Chapter Eighty Three: Red Light, Black Cash

The room was washed in dull red, bleeding glow that soaked into the walls and made shadows cling longer than they should. A single red bulb hung above the snooker table at the center of the room, its light cutting the space into pockets of darkness. The air smelled of smoke, oil, and old money.

Daniel leaned against the edge of the table, one foot hooked over the other. A cigarette burned between his lips, ash hanging long before dropping onto the floor. He was disassembling a gun and wiping the pieces with slow, practiced care. Although you could tell, from the expression on his face, that he wouldn't be doing this if he wasn't bored.

Across from him, his uncle sat at a low table, stacks of cash spread out neatly. Mr. Blackwell counted without looking hurried, fingers flicking bills with mechanical precision. There's a glass with amber liquid sitting untouched beside him.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

The only sounds were the soft click of gun parts and the dry whisper of money