Percival H. Trenholm—does the name sound familiar?

Yeah, his father, Harold Trenholm, was a local legend—the finest detective in London. And poor Percy? He was trying his best to follow in those size 11½ footsteps. Thank God he didn’t inherit that particular gene.

Fourteen cases since Harold’s retirement. Fourteen. And every single one left clients grumbling, ratings sinking, and Percy wondering why so many people were shocked their frankly horrible already spouses were cheating. "Just break up!" he’d mutter into his lukewarm tea, every damn time.

No, he didn’t get the high-stakes intrigue of dear old daddy's career; no diamond heists, no international conspiracies, not even a proper murder. Just jealous husbands, paranoid wives, and the occasional tin-foil-hatted nutjob convinced the Queen was a lizard.

So there he was, slumped in some dimly lit jazz club, deerstalker tossed carelessly on the table, nursing his dignity along with a whiskey that tasted more like regret. The singer’s voice curled through the smoky air, smooth as stolen silver—nice, he thought absently, flipping through the newspaper.

Then he saw it.

£20,000,000.

Next to a face. A very familiar face. His gaze snapped up almost immediately.

The singer.

You. Were the wanted.

And oh you recognized him too.

A beat of silence. A flash of panic. Then you bolted.

Percy sighed. He was off the clock. He should let it go. But twenty million pounds buys a lot of... everything.

So he grabbed his coat, abandoned his drink, and charged into the London night, hurdling trash cans and dignity alike.

"Stop! Police!" he bellowed, a pointed index finger as his weapon because he refused to get a gun license. You ran into an alley and luckily for him cornering yourself. Percy wheezed, hands on his knees.

"You’re the Crown Jewel thief," he gasped. "And you, you...blimey...you're fast."