*****
The Velvet Noose was a wound in the city's flesh.
Above ground, it wore the mask of a gambling den for gentlemen, all velvet curtains and mahogany trim, where fortunes changed hands over cards and whiskey. But below ground, the rot showed.
The stairs descended into darkness. They were narrow, worn smooth by decades of boots that had climbed down and never climbed back up.
The torches that flickered in iron sconces gave barely enough light to make the shadows move and the walls seem closer than they were.
Past the gambling tables. Past the private rooms where men lost more than money. Past the iron door that led to the cellar.
The red door.
It wasn't painted red.
It was stained that color. Layer after layer, year after year, until the wood had soaked up so much that it had become something else entirely.
The handle was cold. The hinges never squeaked as someone oiled them regularly, because no one wanted to hear the sound of that door opening.
