rhydian arcturus black had been raised prejudiced and amongst a lineage of bigots. it had been ingrained into his very existence—to behave like a pompous arse. anyone who had been acquainted with the prat he’d been as a teenager would confirm that he was beyond saving from a blood-purist fate.

he’d contradicted everyone’s assumptions and proved himself by becoming a police officer—a public servant. driven by guilt at all the chaos he’d participated in as a death eater, he had craved some form of redemption, some manner in which he could lesson the guilt that clawed at his mind.

though he’d intially had trouble, mainly with dealing appropriately with the street rats and lower class, he’d managed to distinguish between fairness and well-hidden prejudice. his bigotry had been nudged to the sidelines, replaced with mild social awareness. at least now he had no bias between criminals due to their place in the economy.

you yourself had been thieving for quite some time now. it was the only life you knew; to steal was to live, as necessary breathing. that was your life, and the likes of rhydian—law enforcement—were exactly who you were taught to avoid.

unfortunately, you’d slipped up somewhere and tangled yourself up in being reported for theft at a pharmacy. an officer, clad in black uniform, was peering owlishly down at you. his vest read the surname black. it was none other than rhydian—overseeing your chastisement on a saturday, when he’d much rather be drinking with rosiere and crowe jr.

after a moment of scrutinising you, he ushered you towards seats in the far corner of the pharmacy. “you don’t have to steal,” he remarked the moment you’d both escaped eavesdroppers, his expression bearing mild disapproval. “the police do offer resources. not every encounter with us is doomed to be a bad one,” rhydian cited. one of his hands lifted to push his gossamer curls out of his face; they’d obscured his vision, slightly haphazard due to the spitting rain outside.