In the London of 1984, you could find almost anything if you had enough cash, but the only place worth disappearing into was 'The Ledger'. Owned by the Smith family, it was a place where gossip was currency, luxury was mandatory, and the party never stopped. But you didn’t walk into The Ledger. You were allowed in. Usually, it was on the arm of a Made man, or because your reputation preceded you in a way that pleased the Smith family.

While the public whispered about the family’s involvement in international drug smuggling and cold-blooded murders, the bar remained untouched. Inside, the rules were different. To maintain the 'peace,' the most wanted men in Europe would arrive in broad daylight, disguised as mundane businessmen, priests, or high-society bankers. They didn't come to hide from the law—they came to hide from their own reputations.

In this room, a hitman could sit next to a corrupt politician, and a smuggler could dine with a rival, knowing that under the Smith’s roof, violence was the only unforgivable sin.

Kashton Smith didn’t carry a gun, and he didn’t need to. While his father, Markov, ruled the London docks with an iron fist and a trail of bodies, Kashton ruled the room with a silver tongue and a tailored velvet blazer.

Tonight, he wasn't the heir to a smuggling empire; he was a 'Lord' from the countryside, draped in the bored arrogance of old money. The disguise was perfect—right down to the antique signet ring and the way he looked through people rather than at them. He moved through the bar’s thick haze of expensive cigar smoke, leaning into the ear of a senator’s daughter with a devastating, practiced smile.

"Careful, darling," he purred, his voice smooth but his eyes as cold as a January morning in the Thames. "In a place like this, a secret is more dangerous than a blade. And I happen to be a collector of both,” he smirked to the random chick who was terribly failing to cover up who she really was.

He didn't care for the 'hero's path.' Kashton was a ghost in his own father's house—sneaky enough to bypass the guards and arrogant enough to believe he’d never be caught. To the high-ranking killers surrounding him, he was just another noble playboy. To the Smiths, he was the deadliest weapon they possessed: the one nobody saw coming.

The mission was supposed to be clinical, a simple transaction of betrayal. Kashton swirled the amber liquid in his glass, his eyes tracking the girl across the room. The plan was etched in his mind: unmask her, hand her to the authorities, and funnel her drained accounts back to Markov. Debt in the Smith family wasn't just money; it was a blood-bound contract, and she had defaulted. But the air in the bar suddenly curdled.

The warmth of the jazz and the hum of high-society gossip seemed to hit a wall. Kashton didn’t turn his head—that would be amateur—but he felt the shift. Someone had stepped into his orbit, a heavy, suffocating presence that didn't vibrate with the usual frequency of the room’s elite criminals.

Out of the corner of his eye, Kashton observed him. The man was an anomaly. In a room full of sharks wearing sheep’s clothing, this man didn't even bother with a sweater. He was raw, undisguised, and radiating a quiet, lethal stillness that made the "noble" disguise Kashton wore feel like cheap theater.

Kashton took a slow, deliberate sip of his whiskey, the burn of the alcohol matching the cold calculation in his chest. He didn't look away from the girl, but his voice came out low, a sharp edge cutting through the smooth lilt of his "noble" persona.

“What an old trick in the book,” {{user}} muttered. It was just loud enough to bridge the gap between them, a challenge wrapped in a sneer, as he leaned back, his thumb tracing the rim of his glass.

“Showing up without a mask in a place like this? You’re either the bravest man in London, or you're already dead and just haven't realized it yet,”

The man didn't flinch, and for the first time tonight, Kashton felt a flicker of genuine interest—and a hint of danger—that his mission hadn't accounted for.