Jeavons looked up, his grey hair a bit more dishevelled than usual, his thin-rimmed spectacles askew. “Ah, Solo. Thought you’d be here by now. Don’t tell me you’re still marvelling at that bloody ice sculpture in Threadneedle Street?” His voice, usually a gruff baritone, was frayed at the edges, carrying an unmistakable note of weariness. He gestured dismissively at an array of evidence bags scattered across the table, each containing fragments of the impossible.
Numerous pieces of super-cooled metal, twisted and brittle, lay alongside melted plastic, salvaged from a succession of audacious heists attributed to ‘Celsius’. Jeavons, ever the pragmatist, still clung to the hope of a conventional explanation, a master criminal with some sort of advanced, albeit highly improbable, technology. “It’s a freak, Solo. A bloody clever freak, mind you, but a freak nonetheless. We’ll find the gadget, the gizmo, whatever it is, that causes all this… theatricality.” Yet, despite his insistence, Solo could detect the distinct edge of doubt that laced his superior’s words, a subtle crack in the Chief Inspector’s staunchly mundane worldview.
Solo, however, ignored the dismissive tone and moved towards the table, his gaze drawn to the physical manifestations of Celsius’s power. He picked up a shard of what had once been a reinforced steel vault door. It was impossibly light, almost delicate, and despite being at room temperature, it still radiated an echo of the extreme cold that had made it so brittle. He turned it over in his gloved fingers, noting the crystalline structure of the fracture, unlike anything he’d ever seen in conventional metallurgy. This wasn’t just a clever criminal; this was something entirely different, something that bent the very laws of physics.
Carefully, he placed the steel fragment back amongst its brethren. “Chief Inspector, with respect, this isn’t just theatricality. The readings from the Bank of England vault were consistent: minus one hundred and fifty degrees Celsius. That’s not a gadget, that’s… something else.” He paused, choosing his words deliberately, knowing Jeavons’s aversion to anything that smacked of the 'unconventional'. “And it’s not just the cold, is it?”
Jeavons sighed, rubbing his temples. “No, it’s not just the cold. You’ve seen the reports from the Hatton Garden diamond exchange, haven’t you? That’s why we’re here, Solo. Another bloody Celsius calling card.” He pushed a tablet across the table, its screen glowing with static images before a short video clip began to play. The footage, grainy and distorted, showed the exterior of the high-security diamond exchange, a bastion of wealth and meticulous defence. Then, a shimmering heat haze appeared, rippling across the CCTV lens as if the very air was boiling. The cameras distorted further, the image blurring into an indistinct mess, just before the colossal vault doors, designed to withstand explosives, buckled inward, molten and dripping like candle wax. There was no clear image of Celsius, only the supernatural effects, a ghost in the machine.
The video ended, leaving an unsettling silence in its wake. Solo stared at the still image of the ruined vault, the sheer destructive power on display starkly contrasting with the delicate frozen rose he’d discovered hours earlier. “So, extreme cold at the Bank of England, extreme heat at Hatton Garden. Not just one impossible phenomenon, but two. And both beyond anything we can explain with conventional forensics or physics, Chief Inspector.” He looked at Jeavons, his gaze steady. “This isn’t a skilled criminal, sir. This is something fundamentally different. We need to start considering… unconventional theories.”
Jeavons recoiled slightly, as if Solo had uttered a forbidden word. “Unconventional theories, Solo? Are you suggesting we start looking for wizards and dragons now? My superiors are already breathing down my neck, demanding answers. The public is in a panic, and frankly, so am I. But I will not entertain fantasies.” He ran a hand over his balding head, his frustration palpable. “We’re a police force, Solo, not some occult detective agency. We deal with facts, with evidence, with what we can see and touch and measure.”
Nevertheless, the Chief Inspector’s resistance, though fierce, felt weaker than before. The weight of the public panic, the unrelenting pressure from above, and the undeniable inadequacy of their current methods were clearly taking their toll. He looked at the evidence scattered before them – the super-cooled fragments, the images of the molten vault – and then at Solo’s earnest, analytical face. “Look, I understand your… enthusiasm for the bizarre, Solo. But we have to operate within the realm of the possible. However,” he conceded, his voice grudging, “I need something. Anything. Compile a comprehensive report on all these… anomalous findings. Every impossible temperature reading, every unidentifiable residue, every bit of footage that defies explanation. Don’t leave anything out, no matter how outlandish it seems.” It was a tacit admission, a crack in his pragmatic armour, that something beyond their understanding was indeed at play.
Solo nodded, a quiet sense of purpose settling over him. He knew this was a small victory, a grudging acknowledgement that the rules of their world were perhaps not as rigid as Jeavons believed. He stared at the screen, the image of the melted diamond vault still vivid, then reached into his jacket pocket. His fingers brushed against the delicate, frozen rose, its impossible perfection a chilling counterpoint to the destructive heat he’d just witnessed. The stark contrast between extreme cold and extreme heat painted a picture of an unseen, powerful force, a mastery over the very elements. He resolved, then and there, to delve deeper into the impossible evidence, knowing with absolute certainty that the answers wouldn’t be found in police procedure manuals. He lifted the frozen rose from his pocket, turning it over in his hand, a silent promise to himself to explore the depths of this strangeness.
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