.
"Hmph,"
Wendy muttered under her breath.
"What a maniac. A two-faced demon."
Julian stopped.
Slowly, he turned his head and met her gaze. His eyes were sharp, unreadable, and unwavering. The air between them tightened.
Sebastian cleared his throat.
"I am truly sorry,"
he said smoothly, stepping forward.
"My dearest friend tends to behave this way. He fell down a slope as a child and struck his head rather badly. Since then, his sense of restraint has been questionable. He may not always be in the right state of mind."
Julian stared at him.
Silence followed.
Then Julian exploded.
"What in the world are you talking about?"
he snapped.
"Let's go. I am starving to death."
He grabbed Sebastian by the arm and dragged him toward the exit.
The room fell silent, the door shut behind them.
For several seconds, no one spoke.
Margaret finally exhaled.
"Julian Moore. Sebastian Blackwell. Truly birds of a feather."
Wendy looked down at the abandoned papers, then toward the door they had exited through.
"So those were the young officers who received honors recently,"
she said quietly.
"Were they not?"
Margaret nodded.
"Yes. Still young. Still untested."
She folded her arms, her gaze distant.
"This world is not kind to those who enter it too early,"
Margaret continued.
"Especially not one as dark and cruel as ours."
Wendy hesitated.
"I think I can see it now," she said slowly. "I wonder what will happen to them in the future."
Margaret allowed herself a small, knowing smile.
"So do I," she replied. "I am very much looking forward to it."
Outside, London continued its endless movement. Inside, ink dried on paper, reputations trembled, and paths quietly crossed for the first time.
And none of them realized it yet.
This was only the beginning.