Confident, suave, and exuding an air of effortless charm, Frank Jr. carried himself with a graceful elegance that made him impossible to ignore. His smile was warm, his eyes bright, and in that brief mont, ti seed to pause, captivated by the brilliance of his presence. It was clear—Anson was indeed a handso man.
In that fleeting exchange, he naturally inspired trust—after all, humans are visual creatures. Even if he were to claim the earth was flat or the sun was cold, people might just believe him. And in this case, all he did was introduce himself.
"...I'm Allen, Barry Allen, from the United States Secret Service. Your boy just tried to jump out the window, but my partner apprehended him."
He spread his hands first, then casually slipped one into his pocket, leaning slightly against the desk with his long legs crossed, showcasing the allure of his tailored suit.
Without a sound, the power dynamic shifted into his favor.
Carl, however, wasn't relaxing just yet.
The barrel of his gun remained fixed on Frank Jr., but subtle details gave him away. He raised his chin slightly, furrowing his brows, and the gun's muzzle lifted an inch.
"I don't know what kind of nonsense you're spouting."
Ha.
Frank Jr. smiled, a brilliant, effortless smile that spread across his face, raising his eyebrows slightly. "Do you think the FBI is the only one after him?"
"Please, co on."
"He's been forging governnt checks here. That's how we tracked him down."
Frank Jr. pulled out both hands and stood up, casually rifling through the desk.
His unhurried, calm deanor finally started to convince Carl.
Frank Jr. could see from the corner of his eye that Carl's arm was still outstretched, gun aid, but his feet had unconsciously moved closer—advancing, raising his chin, Carl was trying to peer at the desk.
...An opportunity?
What were the chances of successfully disarming Carl and escaping right now?
The thought flickered through his mind.
But he didn't want to take that risk.
His fingers, now steadier, found the "evidence" he was looking for on the desk. He didn't relax; instead, his nerves were taut as ever.
As he spoke, "It's been a few months now," the muscles in his left arm tensed completely—not to strike, but to monitor Carl's every move, keeping a close eye on his expressions and actions.
Closer.
Even closer.
He looked up at Carl, raising his left hand and gently but firmly gesturing for him to stop, his brows knitting together in a serious expression.
"Do you mind moving the gun away from my face?"
"Please. Really. It's making very nervous."
Carl looked over and realized he had unknowingly moved right in front of Frank Jr. He quickly stepped back, creating so distance again.
However, seeing that Frank Jr. wasn't making any sudden moves reassured Carl slightly, though he still didn't lower his guard and kept Frank Jr. in his sights.
"Let see your credentials."
Carl remained vigilant, not letting the stranger in front of him out of his grasp.
Frank Jr.: Damn.
After all this groundwork, after all this effort, Carl still wasn't distracted, and now they had reached the critical mont—the credentials.
But Frank Jr. didn't panic. On the contrary, he flashed a composed smile. "Of course."
With a natural turn, Frank Jr. reached into his pocket to search. He didn't hesitate or pause—any sign of doubt could expose him. Instead, he went further, offering Carl his entire wallet.
"Take my whole wallet."
Carl didn't hesitate, naturally accepting the wallet.
Frank Jr.'s alarm bells went off: What to do, what to do, what to do?
Once Carl opened the wallet, the whole ruse would be exposed, and he had already missed his chance to escape.
But the more dire the situation, the calr he needed to be.
Frank Jr. rembered his father's trick: distract them.
Old Frank used to joke that the New York Yankees always won because their pinstripe uniforms distracted their opponents.
Step one: "Do you want my gun too? Go ahead, take my gun."
This was both an invitation and a complaint, a protest, a plea.
But it didn't work—
Carl remained focused, keeping his right hand on the gun aid at Frank Jr. while trying to open the wallet with his left hand to check the credentials.
The detail was in the button on the outside of Frank Jr.'s wallet, which kept the contents from falling out. At the mont, that button was fastened.
The button wasn't secure, but it made it difficult for Carl to open the wallet with one hand.
As Carl began to lose patience, the next step could be demanding that Frank Jr. open it himself or growing suspicious of why he handed over the whole wallet.
Step two: "Hey!"
Frank Jr. quickly scanned the room, looking for another target to divert attention. In a split second, without even a mont to think, in just a millisecond, he had to be bold and decisive.
Then, he saw it—
A risky move.
"Hey, do a favor, look out the window."
Frank Jr. called out again, louder this ti, finally catching Carl's attention. He even took the initiative to draw back the curtains, dramatically presenting the scene outside to Carl.
"Look, my partner is putting him in the car right now."
Carl wasn't convinced.
He remained cautious, stepping up to the window but keeping his eyes fixed on "Barry Allen," trying to catch any trickery. His face remained expressionless, like soone determined to unravel a magician's illusion.
"Barry" appeared entirely focused on the scene outside, seemingly oblivious to Carl's scrutiny. "See?" he insisted.
This action finally persuaded Carl to glance outside. He looked quickly, just a montary glance, before turning his gaze back to Barry.
Barry, with a smile, shook his head and joked lightly, "The old guy nearly wet himself when I ca in. He jumped straight out of this window onto my car."
Details—it's always the details that give a lie its power.
Carl still didn't believe him entirely, but he needed to verify. Because, indeed, there was soone outside, escorting another person to a car. The escorted man looked shaky, unsteady on his feet, almost like he might collapse at any mont.
Wait—this seed to make sense, but sothing felt off. Where was the flaw?
Carl began to ponder.
Frank Jr. noticed this shift in Carl's expression. He knew he was halfway to success, but he also knew that lies often unravel right at this point—
Outside, there was indeed soone helping another into a car, but it wasn't Barry Allen's partner arresting a con artist. It was Mr. Murphy, an elderly resident from another room on the sa floor, being assisted by his son, who had co to take him ho.
Mr. Murphy had been living there for a while. Frank Jr. had chatted with him a few tis and knew about his knee problems. The elderly man was staying in the sunlit apartnt to aid his recovery. In fact, just before the FBI agents had arrived, Frank Jr. and Mr. Murphy had exchanged greetings in the stairwell.
Magic, often not as mysterious as it seems, is just a trick of the eye. The real secret lies in the magician's ability to divert attention—constantly talking, performing, and disrupting the audience's focus.
Magic, after all, is a form of performance.
Just like now, Frank Jr. needed to put on a magic show for the FBI agent.
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