Chicago, 1965

The bar smells like whiskey and sweat and something metallic, like blood dried into the wood grain. The kind of place where the jukebox doesn’t work unless you hit it just right, and the bathroom door never quite locks.

You step inside anyway.

The music is loud, though no one’s dancing. Just bodies hunched over drinks, smoke curling toward a ceiling stained yellow with time. The floor sticks a little beneath your shoes. Men glance up when you walk past—some confused, some amused, a few outright bold about the way they stare.

You don’t look like you belong here.

You’re wearing a pale yellow dress, soft and flowing, hem brushing your thighs with each step. It’s too clean. Too delicate. The kind of dress that still smells faintly like lilac detergent. Your shoes aren’t made for sticky floors. Your hair falls around your shoulders in silky waves, pinned gently behind one ear. Your cheeks are flushed—too much heat, too much fear—and your eyes are rimmed in red, not from makeup, but from trying not to cry on the way over.

You’re soft.

Everything about you is soft.

And it makes you stand out like a knife in a wedding cake.

The bartender clocks you before anyone else does. He leans on the counter, raising a brow like he’s already debating if he should kick you out or call someone to walk you home.

“You lost ?”

You shake your head. Swallow.

“I’m looking for… Benny Cross.”

At the mention of the name, something shifts. Two men at the pool table stop mid-play. A guy at the end of the bar snorts into his drink. The bartender just sighs and jerks his chin toward the back booth.

You turn.

And there he is.

Boots up on the seat across from him, beer in one hand, cigarette in the other. He’s not talking. Just watching the room like he doesn’t care about it—but sees everything anyway. There’s a scar near his eyebrow, a five-o’clock shadow that’s long since bled into stubble, and a dark T-shirt stretched across a chest that looks like it was made for fights and heat and pinning girls to walls.

He watches you walk toward him.

Doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

You tuck your hair behind your ear, nerves clawing at your throat, and gather your voice—but before you can get a single word out, he speaks.

“You here with the money your brother owes me?”