New York City, 1911.
Evening swelled along the edges of the city like ink dropped into water. The sky above was painted in deep violets and charcoal gray, the first stars barely piercing through the haze of coal smoke and amber streetlamps. Horns blared from distant trolleys, steam hissed from manholes, and somewhere nearby, a street band was playing a lazy jazz tune on a battered trumpet.
James Whitlock walked the streets like he owned them.
He wore a crisp pinstripe suit, pearl cufflinks catching the light like miniature moons. His wife, Miriam, walked beside him — a tall, elegant woman with a chestnut bob and the kind of quiet grace you couldn't fake. Her burgundy evening dress hugged her like wine in a crystal glass, and a subtle perfume of rose and powder followed her as naturally as breath. She smiled softly, her arm looped through his.
Their children giggled ahead — Eleanor, no older than six, twirling in a white dress that caught every flicker of lamplight like a fairy's wings, and Matthew, ten, walking stiff-backed with a little top hat too large for his head, trying to imitate his father's stride.
They'd just left Grafton's, the finest restaurant on the block, its glowing windows still echoing with piano music and the low murmur of New York's wealthy elite. James's stomach was full, his wallet heavier than most men's life savings, and the world — for now — bent easily to his will.
That's when he stepped out of the shadows.
A gaunt figure emerged from a side alley, silhouetted by gaslight. His coat was threadbare, eyes sunken, skin drawn tight like parchment. His hands shook — not just from cold, but something deeper. Older.
"Spare some change, Mr. Whitlock?"
James's smile faded. He stared at the man, frowning slightly as memory stirred.
"…Arthur?"
The man gave a sick smile. "So you do remember."
Miriam's grip on James's arm tightened.
"You were better fed the last time I saw you," James said flatly.
Arthur coughed out a humorless laugh. "Yeah, well. You came out of that deal with three floors of commercial real estate. I came out with foreclosure papers, a drinking habit, and a dead daughter."
James looked away, jaw tightening. "You knew the risks."
"You rewrote the terms," Arthur snapped. "Your signature buried me, James. I lost everything."
James glanced down the street, where people were beginning to slow and stare. "I owe you nothing."
"You owe them," Arthur said, eyes flicking to Eleanor and Matthew. "You owe the world something. Anything."
"You think I'm going to hand money to a man who'd drown it in morphine the second I turn my back?"
"I just need a hot meal."
"You need a funeral."
Arthur dropped to his knees, grabbing James's trouser leg, voice cracking. "Please. For the love of God, I'm starving."
James yanked his leg free and shoved Arthur backward. The man collapsed, scraping his palms on the cobblestones.
"Touch me again," James growled, "and I'll leave you with fewer teeth than coins."
Arthur lay there, breathing hard. His mouth bled. He wiped it with the back of his sleeve.
"You think money protects you," he hissed. "But your greed's going to catch up to you, James. Sooner than you think."
"Get off the street before the police do it for you," James said.
Then he walked on, his wife silent beside him, the children laughing again as if the moment hadn't happened.
Behind them, Arthur sat slumped in the light, alone among the stares.
That night, James tucked in his children with the efficiency of a man checking off boxes. Eleanor curled up with her stuffed rabbit. Matthew clutched the book they'd read together — 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea.
He kissed Miriam gently at the door, her eyes watching him with a quiet sadness. "Will you be late?"
"Just a few hours," he said.
At his office, high above the city in the Whitlock Trust building, James poured himself a glass of scotch and lit a cigar. Below, the city pulsed — carriage wheels clattered over stone, factory whistles howled in the distance, and jazz drifted in from a bar down the block.
The phone rang.
"Yeah?" James answered, voice relaxed.
A familiar voice — Deacon, a precinct captain — greeted him.
"It's done," he said. "The warehouse raid's happening Monday. We'll seize everything, and your rival's operation goes belly-up."
"Beautiful," James said. "Tell the boys they'll find a nice envelope in their desk drawers this week."
"You know we appreciate it, James."
He smirked. "Just keep looking the other way."
He hung up, satisfaction rolling through him like smoke.
Then the phone rang again.
He picked it up lazily. "Whitlock."
A voice. Not Deacon's. Smooth. Cold. Not entirely unfamiliar.
"You should've given him the money."
James blinked. "What?"
"You had your chance. You turned your back. Now it's your turn."
James straightened in his chair. "Who is this?"
"You still have time. Go home. Maybe you'll catch the last few heartbeats."
Click.
James bolted from the office.
The cab smelled of gasoline and mold. The driver cursed at slow traffic. James stared out the window, sweat beading on his collar.
When he reached the brownstone, the front door was ajar. A cold breeze carried the scent of iron and something sharp — like rot under perfume.
Inside: silence. Glass crunched under his shoes.
Blood led up the stairs.
He followed it with shaking hands, calling, "Miriam? Kids?"
The bedroom door was open.
Miriam lay on the floor, her elegant dress torn, neck twisted at a wrong angle. Her eyes were still open, staring at nothing.
Standing over her was Arthur.
He was no longer ragged. His hair was slicked back. His coat was buttoned. In his arms, he held Eleanor.
"Want to check on the boy?" he said casually. "He's in the other room. The warmth's nearly gone."
James collapsed against the wall, hands trembling.
"Arthur… why?"
"You know why."
"I'll ruin you. I still have friends in the—"
Arthur cut him off, eyes gleaming. "The police? You mean Captain Deacon?"
He smiled.
"They don't work for you anymore."
James stared in horror.
Arthur stepped toward the open window, wind howling outside.
"You stole my family, James. You don't get to keep yours."
He kicked out the windowpane. Shards rained to the floor.
"You'd better move fast."
And then — he let her go.
James screamed. Shoved past him. Dove—
Too late.
She hit the pavement with a sound he would hear every night until he died.
As sirens closed in, James dropped beside her tiny, broken body, cradling her in his arms, rocking her as if that could undo what had just happened.
Blood ran down the street, mixing with the rain. A world full of light and noise moved on, uncaring.