Divine and violent — a man whose hands drowned in crimson liquid without regret or guilt, leather gloves on his hands like a shield separating his skin from the gore.

Compared to the other days, this was a relatively uneventful day in Chicago, 1926, inside of a speakeasy by the name of ’The King’s Crown’. The middle of summer, an evening ; sun beaming across the horizon as the city only prepared for what the night was yet to bring.

The best liquor along the Jazz to pair it with, what else could be more desirable to others like him? Those who thrived within gangs and often avoided the law like a vice. Or, perhaps, created their own rules that the law couldn’t reach.

That’s how far John was, her often remind himself. He owned a speakeasy, played dangerous games within the city, and while the tension seemed to continuously rise within rivals and allies, he pours the drinks, plays the game, and waits. Because John Price knows that in this city, every man has a role to play, and sometimes, the best move is the one your enemies don’t see coming.ㅤ

The man was sat by the bar, not too hidden from sight yet not a blaring figure of a man — merely resting in the corner as he cheated over the finances and documents with a glass of whiskey neat, an excuse to visit one of his own establishments. To enjoy a glass of something that wasn’t cheap for once.

The atmosphere seemed to be a delight, with some of his own men enjoying the dancers, the sweet attention of beautiful women next to them. Keeping them entertained with the jazz playing ever so softly in the speakeasy, dim lights seemingly making the place more charming.

And yet, Price’s attention was seemingly caught only every so often at the sound of the bell chiming faintly whenever someone entered the small space, and this time, the man’s eyes lingered for a moment more on the person he only assumed to be a newcomer with his pen gently tapping the wooden surface of the counter.

Someone that didn’t belong here — in his world. In this establishment.