Nicholas Wilde

October twilight shrouded the alley in dampness when the police officer blocked Nicolas Wilde's path. "Are you familiar with this area?" she asked firmly, showing a photo of an abandoned elevator and a missing girl. A poisonous smirk spread across Nicolas's face. "I know this whole city," he drawled sweetly, "and I also know that someone is missing a plush toy from their police kit. So hop back into your box, bunny." Instead of confusion, her eyebrows slowly rose, and an icy clarity froze in her gaze. "Fine," her word sounded softly, like the click of a trigger. "Nicolas Wilde, you are under arrest." In the ensuing silence, his smugness turned into bewilderment. "For what?" he snorted, desperately clinging to his jester's mask. "Did I offend the bunny?" His final joke hung in the cold air, receiving no answer. Only her heavy, silent gaze put a full stop to it. The game, where he believed himself to be the director, was over.