Chapter Text
The large conference room at the State Bureau of Investigation (SBI) headquarters, which everyone simply calls Polis for some reason, was unremarkably furnished. Pale gray walls lined with a massive whiteboard still filled with notes and diagrams from previous briefings defined the room, as did the worn linoleum floor in a shade of green so dull it was painful to look at. At least the windows along one side of the room let in natural light, while heavy blinds stood ready to darken the space when needed. The room was functional—nothing more, nothing less.
Clarke Griffin stood at the podium, her presence radiating a vibrant energy that captivated everyone in the room. She was delivering one of her well-regarded lectures on crime prevention. Her audience, a diverse mix of agents and police officers from various units of Polis and Arkadia, the latter officially better known as the FBI (Federal Bureau of Investigation), listened attentively.
Clarke spoke without notes or slides. Her voice was clear and resolute, her words bearing the weight of years of experience. The world of criminals that Clarke dealt with was anything but soft. Yet, she wasn’t here to intimidate; she wanted to inspire her colleagues to remain vigilant and innovative in the ongoing battle against crime.
Her eyes swept over the faces in the audience. Not everyone had the chance to learn from her. The renowned Arkadia agent was a specialist in the Department of Serious and Organized Crime, but she wasn’t a traditional teacher. Clarke was a doer, someone who preferred to be out in the field rather than telling others how to do the job.
Her boss, Marcus Kane, Arkadia’s director, had persuaded her to give these lectures in order to share her extensive knowledge and valuable experience with other agents. Polis and Arkadia worked closely together, which was why most of the joint training sessions were held in Polis headquarters. Still, Clarke got to choose who she wanted to teach. She had little patience for young, inexperienced agents who fancied themselves the next big action hero, only to quickly realize how much they still had to learn.
Clarke preferred seasoned agents who already had field experience in investigating serious crimes. These agents brought not only the necessary expertise but also the seriousness and willingness to grow. Clarke’s time was precious, and she wanted to make sure it was used wisely. That’s why she always checked the personnel files of the attendees, especially the names she didn’t recognize. It might have seemed unorthodox, but no one except Clarke and Marcus Kane knew how the final selections were made, so it was acceptable.
Clarke nodded to herself. She had chosen her audience carefully, fully aware that some were only here out of curiosity. Since the Martan case two years ago, where Clarke had dismantled an international, ruthless organization involved in human trafficking, her reputation had become legendary. Many attendees secretly hoped she would talk about that case. But Clarke wasn’t the type to brag about her achievements. To her, it was just part of the job—a job she continued with relentless dedication, always with the goal of putting more criminals behind bars.
Satisfied, she looked around at her audience. It was a good mix of agents from all units, and there were even a few women among them. Her field was still dominated by men, which was understandable given the nature of the work. Clarke was well aware of that fact, but she wasn’t deterred by it. Her appearance was always professional, and her daily dress code impeccable. She consistently wore dark blue suits paired with white blouses. Gold stud earrings and her beloved watch were the only pieces of jewelry she wore. Her long blonde hair was always neatly pinned up in a bun. A suit of armor made of competence and control.
Spontaneously, Clarke’s eyes landed on the women in the room. A particularly dark blonde in the front row briefly caught her attention. The confident way the woman looked at her intrigued Clarke. Her name was Niylah Anderson, and Clarke had studied her file—a list of impressive achievements and a dedicated Polis agent. Their paths had crossed twice before, and Clarke had noticed Niylah’s open interest in her.
For a moment, Clarke’s thoughts wandered: The private Clarke might have returned that look and maybe even arranged to meet Niylah after the lecture. But not this Clarke, the one standing here as the flawless Agent of Arkadia. She kept her expression neutral. Entertaining such thoughts would be unprofessional and had no place in the workplace.
Clarke’s gaze wandered on and she quickly refocused on her lecture. Yet, in the middle of her speech, her attention was captured by an unfamiliar face. A young brunette stood out and piqued Clarke’s curiosity. She was sitting at the back, wearing a black sweater with the white logo of Polis, its oversized fit practically swallowing her figure. Her long brown hair was tied up in a loose braid, but her thick, freshly cut bangs fell over her forehead, almost covering her eyes.
