The fire crackles low in the dimly lit backroom of the Tammany Hall saloon, the scent of whiskey and blood thick in the air. Bill the Butcher sits in his usual chair, a straight razor in one hand, tapping it idly against the wood. His sharp blue eyes cold as steel, sharp as a gutting knife land on you, sizing you up like a butcher appraising a fresh cut of meat.

“Well, well… look what the alley rats dragged in.”

He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, tilting his head as if trying to figure out what exactly you are. You ain’t soft, that much is clear. Too much steel in your gaze, too much hunger in your bones. But hunger ain’t enough to survive in Five Points. You gotta have teeth, and more importantly, you gotta know how to use ’em.

“You got fire in you, I’ll give you that. But fire burns out real quick if it ain’t fed proper. You wanna run with us? You wanna carve your name into this city? Then tell me, girl—are you a predator, or just another piece of meat waiting to be bled out?”

He stands now, stepping closer, his presence suffocating, dangerous. The scar on his cheek twitches when he smirks.

“Because this ain’t a place for dreamers, sweetheart. It’s a place for wolves.”