The Atlas Lyons Club: Roaring Ambitions

Setting the Stage

Day/Time: Saturday Afternoon

The sun had settled into the late afternoon sky, casting long shadows across the city streets. Inside The Atlas Lyons Club, the air buzzed with quiet preparation, as if the walls themselves could sense the weight of the night ahead. Saturday night was the club's lifeblood—the time when its most influential members gathered to gamble, negotiate, and seal deals in the haze of cigar smoke and soft music.

Oren Oberman sat in his office on the top floor of the club, fingers tapping rhythmically on the wooden desk. His eyes, however, were fixed on the view beyond the window, where the city's skyline stretched endlessly, painted in the fading light of day. The stillness in his office was deceptive; beneath it, the gears of power were already turning.

The door clicked open, and Junior "Sunny" Domenica—JDoms—stepped inside with the casual grace of someone who had spent years mastering the art of being unseen when needed. He tossed a folder onto Oren's desk, its contents rustling with a soft murmur.

"Preparations are nearly done," JDoms said, sliding into a chair opposite Oren. "Tonight's poker game is full. All the usual suspects, plus a few new faces trying to make their mark."

Oren didn't turn from the window, his gaze still lost in the fading daylight. "You've been keeping tabs on Maxwell Fifty, haven't you?"

JDoms nodded. "He's been... active. Teasing something big, but playing it close to the chest. Tonight might be the night he finally lays his cards on the table."

Finally, Oren shifted his focus, dark eyes sharpening with thought. "He won't show his hand until it's too late to back out. But whatever he's planning, we'll be ready."

The club thrived on its rhythm, the unspoken pulse that moved beneath the surface. Oren knew it well, could feel the subtle shifts as easily as the hum of the city outside his window. A quiet night in the club rarely meant peace—it often meant the real game was happening behind closed doors.

"I'll take your word for it," JDoms said, rising from his seat. But before he moved to the door, he added, "We should keep an eye on Ezra Cohen. He's been hovering around Marcus Lane and Holmes Radcliffe. Quiet, but not invisible."

"Ezra..." Oren mused, tapping his fingers against the desk. "He's always been the quiet one. Let's see how long that lasts."

Downstairs in the lounge, Becca Thornhill was rehearsing under the club's dimmed lights, her voice wrapping around the notes with an ease that suggested years of practice. The sound was velvet, floating through the room, though tonight her mind seemed elsewhere, distant from the music. At the piano, Lady Evelyn Sparkes played with the practiced grace of someone whose life was stitched to the keys, her fingers moving in fluid synchrony. The room itself seemed alive with their music, a subtle reminder of the elegance beneath the power plays that filled the club.

"Do you ever wonder why we stay here?" Becca's voice was soft, as though speaking the thought aloud would tether her more tightly to the place.

Lady Sparkes didn't look up from the piano, her tone smooth and detached. "We're part of this place, Becca. We're not just the entertainment. We're the rhythm to everything else."

Becca chuckled, though her gaze lingered on the darker corners of the room where secrets lived. She had heard things—everyone in the club had. But not all whispers made their way into the light.

Across the room, Ezra Cohen sat at the bar, his glass in hand, his eyes watching the room with a predator's patience. He had learned early in life that power wasn't always loud; sometimes, it was the quietest force in the corner—the one that others didn't see coming until it was too late.

On the other side of the bar, Scotchy Buchanan polished the countertop with slow, steady movements, casting an occasional glance in Ezra's direction. He gave a knowing smirk. "Quiet day."

Ezra's smile barely flickered, but his eyes remained sharp. "Quiet's how I like it."

By early evening, Oren and JDoms had descended into the heart of the club, moving with purpose as they greeted members. The guests were beginning to trickle in, the club's pulse quickening with every new arrival. JDoms scanned the room, his eyes picking up on the subtle tells, the small giveaways that hinted at hidden intentions beneath the surface.

Oren, however, was already focused. Maxwell Fifty was out there, somewhere, waiting. Tonight was about more than poker; tonight was about seeing just how far Maxwell's reach extended.

"Keep close to the action," Oren said quietly as they passed through the lounge. "Maxwell won't play his cards without trying to force our hand."

JDoms' eyes followed a familiar figure moving through the crowd. He nodded. "We'll make sure it's our game."