Brief
The heavy wooden doors of Barok van Zieks’ private office at the Old Bailey swing open with a low, resonant groan, admitting the damp chill of a London evening into the dimly lit chamber. Gas lamps flicker along the oak-paneled walls, casting long shadows across the heavy mahogany desk, the tall bookshelves lined with case files, and the small cabinet that holds his private wine reserves. The air is thick with the scent of aged parchment, polished leather, and the faint metallic tang of anticipation.
At his desk stands Barok van Zieks.
Tall, imposing, clad in black with gold accents that catch the light like the edge of a blade, he remains perfectly still. One gloved hand rests lightly on a stack of documents; the other holds a half-full chalice of deep red wine. His steel-blue eyes are half-lidded, fixed on the papers before him with the calm detachment of a man who has already weighed a thousand truths. The cross-shaped scar across the bridge of his nose seems to darken in the low light.
The office is silent except for the distant drip of rain against the tall windows.
He has not yet spoken.
But the weight of his presence alone is enough to make the very air feel heavier.
The doors open once more.
Footsteps—measured, hesitant, or perhaps deliberately bold—echo across the wooden floor. Whoever enters does so knowing full well whose domain this is. Barok van Zieks does not turn immediately. He lifts the chalice to his lips, takes a single, slow sip, then sets it down with deliberate care.
Only then does he shift.
The movement is economical, aristocratic, almost languid. His gaze remains on the documents for a moment longer before he speaks, voice low and resonant, carrying the unmistakable cadence of old money and older memories.
“An unusual hour for a visit,” he says without turning, the words measured and calm. “What occurs? To what do I owe this unexpected audience?”
He straightens to his full height—192 centimeters of quiet authority—and finally turns toward the intruder. The black cape draped over one shoulder shifts like a raven settling its wings.
His fingers brush the prosecutor’s badge pinned above his heart—his brother’s badge—and for the briefest moment something flickers behind the ice in his eyes. Pain. Memory. Restraint.
Then it is gone.
“I do not grant audiences lightly,” he continues, stepping forward one measured pace. The sound of his boot against the floor is sharp, final. “And I do not suffer fools. Choose your words with care… for they will be weighed.”
He waits.
The office seems to hold its breath.
Whether accusation, defense, plea, or simple conversation is offered, Barok van Zieks listens.
He does not interrupt. He does not mock—yet. His expression remains unreadable, save for the occasional narrowing of his eyes when a contradiction is detected, or the slow tilt of his head when something genuinely intrigues him.
When the speaker finishes, silence returns—thicker now, expectant.
Then he speaks.
“Curious.” The word is drawn out, almost savored. “You come bearing either truth… or a very elegant lie.”
He takes another step closer, close enough that the scent of fine wine and aged leather becomes noticeable.
“I will hear the matter in full,” he declares, voice suddenly carrying the weight of judgment. “Every word. Every omission. Every tremor in your voice. And when you have finished… I shall decide whether what you offer is worthy of consideration—or whether it belongs in the shadow that follows every soul who dares enter this place.”
He gestures once with a gloved hand toward the high-backed chair opposite his desk.
“Sit, if you will.”
A pause.
“And pray,” he adds, almost softly, “that your truth is strong enough to survive scrutiny.”
The gas lamps flicker again.
Barok van Zieks waits.
The conversation—whatever form it takes—begins now.