Clarke wondered how the woman could even see through that curtain of hair, let alone focus. As if sensing Clarke’s thoughts, the brunette brushed her bangs aside, revealing striking green eyes that locked onto Clarke’s for a lingering moment. The intensity of their gaze caused the brunette to blink, her eyes widening slightly before she quickly averted her gaze, lowering her head to nervously scribble something on her notepad.
«Caught», Clarke thought to herself, certain now that this woman hadn’t officially signed up for her lecture. Clarke took the chance to study the name tag pinned to the woman’s sweater: Anya Woods. A flicker of confusion passed through her. The name matched, but something didn’t fit. Clarke had never met Anya personally, but based on her file and the chatter around the office, she had expected someone older, more experienced. The woman sitting in the back felt more like a rookie.
Clarke cleared her throat and forced herself to look away. She needed to focus on finishing her lecture without further distractions. Of course, she would deal with the mystery of this impostor later.
As lunchtime approached, Clarke wrapped up the first part of her lecture and announced a one-hour break. The attendees filed out of the room, and Clarke breathed a sigh of relief when she finally found herself alone. She savored the sudden silence, using the quiet to gather her thoughts.
Instead of heading to the crowded cafeteria, Clarke had brought a salad with her and decided to stay in the lecture room. She slipped off her dark blue blazer, hanging it neatly over a nearby chair, and took a seat by the window, which overlooked the courtyard. As she ate her deli salad of tuna and eggs in peace, her mind drifted toward the afternoon session. She used the time to refine some points and adjust her strategy for the upcoming discussions.
When the break ended and the attendees returned, Clarke couldn’t help but notice that the brunette with the striking green eyes hadn’t come back. Maybe she had realized Clarke knew she wasn’t the real Anya Woods, Clarke mused, pushing away a small pang of disappointment.
Refocusing, Clarke led the second half of the lecture, directing questions to the participants. This part was more theoretical, but Clarke’s interactive approach was a tried-and-true method for gauging understanding and maintaining attention. With sharp eyes, she scanned the room, watching for reactions.
«What behavioral patterns have proven most revealing when profiling serial killers?» she asked, nodding as several hands shot up.
«And how can we apply these findings to the ever-evolving tactics of modern serial offenders?»
The answers came quickly, and they were thoughtful. One participant emphasized the importance of crime scene analysis and victimology, while another highlighted the role of online activity in tracking modern serial killers.
Clarke was pleased. It was clear her audience had not only been attentive but had also engaged in critical thinking. Her time had not been wasted.
As the lecture neared its end, Clarke stepped away from the podium to close the gap between her and the attendees. This was her favorite part – answering questions and exchanging insights with other officers. She leaned casually on the podium when suddenly, a shrill sound pierced the room.
The fire alarm blared, deafeningly loud.
Chaos erupted as the attendees‘ attention snapped away from Clarke. Several officers instinctively reached for their weapons. «What the hell?» Clarke muttered, remaining calm and ready to take control of the situation. Her training kicked in. She scanned the room for any immediate threats – nothing. Next, she checked her phone and the agency’s communication channel – still nothing.
The participants were already on their feet. «Must be a drill,» someone muttered, «but we should head to the assembly point, just in case.» The group agreed, most moving toward the exit. Among them, Clarke spotted the dark blond woman—Niylah. Their eyes met, but Clarke didn’t acknowledge her. As the highest-ranking officer present, Clarke knew she had to be the last to leave the building. When she glanced back, Niylah had already vanished into the crowd.
The alarms at the Agency all had different tones for different threats, and Clarke knew them all. She knew this was the fire alarm, but still, her brow furrowed. Could there really be a fire? The odds seemed slim. But it couldn’t be a drill either – she would have been informed. And she certainly wouldn’t have allowed it on the rare day she was giving a lecture.
Clarke was technically part of Arkadia, but due to her lectures and close collaboration with Polis, she always kept an eye on the agents in the same unit, which focused on Serious and Organized Crime. At the moment, the position of deputy director at Polis was vacant, and it seemed likely that Clarke might apply for it. A promotion was certain, but instead of solving criminal cases, she would be handling mostly administrative tasks and personnel management. That wasn’t Clarke’s style—she lived for field operations. However, she had promised Marcus Kane who had suggested her for the role, that she wouldn’t immediately decline without trying it. Therefore, she was temporarily filling in as deputy director while Thelonious Jaha the current director, was on vacation, with no permanent replacement in sight yet. The added responsibility meant more work, but Clarke thrived on challenges. However, the fire alarm, which now fell under her purview, was not one of them. She had no choice but to carefully follow the routine.
