I

The Prof

London, England

The Prof sat in his chair, balancing on the two back legs, his feet resting on the desk in front of him. His strawberry-red hair fell from its carefully placed fringe, and he brushed it back with long, thin fingers. He yawned and scratched his cheek, and then returned to what he was doing before.

Nothing.

An hour ago, he had been working vehemently in order to catch a bank robber and had finally discovered the culprit. He had sighed, deflating after the hard work, and then assumed the position he was in now. The non-lazy part of his mind made note to call the police to notify them of his discovery, but then his apathetic side had resumed control. They'll catch him soon enough. He thought to himself. It was at times like this that he needed something to do.

As if scripted, there was the clatter of his letter box and he heard a letter drop to the floor.

He jumped up, in the hope that the letter contained an interesting new case. He ripped open the top of the envelope eagerly, and pulled out the piece of paper to find two lines of text.

'I need your help.' The first line read.

Then he paused. Read the next line, over and over.

'To kill someone.'

The Prof reread the letter one more time. Interesting. Very interesting.

He walked back to his chair. He scanned the piece of paper and the envelope a couple of times. No name, no address... no sender... Whoever wrote this letter had personally dropped it off, as the envelope had no marked address, to or from. He dropped the letter on his desk, and flicked on the TV, switching channels until he found the news.

An update on a war in a foreign land... a paedophile dying in jail... a new film release... the death of a young drug dealer.

Nothing interesting to do, huh. He looked back at the letter. I guess this'll do. But why would you need a Detective's help to kill someone..?

The Prof began to make a list in his head. I have knowledge about things criminals need to know; the perfect alibis, murder weapons, tricks, the police, past and unsolved crimes... He gave up on the list. Okay, then so why me? I'm unjust, lazy, and don't report solved crimes to the police. Plus I'm a well-known, 'charming' childhood genius…

Okay...but why the blank letter, and no contact details? So that they're always in control.

He turned back to the TV.

Another death. A Tam Murdoch.

It barely registered in his mind.

He jumped at the sound of his letterbox, as something else was dropped through. He ran to the door and yanked it open, hoping to find the mystery sender behind it, but was greeted with nothing but the dank corridor outside his office.

He sighed and closed the door, then bent down to collect the letter.

'If you accept, write 'yes' on this envelope and leave it outside of your door.'

He grabbed a biro and without hesitation scribbled 'Yes' onto the paper.

Then he waited.

-x-

Before the Prof sat a middle aged man who couldn't be older than forty-five, but who was no younger than thirty. His outfit looked as if it was once an expensive, designer suit, but now it was quite dull and worn, as if he hadn't taken it off for the last ten years. The man himself mirrored this, with a once handsome face ruined by years of hardships, premature wrinkles making their way onto his face, and large black bags below his eyes. The whole air about him felt defeated; his hunched back, his nervous eyes, and his fingers drumming impatiently upon his knee.

This was the man who wanted The Prof's help.

The man took a newspaper clipping from his inside pocket. It was crumpled, slightly torn, obviously scorned at plenty of times, but still readable. He pointed at the picture.

"This man. Kill him."

The Prof looked at the title. 'LAWYER WINS LONG-RUNNING BATTLE.'

He quickly skim-read the rest of the article. Apparently a man had lost his whole life's meaning in an explosion at a party being held at his workplace. His wife, children, friends and co-workers had all attended. He had gone outside to take a phone call at the time of the explosion. They all died but him. It was allegedly 'covered up' by the company. The man had tried to sue the company. The company's lawyer had taken what was left of his possessions; all of his money, his house, his car. The man sat in front of him. He was pointing at a picture of the lawyer.

The Prof smiled, his emerald eyes glinting behind his glasses. Gokudera… what are you planning?

"Interesting... So. How do you want him to die?"

All content in this chapter was written by NinjaNinaIII.