Bounty Hunter's Paradise

The Velvet Curtain, they called it. The name itself was a

delicious irony, a silken curtain drawn across a stage of

decidedly unsavory dealings. From the outside, it looked like

any other charming establishment in the bustling market

district – a quaint bakery with warm, inviting lights and the

intoxicating aroma of freshly baked bread wafting onto the

cobblestones. But behind the innocently sweet exterior lay a

den of iniquity, a clandestine club where the town's elite

shed their masks of respectability and indulged in the darker

pleasures the city held in reserve.

John, ever the pragmatist, preferred to remain in the

shadows. The dim, smoky interior of the speakeasy was his

natural habitat, allowing him to observe the ebb and flow of

the patrons with the detached interest of a seasoned predator.

The air hung thick with the cloying scent of expensive

perfume, the acrid tang of cigar smoke, and something far

less pleasant – the metallic tang of fear.

Eric, on the other hand, seemed to thrive in the opulent

chaos. Dressed in his finest princely attire – a velvet coat

that shimmered under the low lighting and breeches that

could only be described as outrageously expensive – he

moved through the room with an air of effortless grace. His

charm was a potent weapon, disarming even the most

hardened skeptics and melting the icy reserve of the wealthy

patrons. He was a master social chameleon, blending

seamlessly into the crowd, eliciting information with an

almost uncanny ease.

Riha, predictably, was less impressed. Clad in her usual

ensemble of ripped jeans, a patchwork jacket, and boots

more suited for a hike than a high-society gathering, she

managed to fit in as surprisingly well as her brothers, albeit

in a fashion distinctly her own. She had an uncanny knack

for finding herself at the center of every conversation,

blending into groups of nobles engaging in their preferred

pastimes of card games and scandalous gossip. Her casual

manner, a stark contrast to the stiff formality of her

surroundings, somehow made her less suspicious than she

might have otherwise been.

Their initial inquiries yielded little concrete information.

Lady Beatrice, it turned out, had indeed been a regular at the

Velvet Curtain. But beyond that, the information was

frustratingly vague. The whispers were plentiful but

ultimately unhelpful. A secret rendezvous? A clandestine

meeting? A hidden room? Each clue was shrouded in enough

mystery and conflicting accounts to make John's head spin.

The staff seemed deliberately unhelpful, and the patrons,

when pressed for information, offered tight-lipped smiles

and pointedly ambiguous replies, the kind that hinted at

something far more sinister lurking beneath the surface.

However, John, with his years of experience honing his

instincts in the brutal world of bounty hunting, was not

easily discouraged. He had a knack for observing the subtle

details others overlooked. A misplaced handkerchief

embroidered with a crest he recognized – that of the

Blackwood family.

A subtle scratch on a polished mahogany

table, revealing a glint of something metallic beneath. The

lingering scent of a perfume, unmistakably exotic and

unfamiliar, clinging to the velvet curtains themselves. These

seemingly insignificant details were, to him, the bread

crumbs leading to the heart of the mystery.

One detail in particular caught his attention – a small, almost

imperceptible stain on a plush velvet armchair near the bar, a

dark red stain that, upon closer inspection, seemed

suspiciously like blood.

Then, there was the bartender. A portly man with shrewd,

knowing eyes and a perpetually wry expression, he was the

repository of the speakeasy's untold stories, a walking

encyclopedia of whispered secrets. After a generous tip –

and a rather convincing display of Eric's princely charm – he

finally loosened his tongue, dropping hints about a

clandestine meeting involving the mayor, Alistair

Blackwood, a notoriously charming and seemingly

incorruptible public figure whose personal life was,

according to rumour, far less pristine.

The bartender's words painted a picture far more complex

than a simple runaway case. The marquise, it seemed, was

not merely a spoiled aristocrat taking a flight of fancy. She

was a pawn in a game far larger and more dangerous than

anyone had initially realized. The whispers were no longer

simple gossip; they implied a conspiracy that touched the

highest echelons of the town's power structure, reaching into

the very heart of Blackwood Manor.

The description of the speakeasy, the way it masked its

sinister nature beneath a veneer of charm, perfectly reflected the duality of the town itself, a town where secrets were currency and appearances reigned supreme. The elegance and sophistication of the establishment served as a stark contrast to the darkness that lurked within its walls, echoing the moral ambiguity that permeated the lives of its

inhabitants.

Lady Beatrice, initially perceived as a simple runaway,

began to emerge as a more complex figure – potentially a

victim, or possibly, a participant in something far more

intricate. The case, initially a straightforward bounty, was

rapidly unfolding into something far greater. The chase was

not just to find a missing marquise, but to unravel a

conspiracy that could very well shake the foundations of the

town itself.

And John, Eric, and Riha, despite their initial reluctance and

differing approaches, were caught in its intricate web, their

destinies intertwined with the hidden machinations of the

town's elite, a dangerous game where the stakes were far

higher than five hundred gold pieces.

The trail had led them to the Velvet Curtain, but the curtain had only just begun to rise on the true drama to come. The scent of danger hung heavy in the air, and the smell of trouble was far more tantalizing than even the best ramen.