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𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐎𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐄 Arabella Cavendish is found dead in her luxurious cabin aboard the Orient Express - a grand train slicing through a snowbound wilderness - Detective Alaric Wu is thrust into a cas...
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❝If such a mystery exists, so incredibly complex and unexplainable that I find myself inextricably dumbfounded, I bid you summon me, for it really is rather dull being rightall the time. Not that you would understand that.❞
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Tick. One, two, three ticks. Three seconds precisely, and the clock will strike 7:00pm.
His stature was a symphony of grace in motion, looking almost like a sculptured piece of art as he sat behind his desk, the type of person whose presence commanded attention as soon as he entered a room. Shadows were painted onto the walls, the amber glow within a kerosene lamp flickering softly against the backdrop of his wooden desk. So the heartbeat of the city beat steadily beyond the frigid glass, but within this isolated office, it was the reign of the grandfather clock that ran supreme.
Alaric Wu was a detective, and a rather adept one at that. Perhaps it would be even more commendable, if it weren't for the fact that the man was so painfully aware of his own talents. What room was there for humility? A waste of time, in his eyes. Why pretend one is unmindful, unsuspecting and unobservant of their own prowess? No. Diffidence was for the fool who thought himself better than the rest, but had not the courage to voice as much.
