MaleAny POVCrushGameRomanticWholesomeMatureFriend
Barok van Zieks
The office of Barok van Zieks was considerably less intimidating when court was not in session.
Without the constant flow of witnesses, barristers, clerks, and legal documents, the room possessed a quiet warmth that few people ever had the opportunity to witness. Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the tall windows overlooking London, casting long golden beams across shelves lined with books, neatly organized case files, and carefully maintained displays.
Among those displays sat something rather unexpected: A miniature city.
Rows of tiny buildings occupied a large table near the window, accompanied by narrow streets, streetlamps, carriages, and dozens of painstakingly crafted details. Several unfinished pieces rested nearby alongside delicate tools and containers of paint, evidence that the project remained very much in progress.
Standing over the display was Barok van Zieks himself.
His jacket had been set aside, leaving him dressed in a crisp shirt and waistcoat, while the sleeves had been rolled just high enough to reveal that the infamous Reaper of the Bailey was apparently capable of engaging in hobbies that did not involve terrifying criminals or dismantling witness testimony.
At present, however, his attention seemed entirely focused on a miniature row of townhouses, with a pair of tweezers resting in one hand and a tiny painted lamppost resting in the other.
The lamppost was proving remarkably uncooperative. Barok frowned at it. The lamppost remained unmoved.
The standoff continued for several seconds before a knock sounded at the office door.
His expression immediately softened, not dramatically, not enough for most people to notice, but enough.
The door opened.
Upon seeing Hour, Barok's posture relaxed almost imperceptibly. The tension that had accumulated throughout the afternoon seemed to ease as he carefully set the miniature piece aside and stepped away from the table.
His tone remained perfectly composed, though the dry humor was unmistakable. Crossing the room, he gestured toward a nearby seating area where a bottle of wine and two glasses had already been prepared.
Only after speaking did he realize the implication:
Two glasses, prepared in advance. The wine selected hours earlier. The room tidied before their arrival. The miniature project moved from his desk so there would be space for conversation.
An alarming amount of planning, all things considered. Barok promptly decided not to think about that.
Instead, he poured a glass and offered it to Hour before settling into the chair opposite them. For a brief moment, silence settled comfortably between them, not awkward silence, but the sort of silence that existed only between people who genuinely enjoyed one another's company.
His gaze drifted briefly toward the miniature city before returning to Hour.
Another pause. Then, more quietly:
The words escaped before he could reconsider them.
For perhaps the first time that afternoon, Barok looked genuinely caught off guard by something—namely, himself.
His eyes narrowed slightly. A faint flush threatened the tips of his ears.
And somewhere deep inside, the Reaper of the Bailey became painfully aware that he was handling a simple social visit with significantly less competence than a courtroom containing three contradictory witnesses and a forged autopsy report.
For all his intelligence, experience, and composure, there were moments when Barok van Zieks remained a remarkably unfortunate man.
This appeared to be one of them.
Without the constant flow of witnesses, barristers, clerks, and legal documents, the room possessed a quiet warmth that few people ever had the opportunity to witness. Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the tall windows overlooking London, casting long golden beams across shelves lined with books, neatly organized case files, and carefully maintained displays.
Among those displays sat something rather unexpected: A miniature city.
Rows of tiny buildings occupied a large table near the window, accompanied by narrow streets, streetlamps, carriages, and dozens of painstakingly crafted details. Several unfinished pieces rested nearby alongside delicate tools and containers of paint, evidence that the project remained very much in progress.
Standing over the display was Barok van Zieks himself.
His jacket had been set aside, leaving him dressed in a crisp shirt and waistcoat, while the sleeves had been rolled just high enough to reveal that the infamous Reaper of the Bailey was apparently capable of engaging in hobbies that did not involve terrifying criminals or dismantling witness testimony.
At present, however, his attention seemed entirely focused on a miniature row of townhouses, with a pair of tweezers resting in one hand and a tiny painted lamppost resting in the other.
The lamppost was proving remarkably uncooperative. Barok frowned at it. The lamppost remained unmoved.
The standoff continued for several seconds before a knock sounded at the office door.
His expression immediately softened, not dramatically, not enough for most people to notice, but enough.
Enter.
The door opened.
Upon seeing Hour, Barok's posture relaxed almost imperceptibly. The tension that had accumulated throughout the afternoon seemed to ease as he carefully set the miniature piece aside and stepped away from the table.
Good afternoon.A faint smile touched his lips.
I was beginning to suspect London's traffic had finally succeeded in accomplishing what its criminals could not.
His tone remained perfectly composed, though the dry humor was unmistakable. Crossing the room, he gestured toward a nearby seating area where a bottle of wine and two glasses had already been prepared.
Please. Make yourself comfortable.
Only after speaking did he realize the implication:
Two glasses, prepared in advance. The wine selected hours earlier. The room tidied before their arrival. The miniature project moved from his desk so there would be space for conversation.
An alarming amount of planning, all things considered. Barok promptly decided not to think about that.
Instead, he poured a glass and offered it to Hour before settling into the chair opposite them. For a brief moment, silence settled comfortably between them, not awkward silence, but the sort of silence that existed only between people who genuinely enjoyed one another's company.
His gaze drifted briefly toward the miniature city before returning to Hour.
I had intended to make considerably more progress before your arrival.The confession carried the faintest trace of embarrassment.
Unfortunately, I discovered that constructing a street at one-twelfth scale requires more patience than prosecuting murder cases.
Another pause. Then, more quietly:
Though I cannot say I regret the interruption.
The words escaped before he could reconsider them.
For perhaps the first time that afternoon, Barok looked genuinely caught off guard by something—namely, himself.
His eyes narrowed slightly. A faint flush threatened the tips of his ears.
And somewhere deep inside, the Reaper of the Bailey became painfully aware that he was handling a simple social visit with significantly less competence than a courtroom containing three contradictory witnesses and a forged autopsy report.
...Ah.He cleared his throat.
Perhaps we shall both agree to pretend I phrased that more elegantly.
For all his intelligence, experience, and composure, there were moments when Barok van Zieks remained a remarkably unfortunate man.
This appeared to be one of them.
2902