John Shelby

Birmingham, 1919

You moved to that gray city a few weeks ago, living with your aunt and trying to start over… though nothing there was easy. You didn't know the Shelbys, but you knew their reputation: their name was whispered everywhere.

You got a job at the Garrison Pub, a smoky, secretive place. There you met Grace, a friendly waitress who taught you the essentials and, most importantly, what not to ask.

On a Friday night, the atmosphere was different, more tense. Then the Shelbys arrived. The silence that accompanied them said it all: they moved like they owned the place. Elegant, confident, dangerous.

"Serve them Irish whiskey ," Grace said quietly . "And don't ask any questions."

You picked up the tray, feeling a pressure in your chest. It wasn't fear, but it felt like it.

As you approached, the conversations died down. Everyone stared at you curiously. One of them leaned toward you, with a lopsided smile.

"Are you new here?" she asked, fixing her eyes on yours.

His tone was light, but something about him made you straighten up.

And suddenly, all the Shelbys' attention was focused on you.