Location: Fenwick District — The Golden Jackal — Poker Room — Night
The Golden Jackal was a wound in the city's side.
Not a building—a presence. Its facade was dark brick, streaked with grime, its windows tinted so heavily that even the afternoon sun could not penetrate. A single neon sign hung above the entrance: a jackal's head, teeth bared, its eyes glowing amber. The letters beneath read GOLDEN JACKAL in script that most passersby could not read. The neon buzzed faintly, flickering with each passing moment, casting the street below in pulses of sickly yellow light.
Inside, the air was thick.
Smoke clung to the ceiling in layers—cigarette smoke, cigar smoke, the faint chemical sweetness of something that was not tobacco. The lighting was dim, amber, the kind of light that made everyone look older and sadder than they actually were. The walls were lined with velvet, stained and worn, their surfaces marked by years of use. The floor was sticky with spilled drinks and forgotten memories. A jukebox in the corner played something slow and sad that no one was listening to.
The poker room was in the back.
A single table dominated the space, its surface green felt, its edges scarred by countless hands. Chips were stacked in neat piles. Cards were scattered across the table. The players leaned forward, their eyes sharp, their faces unreadable. The air was thick with tension, the kind of tension that came before a big hand, the kind that made the skin prickle and the hair stand on end.
Janitor Emilio sat at the table.
His name was Emilio Vargas. His face was lined, his hands calloused, his eyes tired. He wore a stained apron over a cheap shirt, its pockets bulging with chips. His fingers were wrapped around a glass of something amber—something that he had been nursing for hours. His knuckles were white, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on the cards in front of him. A half-eaten sausage sat on a napkin beside him, its grease soaking through the paper.
"Alright," he said.
His voice was loud, confident.
"It appears today is another one of those days."
"I'm going to get my lucky break."
"Again."
The other players groaned.
They were a motley crew—a retired dockworker with a missing tooth, a young woman with tired eyes and a stack of chips that had been shrinking all night, a middle-aged man in a cheap suit who had been losing steadily for hours.
"Emilio," one of them said.
His voice was flat.
"You're just not giving us any chances, are you?"
"Every time we try to find some smooth sailing—you find us and outplay us."
Emilio's grin was wide, his teeth yellowed from years of cheap coffee and cheaper cigars.
"What can I say?"
"I'm that great."
He picked up the sausage and bit into it, chewing loudly, the juice dripping down his chin. The other players exchanged glances of disgust.
"That's disgusting," one of them muttered. "You're eating sausages at a poker table."
"What's wrong with sausages?"
"Everything."
"Everything's wrong with sausages."
Emilio shrugged, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Sausages are great. You're just jealous."
"Jealous of what?"
"Of my sausages."
The other player stared at him, his mouth open, his eyes wide.
"Of your—"
"Yes. Of my sausages."
The table fell into a bemused silence.
---
A woman approached the table.
Her movements were fluid, unhurried. Her heels clicked against the worn floor—tap, tap, tap—a rhythm that made the players look up. Her dress was dark, its fabric heavy, its cut low. Her face was hidden behind dark sunglasses, but the curve of her lips suggested a smile. Her hair was dark, falling in waves across her shoulders.
She stopped beside Emilio.
Her hand found his shoulder.
Her fingers traced the fabric of his apron.
"You played well," she said.
Her voice was soft, almost a whisper.
"Very well."
Emilio's eyes widened. His body stiffened. His breath caught in his throat.
"I just—"
"You just played well."
Her fingers traced his collarbone.
"I was watching you. I couldn't look away."
She leaned closer. Her lips brushed his ear.
"Seeing how well you played—it stirred something in me. Why don't you and I go somewhere more private? I'd like to show you my appreciation."
The other players stared. Their faces were pale. Their eyes were wide. Their mouths were open. Chips slipped from their fingers. Cards fell from their hands.
"What is happening?"
"I don't know. But I don't like it."
---
Emilio stood.
His chair scraped against the floor—a loud, jarring sound. His eyes were fixed on the woman. His body was trembling. His hands were shaking.
"After you," he said.
His voice was barely a whisper.
"After you."
The woman smiled. "After you."
They walked away.
The other players watched them go. Their faces were pale. Their eyes were wide. Their mouths were open.
"Man," one of them said. "What is with this guy? Does the land favor him with fortune or what?"
"Look at me. Ever since Kuvitich suddenly closed down their casino, I've been left unemployed. Thought that by doing this shitty game, I'd be finding some scores. But look at me now. More down and put in my pocket."
The others nodded, their eyes dark with envy.
"Yeah," one of them muttered. "Yeah."
---
The woman led Emilio into a back room.
The space was small, cramped, its walls lined with shelves. Bottles of cheap liquor lined the shelves, their labels faded. The light was dim, amber, the kind of light that made everything look older and sadder than it actually was. The floor was sticky. The air smelled of dust and cheap perfume.
Emilio turned around.
His eyes were wide. His body was trembling. His breath was coming in short, sharp gasps.
"I—"
The woman's hand shot out.
Her fingers closed around his wrist. Her other hand pressed a blade against his throat. The metal was cold, sharp, final. The edge pressed against his skin, just enough to draw a thin line of blood.
"Listen up," she said.
Her voice was flat.
"Better not scream. Or you'll find just how deep my blade goes."
Emilio's body went still. His eyes went wide. His throat moved. Cold sweat trailed down his back.
"I won't scream. I won't."
The woman's lips curved. "Good."
---