The Atlas Lyons Club: Roaring Ambitions

On the Edge

Day/Time: Sunday Morning

The morning after the poker game, the club felt different. The air hung heavy, like the calm before a storm. Oren Oberman sat at his desk, the soft hum of the city outside filtering through the tall windows of his office. He hadn't slept much since the poker game ended. Maxwell's words still echoed in his mind, hinting at something bigger—something just beyond his grasp.

Junior "Sunny" Domenica, or JDoms, entered without knocking. His steps were measured, his usual easy demeanor replaced with something more focused, more intense. He had a thick folder in his hand, one that he tossed onto Oren's desk without ceremony.

"Found more on Maxwell," JDoms said, taking a seat across from Oren. "Turns out he's been making quiet moves—real estate investments, some offshore dealings. All high-risk, but nothing illegal."

Oren's fingers drummed lightly on the folder, but he didn't open it right away. His dark eyes met JDoms'. "What's he planning?"

JDoms exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "That's the thing. We can't see the full picture yet. He's playing this close, but everything points to something big—something that could shift power in the club."

Oren finally flipped open the folder, his eyes scanning the information quickly. "Maxwell's never made moves like this without reason. We need to know what his endgame is."

JDoms leaned forward slightly, his voice low. "We can't wait too long to figure it out. If Marcus and Holmes catch wind of this, they'll take their shot at us. They've been circling ever since the poker game."

Oren leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled together. His mind was already working through the possibilities. "Reach out to Jonny Thornton. He knows Maxwell's habits. We need more intel before we act."

JDoms nodded, his expression serious. "I'll get him in here by tonight."

Meanwhile, across the club, Maxwell Fifty sat in a private booth, his lips curled into a satisfied smirk as he scrolled through messages on his phone. The poker game had played out exactly as he'd expected. The seeds had been planted, and now, it was just a matter of time before the rest of them started to realize the size of the game he was orchestrating.

A figure approached Maxwell's table quietly, and Maxwell barely glanced up. It was Ezra Cohen, always the quiet observer. Ezra slid into the booth across from Maxwell, his eyes sharp as ever.

"You've got everyone on edge," Ezra said, his tone almost conversational.

Maxwell chuckled. "That's the point, isn't it?"

Ezra's gaze didn't waver. "But you haven't shown your hand. You've laid the groundwork, but where's the payoff?"

Maxwell finally looked up, his smirk fading into something more calculated. "Patience, Ezra. The game's just starting."

Ezra leaned back slightly, his arms folded. "I don't like waiting."

Maxwell's grin returned. "Then you're going to hate what comes next."

Back in the club's lounge, Becca Thornhill stood near the piano, her fingers tracing the edge of the sleek, polished surface. Her mind was elsewhere. Something was off about the atmosphere in the club that morning—something heavier, more ominous.

Nearby, Lady Evelyn Sparkes played a soft tune, the notes light and delicate, contrasting with the tension Becca could feel building all around them. Evelyn's fingers danced over the keys, but her eyes never left Becca's.

"Everything feels different today," Becca murmured, her voice barely audible.

Evelyn's lips curved into a small smile, though her playing never faltered. "That's because everything is different. There's a shift coming. I can feel it."

Becca's eyes darted to the dark corners of the room, the places where power and secrets lived, always just out of reach. She had been part of this club long enough to know when something was brewing. And whatever it was, it wasn't good.

That afternoon, as the sun dipped low in the sky, Oren and JDoms were once again deep in discussion. The information Jonny Thornton had provided painted a clearer picture of Maxwell's movements, but it still wasn't enough.

"We're missing something," Oren said, his voice tight with frustration. "Maxwell's always been a step ahead, but this... this feels different."

JDoms leaned against the desk, arms crossed. "Maybe we're overthinking it. Maybe he's just trying to scare us into making a move."

Oren shook his head. "No. Maxwell doesn't deal in fear. He deals in power."

The two men fell into a brief, tense silence before JDoms finally spoke again. "So what do we do next?"

Oren's gaze hardened, his mind already set. "We force his hand. Whatever Maxwell's planning, we need to be ahead of him."

Across the club, Ezra watched as the pieces of the game began to fall into place. He had aligned himself carefully, making sure not to show his hand too soon. But now, as the tension between Maxwell, Oren, and JDoms began to build, Ezra knew it was only a matter of time before he would need to make his move.

He drained the last of his drink, setting the glass down on the bar with a quiet thud. The game was still in its early stages, but for Ezra, it was already playing out exactly as he'd planned.

"Let them fight it out," he thought to himself. "And when the dust settles, I'll be the one standing."