I, the slave boy, awaken with the most potent seed!!

The bustling headquarters of Drakoria's law enforcement hummed with activity. In a dimly lit office, Commander Brock leaned against his desk, his weathered face creased with concern as he listened to two junior officers' reports.

"Another body found in the sewers, sir," one officer said, his voice trembling slightly. "That makes three this month."

Brock rubbed his temples. "And the Clove Avenue murders?"

The second officer shook his head. "No leads yet, sir. It's as if the killers vanished into thin air."

'As if we needed more unsolved cases,' Brock thought bitterly. He cleared his throat. "What about Steele? Any progress on his end?"

The officers exchanged uneasy glances. "Well, sir," the first one began hesitantly, "Officer Steele hasn't said a word yet. He's still in... that mood."

Brock's face reddened. "That mood? What in blazes does he think he is? He gets paid more than half the force combined, has special privileges, and yet he won't share a single lead?" He slammed his fist on the desk. "What kind of—"

The door swung open with a creak, cutting off Brock's tirade. Officer Steele sauntered in, signature cigar clenched between his teeth. He strode past the two officers, ignoring their presence entirely, and settled into a plush chair across from Brock.

'Speak of the devil,' Brock thought, his anger simmering.

Steele took a long drag from his cigar, exhaling a perfect smoke ring before speaking. "My... office," he drawled, each word punctuated by a pause. "It's... lacking."

Brock blinked, caught off guard. "Lacking? What do you mean, lacking?"

"No... brandy fountain," Steele replied, his face deadpan. "And where's... my personal... masseuse? I made these...

requests... an hour ago."

The commander's jaw dropped. "Brandy fountain? Masseuse? Steele, be reasonable!"

Steele stood up slowly, his eyes never leaving Brock's. "Reasonable? I'm being... mistreated." He took another puff. "Perhaps... Lumina would...

appreciate my talents... more. I hear... the pay is... better."

'Is he serious?' Brock wondered, his earlier bravado crumbling. "Now, now, Steele. Let's not be hasty. We're doing our best to accommodate you, but a hotel and a personal cart? That's a bit much, don't you think?"

Steele's eyes narrowed. "One hour," he said, his voice low and gravelly. "Fix it... or I'm gone." He turned to leave, then paused at the door. "Justice... isn't cheap."

With that, he slammed the door so hard the walls shook.

The three men left in the office stared at each other, stunned into silence.

'Did that really just happen?' one of the junior officers thought, his mind reeling.

'He's insane,' the other mused. 'Brilliant, but insane.'

Brock slumped into his chair, feeling utterly defeated. 'What have I gotten myself into?'

---

An hour later, Steele reclined in a luxurious leather chair, his feet propped up on an ornate desk. His new office was a far cry from the commander's cramped quarters. Plush carpets covered the floor, and the walls were adorned with expensive artwork. A small fountain in the corner didn't spout brandy, but its gentle burbling added a touch of serenity to the room.

'Not bad,' Steele thought, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. 'Not bad at all.'

A timid knock at the door interrupted his reverie. "Come... in," he called out, not bothering to sit up.

A nervous-looking officer entered, clutching a file. "Sir, the suspect you recommended for arrest is here."

In an instant, Steele's demeanor changed. The laid-back lounger vanished, replaced by the feared enforcer known throughout the empire. He stood up, adjusting his hat. "Bring... him in."

Minutes later, Steele found himself face-to-face with a man who looked like he'd been through hell. Disheveled hair, sunken eyes, and trembling hands – this was not the picture of a hardened criminal.

"Do you know... why you're here?" Steele asked, his voice low and measured.

The man shook his head, fear evident in his eyes.

Steele took a long drag from his cigar. "Two men... Clove Avenue... three days ago. Ring any... bells?"

The suspect's eyes widened, but he remained silent.

"You were... the driver," Steele continued, exhaling smoke. "Never... engaged the target... directly. But you...

ran."

'How does he know all this?' the man thought, panic rising in his chest.

Steele circled the table, his movements deliberate. "Wife... Sarah. Two kids... Tom and... Lisa.

An okay house... on Elm Street." He paused, fixing the man with an intense stare. "Shame if... anything happened... to it."

The suspect's composure cracked. "Please, I didn't mean to get involved! They threatened my family!"

"Fascinating," Steele drawled, though his expression remained unchanged. "Tell me... more."

For the next twenty minutes, Steele continued to rattle off facts about the case and the man's life, barely asking any questions. To an observer, it might have seemed like he was getting nowhere. But with each statement, the suspect's reactions – a twitch, a gulp, a bead of sweat – told Steele everything he needed to know.

Finally, Steele straightened up. "That's... enough," he announced abruptly. "Need some men... to arrest... the real culprit."

As he strode out of the interrogation room, leaving behind a thoroughly confused suspect, he was met with stares of disbelief from the officers who had been observing.

'What just happened?' one thought.

'Did he even ask any questions?' another wondered.

Steele paused at the door, turning back to face them. "Gentlemen," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "crime doesn't solve... itself. Chop... chop."

With that, he sauntered away, leaving behind a wake of bewildered officers and the lingering scent of cigar smoke.

'Another day,' Steele thought to himself, 'another criminal... cornered.'

As he walked down the corridor, his mind was already racing ahead to the next case, the next puzzle to solve. For Steele, the game was never truly over – it just moved on to the next round.

As Steele strode towards the arcane-powered cart parked just outside the unit quarters, a band of enforcers trailing behind him like eager puppies, he felt the familiar weight of resignation settle in his chest.

'Case number 1,579,' he mused, his face an impassive mask. 'Another notch on the belt. Another criminal behind bars. Another day in the life of the great Detective Steele.'

The sarcasm in his thoughts was palpable, a stark contrast to the confident swagger in his step. He climbed into the cart, settling into the plush leather seat with practiced ease.

As the enforcers piled in around him, their faces a mix of awe and trepidation, Steele's mind drifted to the one case that still eluded him. The one mystery he couldn't crack, no matter how many cigars he smoked or how many criminals he put away.

"Mama's... death," he muttered under his breath, too low for anyone else to hear.

The cart hummed to life, arcane energy pulsing through its core. As it lifted off the ground, Steele gazed out the window, his reflection staring back at him – the picture of confidence and success.

'All these cases,' he thought bitterly, 'and the one that matters most remains unsolved.'

But outwardly, he simply took another drag from his cigar, blowing a perfect smoke ring as the cart soared into the Drakorian sky.