After investigating the house, Felix was astonished—no clues were left behind. It was a perfect murder. Whoever had done this was meticulous, almost obsessive.
Felix returned home, shrugged off his brown corduroy jacket, and set his laptop on the desk. His fingers danced across the keyboard as he hacked into the local CCTV feed. Within moments, he gained access. Determined to piece together the timeline of the politician's murder, he adjusted the footage. As the image sharpened, Felix saw George alone in his mansion, pursued by a shadowy figure.
The mysterious individual wore a long black coat with a wide collar, concealing a tactical vest beneath. A sleek helmet with a dark visor obscured their face. In one hand, they carried a black folding knife with a sharp point and a serrated edge. The figure's coat pocket also concealed something distinct—an S.C.C.-issued revolver. It was no ordinary weapon: a futuristic piece with a metallic frame, glowing blue accents along the barrel, and intricate design details on the grip.
Felix studied the intruder's movements carefully. The figure exuded confidence—calculated, purposeful. When George dashed toward the exit, the figure calmly raised the revolver and fired, hitting him in the neck. George collapsed, still alive but writhing in agony, counting his final moments. Then, the killer descended upon him with brutal efficiency, stabbing his neck repeatedly. Blood gushed from the wounds in horrifying torrents, leaving George lifeless in a pool of crimson.
But the horror didn't end there. The figure cut open George's chest and removed his heart with the precision of a surgeon. Without hesitation, they opened a nearby window, started a sleek Yamaha YZF-R1 motorcycle parked outside, and sped away. The bike's aggressive, aerodynamic design gleamed under the moonlight, but the number plate was covered, concealing any clue to the rider's identity.
Just then, a message appeared on Felix's laptop screen: "Nice attempt, Edevene Felix. But I am a smiling monster." Felix's heart raced. Someone knew he was watching. He quickly shut down the hacking system and leaned back in his chair, processing what he had just seen.
"This one is different," Felix muttered. "Smart. Surgical precision. A hacker. A cannibal. And... an S.C.C. officer." His mind whirled with theories. "This case is going to be more interesting—and far more dangerous—than I thought."
After hours of thinking and theorizing, hunger gnawed at him. Felix decided it was time to cook. He went to the modern kitchen, where white cabinets and a gray island gleamed under pendant lights. The stainless-steel appliances reflected the soft glow of the light-colored hardwood floor. Felix grabbed two steaks from the fridge, his culinary instincts kicking in.
Felix had been cooking since he was twelve, and years of experience had made him an excellent chef. In no time, the steaks were perfectly seared to a medium-rare finish, their golden-brown crust glistening. He whipped up a side of fluffy mashed potatoes, topped with a pat of butter, and sprinkled with fresh parsley.
He set the table in the dining room—a luxurious space with dark walls, a long rectangular table, and ornate moldings. Above the fireplace, a large piece of framed artwork added an air of refinement. As Felix plated the food, Emma, his daughter, joined him.
Just as they began their meal, Felix's phone buzzed. It was Jennifer Willson, a friend and fellow rare book enthusiast.
"Hello, Felix," Jennifer chirped. "I have good news for you."
"What is it?" Felix asked, intrigued.
"My friend is auctioning the first edition of The Idiot by Fyodor Dostoevsky. And guess what—it's signed by the man himself!" she added with excitement.
Felix's pulse quickened. Collecting rare books was one of his passions, and a Dostoevsky signature was a dream come true.
"I'd love to have it," Felix said eagerly. "Where's the auction taking place?"
"At the St. Howling Auction House in Romson," Jennifer answered.
"Thanks for the tip. I'll see you soon," Felix said before hanging up.
He turned to Emma, who sat across from him in her pink hoodie and white pants. "Princess, do you want to come with me to the auction tomorrow or stay at the daycare center?"
Emma wrinkled her nose. "An auction sounds boring, Dad. I'd rather stay at daycare."
Felix smiled. "Okay, my princess."
After dinner, they both went to bed.
The next morning at 8:00 a.m., Felix was dressed and ready for the auction. He wore a light blue suit, a white shirt, and a dark blue tie, completing the ensemble with polished black leather shoes. After dropping Emma off at daycare, Felix drove to the auction house, arriving within twenty minutes.
The St. Howling Auction House was bustling with attendees. Felix sat in the grand hall, surrounded by collectors and enthusiasts. A man sat next to him, his presence striking.
The man's pale face had sharp, angular features, and his dark, wavy hair fell slightly over his forehead, adding an air of mystery. His deep-set eyes carried a distant, brooding intensity, and his mouth rested in a faintly downturned expression. He wore a sleek black three-piece suit, a long overcoat with a subtle maroon lining, and polished black dress shoes.
The man turned to Felix. "Hello. I'm Pylo Williams, the CEO of Starplex. And you are?"
"Edevene Felix, M.S.C. of the United Kingdom," Felix replied.
Pylo's eyes gleamed with curiosity. "Ah, the M.S.C. I've heard of that rank. So, how does one earn it?"
Felix smiled faintly. "The M.S.C. the title is awarded based on mission consistency and success rates. Only the most reliable and effective officer in the entire country gets it."
Pylo nodded, impressed. "That sounds incredibly challenging. You have my respect."
A few moments later, a woman stepped onto the stage, carefully holding an old book with red binding: The first edition of The Idiot by Fyodor Dostoevsky.
"Welcome, everyone," the auctioneer, Hazel Ellis, announced. "This is a rare treasure—not only the first edition but also signed by Fyodor Dostoevsky himself." She flipped open the book to reveal the signature, and the crowd buzzed with excitement.
"The starting bid is 100,000 pounds," Hazel declared.
Immediately, a man stood and called, "300,000 pounds!"
A woman followed, raising it to "400,000 pounds."
Felix rose confidently. "One million pounds," he bid, knowing the book's worth.
The room fell silent in awe as Hazel began the countdown. "10... 9... 8... 7..."
But then, just as Hazel reached "3," Pylo stood up with a calm expression and said, "Two million pounds."
A wave of shock rippled through the room. Even Felix was stunned. Hazel collected herself and announced, "Sold to Pylo Williams."
Felix sat back, trying to hide his disbelief. Two million pounds? His mind raced. How wealthy is this man? How much does he earn from his company every month? The questions lingered, unanswered, as Pylo gave Felix a polite nod, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips.
Felix knew one thing for certain: Pylo Williams was no ordinary man. And this auction was just the beginning of something much bigger.
Pylo stood up gracefully and made his way to the stage. His presence commanded attention—every movement deliberate, every step exuding calm authority. He approached Hazel Ellis, who handed him the briefcase containing the first edition of The Idiot with a respectful nod.
Pylo accepted the briefcase with a cool smile, his polished black shoes barely making a sound on the wooden floor. As he opened the case briefly to inspect the treasure inside, the glow from the stage lights reflected off the book's red binding. He ran his gloved fingers lightly over the cover, then flipped to the signature page. A small, satisfied grin curled at the edges of his lips.
Without a word, Pylo closed the briefcase and locked it with a subtle click. The crowd watched in silence, as though an invisible weight hung in the air. It wasn't just the value of the book that captivated them—it was the unsettling confidence Pylo exuded, as if he were always in control, always several steps ahead.
He turned to face the audience briefly, meeting Felix's gaze for a fleeting moment. There was something in Pylo's dark, brooding eyes—an unspoken challenge, perhaps, or a message only Felix could decipher. Then, with the same elegance, Pylo left the stage, briefcase in hand, disappearing into the crowd.