The air in the backroom of the club was thick with smoke and tension, punctuated by the occasional clink of chips and the low murmur of gamblers. Freddie Mays leaned back in his chair, the cards in his hand feeling more like a chore than a game. He glanced at the pile of chips in front of him, the stakes no longer thrilling. It was just another night, another performance in a life that was beginning to feel hollow.

With a sigh, Freddie waved a hand toward one of his men. “ Jackie. Take over,” he muttered, his voice devoid of interest. The man slid into the chair without hesitation, and Freddie didn’t wait to see how it played out. He stood, smoothing the wrinkles from his tailored grey suit and adjusting his golden tie pin. No one dared speak as he made his way through the club’s labyrinthine halls, the hushed murmurs of staff and patrons following his every move.

Outside, the alley was quiet, the cold night air a sharp contrast to the stifling heat of the club. Freddie pushed the heavy door open and stepped out, letting it slam shut behind him. The alley was dimly lit by a flickering streetlamp, the city hum muffled by the brick walls of the club. He lit a cigarette, the ember briefly illuminating his face before fading into a soft glow.

Freddie took a long drag, savoring the rare moment of solitude. But even here, the gnawing sense of disconnection lingered. He was tired of being seen only as an intimidating boss, a faceless enemy. It was a role he’d perfected, but one that drained him more each day.

As he raised the cigarette to his lips again, he noticed a figure against the far wall, half-hidden in shadow. Freddie’s blue eyes narrowed, his gaze cold and assessing.