Brandon tossed Reginald's unconscious, bloodied body to the side like a discarded rag doll. His limp form crumpled against the wall, leaving a smear of crimson in its wake.
He turned to Gordon, his eyes still blazing with cold fury.
"Gordon, If you may…"
The older man met his gaze steadily, a glimmer of approval in his eyes.
Gordon raised a hand to his earpiece, his voice low and commanding.
"Secure and retrieve the package."
The room fell into an eerie silence. Annabelle and Alaric remained motionless, their expressions unreadable as they watched the scene unfold.
Within moments, the door opened silently. Two men in dark suits entered, their movements precise and efficient. Without a word, they lifted Reginald's unconscious form, one taking his arms, the other his legs.
Blood dripped onto the plush carpet as they carried him out, leaving a trail of dark spots in their wake. The door closed behind them with a soft click, plunging the room back into silence.
Brandon's demeanor shifted abruptly, the cold fury in his eyes melting away like ice under a warm sun.
His shoulders relaxed, and a pleasant smile spread across his face, transforming him back into the charming teenager he appeared to be.
He sauntered over to Alaric's desk, his movements fluid and graceful. With an air of casual confidence, he lowered himself into the chair opposite the Headmaster, crossing his legs as if he were settling in for a friendly chat.
"Now then," Brandon said, his voice light and conversational, "we've got a confession that the Sinclairs were behind the assassination attempt."
He leaned forward slightly, his eyes locking onto Alaric's.
The gaze he fixed on the Headmaster was profound, filled with an intensity that belied his youthful appearance.
Alaric's reaction was subtle but unmistakable. His eyes widened almost imperceptibly, and he leaned back in his chair, as if trying to put more distance between himself and the young man before him.
For a moment, the mask of the eccentric old Headmaster slipped, revealing a glimpse of the shrewd, calculating individual beneath.
Brandon's smile widened slightly, a predatory edge creeping into his expression.
"Let's talk about how NOA plans to stay in business, shall we?"
Alaric's composure returned quickly, his own smile matching Brandon's in its complexity.
"My dear boy," he said, his voice a mixture of amusement and wariness, "what makes you think NOA's business is in any danger?"
Brandon chuckled softly, the sound carrying a hint of danger.
"Come now, Headmaster. We both know that recent events have... shall we say, shaken the foundations of this esteemed institution. The question is, how do we ensure those foundations don't crumble entirely?"
Alaric leaned forward, his eyes twinkling with a mixture of curiosity and caution.
"My dear boy," he said, his voice a blend of amusement and concern, "how exactly do you propose the foundations of this esteemed institution have been shaken? We've weathered many storms in our long history."
Brandon's smile never faltered as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.
With a few quick taps, he brought up a video and turned the screen towards Alaric.
The footage showed a familiar Rolls Royce speeding through the night, pursued by several dark vehicles. Gunfire flashed in the darkness, explosions lighting up the screen.
"You see, Headmaster," Brandon explained, his voice casual as if discussing the weather, "all Blackstone vehicles have a security feature that records their surroundings. Luckily for us, the memory drive wasn't damaged in the attack."
Alaric's facade cracked for a moment, his eyes widening as he watched the violent chase unfold on the small screen.
He quickly composed himself, but not before Brandon caught the flicker of alarm in his eyes.
Brandon continued, his tone light but laced with steel.
"Our extraction team also comprehensively documented the entire incident after coming to our rescue. Every shell casing, every piece of debris, every scrap of evidence... all meticulously cataloged."
He leaned in closer, his smile never wavering.
"Now, my dear Headmaster, do you feel the ground shaking?"
Alaric's expression shifted, the twinkle in his eyes fading as his face settled into a serious mask. His gaze locked onto Brandon's, searching for any hint of bluff or weakness.
"Are you threatening NOA, young man?"
Alaric's voice was low, carrying a weight that seemed to fill the room.
Brandon's smirk widened, a predatory glint in his eyes.
"I meant every word I said to Reginald, NOA's... governor, was it?"
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"When we're done with the interrogations, guess what we'll do with the corpses? Whether or not NOA shares their limelight is entirely dependent on you, Headmaster."
Alaric's face remained impassive, but his mind raced. Centuries of carefully laid plans, intricate webs of influence and power, all being threatened by this audacious young brat. He'd seen political leaders, sat with their puppeteers, and yet... this boy. This Brandon Blackstone.
There was something different about him, something that set him apart from the countless heirs and scions Alaric had molded over the years.
A spark of... something. Something familiar, yet alien. Something that whispered of danger and opportunity in equal measure.
Alaric's thoughts whirled, considering angles and possibilities that would boggle the minds of mere mortals.
Perhaps, he mused, this was not a threat, but an opportunity. A chance to reshape the board, to introduce a new piece into the grand game that had been playing out for millennia.
Alaric raised his arms in a theatrical gesture of surrender, his demeanor shifting back to that of a gleeful old man.
"Oh, my dear boy, you've outfoxed this old codger! I fold, I fold!" he chuckled, his eyes twinkling with mirth. "What is it you want, hmm? A pony? A cookie? The keys to the kingdom?"
Brandon stared intently into Alaric's eyes, his gaze unwavering. "Who's really behind this?"
Alaric laughed, a sound that echoed off the walls of his office.
"Why, the Sinclairs, of course! You said it yourself, didn't you? Our dear friend Reginald spilled the beans, didn't he? The Sinclairs are the big bad wolves in this little fairy tale."
Brandon maintained his penetrating gaze, searching Alaric's eyes for any hint of deception. His mind raced, analyzing the Headmaster's response.
'Does he really not know who's behind this? No, that's impossible. Alaric's been at the helm of NOA for years. He definitely has an idea, at least.'
'But why the act? Is he afraid of them? Or is there some sort of rule he has to stick to, some code of silence among the powers that be?'
The more Brandon scrutinized Alaric's twinkling eyes and jovial expression, the more certain he became that the Headmaster was hiding something. The question was, what? And why?