When night fell, the hour stole colour from the sky over the town of Brackenwell. The streets had turned mostly deserted with lanterns burning along the narrow roads.
Harold Belmont pulled his coat tighter around himself as he walked. His footsteps moved quickly as if he had somewhere important to be. He finally arrived at an establishment where one could hear the clatter of coins and chatter.
Straightening his shoulders, Mr. Belmont pushed the door and stepped inside.
"Rough day, Belmont?" one of the regulars called out, eyeing the bruise darkening Harold's cheek. "Looks like fortune finally hit back."
"Quite literally," another remarked, which had a few men snort.
Mr. Belmont's mouth tightened and he snapped, "Mind your business. As if you are any better than me," he muttered under his breath.
"Shall I pour you a glass?" asked the owner of the place.
"I don't need the cheap thing. Bring me something decent," Mr. Belmont said with a wrinkled sneer.
