Noirville

Pier 17

Morning light filtered through the thin curtains of Johnny's apartment, casting a soft glow over the room. Johnny sipped his black coffee, the bitter taste doing little to chase away the unease settled in his gut. Vivian still slept soundly in the next room, unaware of the turmoil churning in his mind.

He replayed the previous night's events—the revelations, the threats, the deepening shadows of Timmy's machinations. Time was running out. He needed information, and he had a hunch where to find it.

Grabbing his coat and hat, Johnny scribbled a quick note for Vivian: Had to step out. Stay here and keep the door locked. Will explain everything when I'm back.

Stepping into the bustling streets of Noirville, he hailed a cab. "The Rusty Nail," he told the driver. The seedy bar was a notorious haunt for those on the fringes of society—a place where secrets were as common as spilled drinks.

The Rusty Nail was cloaked in the perpetual haze of cigarette smoke, the dim lighting casting long shadows that concealed more than they revealed. Johnny made his way to the bar, nodding to the bartender.

"Whiskey, neat," he ordered, scanning the room. His eyes settled on Big Al Thompson, hunched over a table in the corner, his massive frame unmistakable. Opposite him sat Dr. Edwin Clark, nervously fiddling with a glass.

Johnny approached with measured strides. "Mind if I join you?" he asked, not waiting for an invitation as he pulled out a chair.

Big Al's eyes narrowed. "This is a private conversation," he rumbled.

Johnny met his gaze steadily. "Funny, I was just thinking the same thing."

Dr. Clark glanced anxiously between them, sweat beading on his brow. "Perhaps we should—"

"Relax, Doc," Johnny said, keeping his tone calm. "I just have a few questions."

Al leaned forward, his posture menacing. "You got a death wish, Lovegood?"

"Not today," Johnny replied coolly. "But I think Timmy's playing a dangerous game, and you're both caught in the middle."

Clark's hand trembled as he set down his glass. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Johnny focused on him. "You're a respected chemist, Dr. Clark. Or at least you were. Now you're mixed up with Timmy Donovan, brewing up something for his latest scheme."

"That's none of your business," Al interjected.

"I'm making it my business," Johnny shot back. "Timmy's after the ledger—a ledger he doesn't have. So he's hosting a gala, inviting Noirville's elite under the guise of a charitable event."

Al's expression remained stony, but a flicker of surprise crossed Clark's face.

Johnny continued. "Let me guess: Timmy plans to sell a new recreational drug at the gala, courtesy of your scientific expertise, Doc. Something that will appeal to those with a taste for the illicit."

Clark shifted uncomfortably. "I—I have no idea—"

"Spare me," Johnny cut in. "The drug's a lure. Timmy wants to see who bites, who expresses interest in something off the books. It's a trap to identify the corrupt among the elites—those who might be on Vivian's ledger."

Al's jaw tightened. "You've said your piece. Now get lost."

Johnny ignored him. "Once Timmy knows who's dirty, he can cozy up to them, maybe even squeeze them for information about the ledger. He's using you both to get what he wants."

Clark's eyes darted to Al, then back to Johnny. "I didn't have a choice," he whispered. "He threatened me."

"You always have a choice," Johnny said firmly. "Help me stop him."