THE EVENTS OF THE HARGRAVE MURDER

I AM DEAD.

The Hawkhurst Gang were a dangerous bunch, the kind of men who didn’t just flirt with crime but embraced it with open arms. From smuggling drugs to human trafficking, from arson to cold-blooded murder, they were involved in every despicable act the human mind could fathom. Wherever they went, death was sure to follow.

It was odd—no, it was downright unsettling—that one of their leaders, Thomas Kingsmill, was in a place like Muckrake. Thomas Kingsmill, one of the two heads of the Hawkhurst Gang, carried an aura of menace that made even the bravest men quake. His massive frame and dangerous look betrayed his youth; this man was only in his early twenties yet commanded a force of murderous criminals with ease.

Everyone knew about the Hawkhurst Gang. Henry, however, knew far more than the average man.

His voice betrayed his nerves as he stammered through his words.

"Uhhh...uh... I said I am..."

Thomas’s hand lingered on the door handle, his sharp gaze fixed on Henry like a hawk sizing up its prey. The silence stretched between them, heavy and oppressive, broken only by the distant murmurs of men talking inside. Thomas’s lips curled slightly, not quite a smirk but something far more menacing.

"I asked what the hell you wanted," he repeated, his tone colder now, each word laced with quiet danger.

Henry wiped the sweat from his face, but his hand was trembling too much to make a difference. The box in his hands suddenly felt heavier, his palms slick against its rough edges. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, but his thoughts were a jumbled mess of fear and regret. How had he let Angus convince him to come here alone? Where was Angus now?

“I’ve come to deliver the package,” he finally managed, his voice thin and unconvincing.

Thomas didn’t move for a moment. His eyes flicked to the box and then back to Henry, his expression unreadable. The man seemed to be weighing his options, deciding whether Henry was worth his time—or his wrath.

Henry’s chest tightened. He could hear faint laughter from the room beyond, the kind of laughter that sent a chill down his spine. It wasn’t joy; it was cruelty. Somewhere deep inside, a voice screamed at him to turn and run. But his feet stayed rooted to the ground, his knees locked in place as if bound by invisible chains.

Thomas let go of the door handle and turned away, his back now facing Henry. The thick tattoo of a coiled snake running up his neck came into view, its black ink gleaming under the dim hallway light. Without looking back, he muttered two words that made Henry’s stomach drop.

“Come in.”

Thomas turned his back, his tattoo showing. Henry gulped in fear, looking around for Angus once more before entering the building. He muttered a prayer to himself as he walked through the narrow corridor.

After a brief while, they arrived at what seemed to be the parlor.

The sitting room was large, far bigger than Henry’s entire house. He couldn’t help but compare his small, cramped space to this open expanse, even though the room wasn’t much to look at. The faded wallpaper peeled at the edges, and the furniture looked as though it had been dragged from a junkyard. The floorboards creaked beneath their feet, and the air smelled faintly of tobacco and sweat.

A single lamp hung from the ceiling, but it barely emitted enough light to push back the shadows. The dim glow made it hard to see, leaving parts of the room swallowed in darkness.

Around the room were different men. Most had cigarettes hanging from their mouths, their faces partially obscured by the smoke curling in the air. One man sat at a table, lifting a set of crude concrete weights, his muscles straining with each rep. Others leaned over a card game, their voices low and their laughter harsh. A few more lingered in the shadows, engaged in activities Henry didn’t dare to scrutinize too closely.