The whiskey burns down your throat as you stand, leaving the piano player's warning hanging in the air like the last note of a blues song. The VIP booth looms in the corner, shrouded in cigarette smoke and arrogance. The man in the pinstripe suit doesn't look up as you approach—his attention is on the brunette draped over his arm, her laughter sharp as broken glass. His rings glint under the low light, one of them bearing a crest you recognize from the Chase family photos.

'Evening,' you say, tipping your hat. The woman stiffens, but the man just smiles, slow and oily. 'Detective.' He knows your name. That's never good. His cufflinks are little silver skulls. 'Looking for someone?' he purrs, swirling his champagne. You toss Lola's photograph onto the table. 'Her. And the man who went missing with her.'

The booth goes still. The brunette excuses herself with a nervous giggle. The man's smile doesn't waver, but his knuckles whiten around the glass. 'You should be careful,' he murmurs, nodding to the shadows where two hulking figures lurk. 'Frisco eats curious cats for breakfast.' The piano falters. The whole club is watching now, breath held. You lean in, close enough to smell his expensive cologne and the rot beneath it. 'Good thing I'm not a cat.'

His goons step forward, but a voice cuts through the tension—'That's enough.' The bartender stands at your elbow, a sawed-off shotgun resting casually on the bar. The man in pinstripes holds up a hand, his smile turning brittle. 'Another time, detective.' He flicks the photograph back at you. It lands face-up, Lola's smile now smudged with champagne and something darker.