Christopher stepped out from the middle of the corridor with measured strides, attempting to conceal the storm raging within him behind the icy mask everyone was accustomed to seeing. He did not return to his office, nor did he leave the station as the Chief had demanded; instead, he headed straight toward the archives and records section in the basement, exploiting what remained of his authority as a detective inspector before the verbal decision to remove him from the case could solidify into an official written order.
He was greeted by a heavy, thick air, dense with the smell of dampness and ancient paper, making the place feel like a mausoleum for forgotten secrets. The old clerk raised his head the moment Christopher entered, but the words died in his throat when his eyes met the detective's piercing gaze; he remained silent, sliding the massive detention log across the desk without being asked.
Christopher sat before the battered wooden table and slowly opened the leather ledger. His eyes traced over names, signatures, and timestamps with lethal precision.
On-duty guards: Thomas, George, William.
On-duty physician: Dr. Hill.
Official visits: None.
His eyes locked onto the page for a long, heavy moment.
Then, his lips parted into a faint, mocking smile.
"None?"
The idea had begun to form with terrifying clarity inside his head.
If Julian had possessed the poison from the start, they would have discovered it at the mine. They had stripped him of almost everything before transferring him to custody.
Therefore, the poison was not with him.
The poison reached him here.
Inside this very station.
Christopher slammed the ledger shut with a force that echoed through the silent vault, then leaned back against the chair for a brief moment, staring into the void with shadowed eyes.
The traitor was not a man slipping through windows at night.
The traitor held an access permit.
Wore a police badge.
And moved through the corridors without anyone stopping him.
Christopher felt a sharp chill course through his limbs, but his rage remained too still to be seen. He knew all too well that confronting traitors directly would only bury the evidence deeper.
Serpents hide when they sense danger.
He rose from his seat, returned the log to the clerk without another word, and left the archives with heavy steps.
When he stepped out of the police station, evening had begun to settle slowly over the streets of London, casting a pale light upon the wet pavements and the smoke rising from the city's chimneys. Christopher paused for a moment before the ancient stone building, looking back at it with eyes filled with something close to disgust.
The place he had spent his life believing in was rotting from the inside out.
He drove in silence toward the safehouse.
Home was no longer an appropriate place.
The war had become too large to fight alone.
He arrived at the safehouse to find a stillness filling its corners like melancholy. Edward had woken up a short while ago, sitting in the cramped living room holding a cup of black coffee that had gone half-cold, while his wife Julia's ring remained nestled inside his waistcoat pocket, close to his heart.
Edward raised his head the moment Christopher entered, noticing something in his features that made him knit his brows in silence.
Christopher took off his coat, tossed it onto the chair, and said directly in a low voice:
"Julian Mortimer is dead."
Edward froze in place, his hand halting halfway to the cup.
"What?"
He raised his eyes to him in clear disbelief. "How? We left him alive!"
Christopher sat across from him slowly, resting his elbows on his knees.
"They said he committed suicide inside solitary confinement."
Silence prevailed for a few moments.
Then, Edward let out a short laugh, saturated with bitter anger.
"Suicide?" He shook his head violently. "Chris… we searched him ourselves at the mine. That bastard didn't even have a pin on him."
Christopher nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on the floor.
"I know."
Then he raised his gaze to meet his and said with grim calmness:
"Therefore, the poison was not with him."
The remaining traces of confusion gradually vanished from Edward's face, replaced by a heavier shock.
"Someone brought it in to him…"
"Yes."
"From inside the station?"
This time, Christopher did not answer immediately.
He merely looked at him for a few seconds before saying:
"The Chief removed me from the case this morning."
Edward's features hardened with cruelty, while Christopher continued in a cold voice:
"He said I am psychologically unfit because of what happened to my brother Ronald."
Edward gripped the cup so tightly it nearly shattered between his fingers.
"So they are involved… all of them."
He stood up agitatedly, pacing a few steps across the room before turning around in fury:
"Everyone is protecting one another, while Yara is still out there!"
Christopher stood up as well, then approached him with calm steps.
"Calm down."
Yet his voice carried no genuine reassurance; it was the voice of a man who had already made his decision.
He said, looking at him with absolute steadfastness:
"If they own the law… then we own something worse."
He paused for a brief second.
Then he completed:
"We own the streets."
Silence fell over the safehouse, a heavy silence that made the very air seem stagnant.
Then Christopher finally said in a voice that was faint, yet terrifying in its stillness:
"We will find the traitor… and we will reach Yara."
His eyes rose slowly toward Edward.
"And anyone who stands in our way… will pay the price."
The two men's gazes locked amid the gloom of the safehouse, and in that exact moment, it felt as though something had broken inside them forever.
From now on, this was no longer a war of law.