CHAPTER 15: ART OF MANIPULATION

The streets of Liverpool were unusually quiet that evening.

The four had enjoyed a rare day off, a simple moment of normalcy—shopping in the mall, laughing at Darmian's terrible fashion sense, Madison teasing Rose about her growing attachment to Alexander.

It was peaceful. Too peaceful.

And peace, in Alexander Bluestone's world, was always short-lived.

As they made their way back, the alleyway ahead darkened.

Figures emerged—thirty of them.

The Crude Crew.

The most notorious gang in the UK. The butchers of innocent lives. The killers of thousands.

And at the front, standing with a smug grin, was their leader—

Brooklyn Withfield.

A man whose name sent fear through the underworld.

A man who thrived on chaos.

"Well, well," Brooklyn chuckled, arms crossed, "if it isn't Liverpool's famous detectives. Out for a little shopping spree?"

Darmian, never one to back down, clenched his fists.

"Damn right, and we're about to shop for some dead gang members."

Without hesitation, he charged.

Madison followed. Then Roselia.

The alley exploded into chaos.

The three of them fought fiercely, but the numbers were overwhelming. Fists collided. Blades flashed. Blood spilled.

Within minutes, they were on the ground.

Bruised. Beaten. Gasping for air.

Brooklyn stood over them, laughing. "Idiots."

And then—Alexander stepped forward.

Unbothered. Unafraid. Expressionless.

His sapphire-blue eyes scanned the carnage, then settled on Brooklyn.

With deliberate slowness, he pulled out his gun.

A single bullet left.

Not nearly enough.

So he aimed it at his own head.

The alley went silent.

The gang members froze.

Brooklyn's grin faltered. "The hell are you doing?"

Alexander smiled. Cold. Calculated.

"I want you to think about something, Brooklyn." His voice was calm. Too calm. "What happens if I pull the trigger?"

Brooklyn scoffed. "You die. What's your point?"

"My point," Alexander took a slow step forward, "is that if I die, then everything—every moment, every struggle, every ounce of your existence—becomes meaningless."

Brooklyn's brow furrowed.

"You think you hold power because you kill." Alexander's voice sharpened, laced with something sinister. "You think death makes you stronger. But let me tell you something, Brooklyn… true power isn't in taking lives."

Another step.

"It's in control."

Brooklyn's fists clenched.

Alexander's smirk widened.

"Right now, you're standing here with thirty men. Thirty people who trust you. Who'd die for you. But deep down…" His eyes narrowed. "…do you even trust them?"

Brooklyn's breath hitched.

The gang members shifted uneasily.

"Tell me, Brooklyn." Alexander's voice dropped into something almost hypnotic. "If you had to bet your life on it—right now—who in your crew would turn on you?"

Brooklyn's eyes darted around.

The seed of doubt had been planted.

And then Alexander twisted the knife.

"Think about it. Thirty people. Thirty knives at your back. How many of them truly want you alive?"

Brooklyn's breathing grew heavier. His paranoia began to take root.

Alexander could see it. Feel it.

So he pushed further.

"You're a leader, right? But leaders get betrayed. Kings get overthrown. And right now…" Alexander tilted his head, his smile almost sadistic. "…you're nothing more than a walking corpse waiting to be stabbed."

Brooklyn's hands trembled. "Shut up."

"Why?" Alexander whispered. "Because I'm right?"

Brooklyn's eyes darted back to his men.

They weren't moving.

They weren't speaking.

They were waiting.

Watching.

Brooklyn snapped.

He raised his gun— but not at Alexander.

At his own men.

And then—BANG.

A single shot rang out.

One of his men collapsed.

Then another.

Then another.

Brooklyn unleashed hell upon his own crew.

The alley became a massacre.

Blood splattered against the walls, screams echoing into the night.

Roselia, Madison, and Darmian lay on the ground, staring in horror.

It was madness. No—this was worse than madness.

This was Alexander Bluestone's genius.

By the time Brooklyn's magazine emptied, every single one of his men was dead.

The alley was still.

Brooklyn stood alone. Shaking. Breathless.

Alexander raised his gun.

His last bullet.

Brooklyn turned to him, realization dawning in his eyes. "You—"

BANG.

The leader of the Crude Crew collapsed.

Blood pooling at his feet.

Alexander twirled the gun before slipping it back into his coat.

He turned to his companions, who were still lying on the ground, stunned beyond belief.

A smirk pulled at his lips.

"Watch and learn, kids."