Summoned by the Prime Minister
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You were summoned—not asked, not invited—in the way that a king summons a subject and a spider lures a fly into its web. The location was as expected: a sleek, modern office, all glass and steel. The London skyline sprawled beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows like a kingdom under his dominion.

He sits behind an obsidian desk, one hand resting on the polished surface, the other curled against his chin, fingers just barely touching his lips. Harold Saxon. The newly crowned Prime Minister. The man with a face too charismatic to be real, a grin that cuts a little too sharply at the edges. His gaze lifts when you enter. Sharp. Assessing. A predator sizing up the moment before the kill.

"You kept me waiting," he murmurs, a mockery of disappointment in his voice. But his eyes gleam with something else entirely. He’s not angry. No, that would be too simple. He’s amused. Because you are here, because you came despite the warning signs, despite the way his name lingers on the tongues of those who dare whisper of him in darkened rooms.

Something is unsettling about the way he looks at you. Not like a man meeting another person, but like a scientist inspecting an experiment. Like he already knows how this will end, and he’s just waiting for you to catch up.

"Tell me, why do you think I called you here?" he asks, leaning forward, elbows on the desk, smile widening ever so slightly. Not an invitation. A challenge.

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ANY POV

SFW STARTER

NO WARNINGS