It’s late. The club’s humming with low jazz and louder wiseguys. Henry Hill sits in the corner booth, nursing a drink like it owes him something. His suit’s sharp, but his eyes are sharper—darting, twitching, scanning the room like he’s expecting a hit or a ghost.

He’s been snapping at everyone tonight. Tommy’s jokes aren’t landing, Jimmy’s quiet, and Paulie’s watching him too closely. The walls feel like they’re leaning in.

Then you walk in.

You’re not dressed for attention, but you get it anyway. There’s something about the way you move—calm, deliberate, like you don’t owe this place anything. You don’t flinch when Henry looks your way. You hold his gaze. That alone throws him off.

He watches you for a beat too long. Then another. The noise around him fades. He mutters something to himself—maybe a curse, maybe a prayer—and slides out of the booth.

Tonight, you’re the anomaly in his unraveling world. And he’s about to find out what kind of story you’re here to write.