Clarke ensured that all the windows were closed and the door remained open. She also checked the adjoining rooms, verifying that her colleagues, who also served as fire wardens, had done their duties. Her eyes briefly glanced towards the courtyard, where a crowd had already gathered at the assembly point. Clarke left the floor last to join them.
The shrill sound of the fire alarm abruptly stopped as Clarke reached the ground floor. She sighed in relief, thankful for the sudden silence after the deafening noise.
In the entrance hall, she ran into Murphy, the janitor, whom she had known for a long time and secretly considered useless. Clarke had frequently been annoyed by the fact that he never seemed to fully complete his tasks. The man with a weird hairstyle like a girl , wore an earpiece and gestured wildly. When he noticed Clarke out of the corner of his eye, his voice suddenly grew louder, adopting a pompous tone. His words, however, were meaningless to her.
«What’s going on here, Murphy?» Clarke interrupted him with a mix of authority and barely concealed impatience.
Murphy turned to face her and hurriedly ended his conversation through clenched teeth.
«It was a false alarm, Ms. Griffin. I just deactivated it and gave the all-clear,» he said curtly.
«A false alarm?» Clarke asked, irritated.
«Someone accidentally triggered the alarm,» he explained, nodding nervously. His ridiculous brushed hair stood out even more.
Clarke narrowed her eyes. «I know what a false alarm is. What I don’t understand is how such a thing could happen in a police building. It’s unacceptable. I want to speak with the responsible person immediately.»
«Of course, Ms. Griffin. I’ll take care of it right away,» Murphy replied, now less pompous. But Clarke could still see his reluctance.
«Good», she replied briefly and turned toward the exit. Then she paused, adding sharply, «By the way, the whiteboard in the conference room is still covered in notes from previous meetings. Erase it immediately. This is a police building, not a school.» With those words, Clarke stormed off.
Anger simmered inside her. A false alarm in a police building? How absurd. And on a day when she was giving a lecture, no less. Clarke could hardly accept that she hadn’t been able to finish the presentation. This disrupted her meticulously organized schedule. But the chaos was now too big, and the allotted time wouldn’t be enough anymore. False alarm or not, protocols had to be followed. It would take a while for normal operations to resume.
Clarke stepped outside to collect herself. The cool air embraced her like a welcome hug. She leaned briefly against the wall and caught a glimpse of her reflection in a nearby window. A few blonde strands had come loose from her bun, her already pale skin looked even more ashen, and her dark blue eyes reflected exhaustion. The past weeks had been anything but quiet. They had only recently wrapped up a case that had kept her awake for nights on end, and it still lingered for a few days after.
Despite the stress and lack of sleep, Clarke loved her job. It didn’t bother her that her personal life was non-existent. Clarke didn’t need a personal life, but she did need to catch criminals and make the world a safer place.
At least her calendar promised that the upcoming weeks would be quieter. Clarke straightened up. At five-foot-ten, she wasn’t short by any means. Her navy pantsuit fit her long legs perfectly, though she subconsciously adjusted her clothing.
Her gaze automatically drifted three streets over, as if she had to ensure it was still there. The towering silhouette of the Arkadia headquarters loomed on the horizon—a visible reminder of the close collaboration between the two agencies.
Sudden laughter pulled Clarke out of her thoughts. In the courtyard at the assembly point, a group of colleagues were chatting casually. Word had gotten around that there was no real danger, and the initial tension had given way to a more lighthearted mood. Among the seasoned officers in uniform, Clarke spotted some younger faces—probably new recruits who had recently transferred from the police to Polis. They were still in training clothes. Clarke would have to keep an eye on them, but that could wait.
She watched as some of the older officers teased the newcomers. «So, did you use the fire alarm as an excuse to skip training?» joked a senior officer. The new recruits laughed awkwardly in response.
What a ridiculous joke. Clarke felt a wave of discomfort wash over her as she watched the scene. Moments of camaraderie like this were foreign to her, almost unsettling. She turned away and re-entered the building, determined to assess the situation and restore order.