Chapter 1 - Prologue
A boxy body reminiscent of a carriage, with thin, delicate wheels.
A front windshield divided in half horizontally, and an open driver's seat.
A Ford Model T rattled down the road.
Carriages, horses, and pedestrians, all busy with their morning routines, threw curious glances at the new automobile as it passed by.
Leaving the paved street, the car reached a bumpy road, and the body shook even more.
Then, suddenly, a ticking sound came from the chassis.
"I think… a screw just came loose."
"It's fine. That happened a few days ago, too. Anyway, we're almost at Sheldon's speakeasy."
Nox, sitting in the passenger seat, gripped the car frame anxiously.
But the driver just shrugged as if it was nothing.
A speakeasy is a bar that illegally sells bootleg liquor.
The name comes from the idea that in rowdy bars, you had to speak quietly and discreetly.
These days, just about every bar is called a speakeasy.
A short while later, the driver pulled the speed lever to neutral, pressed the right pedal, and stopped the car at the street in front of an alley.
As he pulled the handbrake and was about to turn off the ignition, the driver glanced over at Nox.
"Should I cut the engine?"
"No
"This conversation won't take long."
"Then I'll wait."
Nox lifted the hat that had been resting on his thigh and stretched his legs out of the car.
There were no doors on the car.
He stepped directly onto the ground.
Staring into the alley, Nox pressed the hat—an elegantly wide-brimmed fedora—down over his head. Tilted slightly, the brim cast a shadow over one eye.
With his knees-length black coat fluttering behind him, he strode into the alley.
Watching Nox walk away, the driver reached under the steering wheel and fiddled with a pistol.
A secret underground bar.
If you walked down the narrow stairs, a soft jazz melody drifted out from behind a heavy wooden door.
Inside, the bar was thick with cigarette smoke.
Under the dim lights, the only people there were Sheldon, who had claimed an entire table, and the bartender polishing glasses with a cloth.
A wall clock on one side showed the hands at 8 o'clock.
It was early morning, not night.
Catching sight of the time, Sheldon clenched his teeth.
"Damn it, it's too late."
As the minutes ticked by, an anxious feeling crept up from deep inside his chest.
His nerves frayed, Sheldon bounced his leg and tapped the table with his fingers.
"How could it possibly take this long to deal with a bunch of punks? Useless idiots. I should've just gone myself."
There was an all-out turf war raging among the gangs over business interests. If you lost ground, you'd be absorbed or eliminated. It was an era of walking on thin ice.
Sheldon was on the verge of taking over the entire Westside.
At least, until those no-name New York kids showed up.
Chhh.
To shake off his anxiety, Sheldon poured himself a glass of whiskey. The glass was expensive, elegant crystal, but the liquor inside was anything but refined.
Hold it up to the light, and you could see fine sediment floating around. Bring the glass to your nose, and all you got was a sharp hit of alcohol and a strong grain scent.
There was none of the smooth caramel or vanilla notes you'd expect from a proper whiskey.
Naturally, when Sheldon tossed back the drink, his face twisted with a grimace.
The harsh, bitter taste burned down his throat, leaving only a sharp, fiery sensation behind.
Still, this wasn't bad, all things considered. It was hastily made, unrefined, bottom-shelf whiskey, but the fact that it was alcohol—that was enough.
Liquor was as good as gold.
"And I'm supposed to share this? Those clueless bastards."
He'd mobilized all his men to wipe them out, but there was still no word.
With nothing else to do, Sheldon clamped a Cuban cigar between his teeth and took a long, deep drag, exhaling slowly.
Thick smoke gathered under the lantern's glow, then drifted apart. And just then, footsteps sounded on the stairs.
The bartender, who had been polishing glasses, froze mid-motion. Sheldon narrowed his eyes, glaring toward the entrance.
Creeeak.
The heavy door swung open.
A man in a black coat stepped inside. He lifted the brim of his fedora with a finger, revealing sharp, monolid eyes and deep brown irises that swept over the room.
"...Who the hell are you?" Sheldon demanded.
The man's piercing gaze locked onto Sheldon.
"Union—Nox."
"!"
The target he'd meant to eliminate was now standing right before him.
Sheldon's pupils quaked, and any trace of drunkenness vanished in an instant.
The bartender, still holding a towel and glass, kept his eyes on Nox as he slowly reached under the counter. His hand found and gripped a sawed-off shotgun hidden beneath the bar.
A shotgun with a shortened barrel and modified stock, customized for concealment. The muzzle of the gun was quickly raised and aimed at Nox.
Bang!
The gunshot rang out, and the bartender's head snapped back. Blood sprayed as his body crashed against the back bar. Bottles and glasses on display toppled over with a loud crash.
Smoke still drifted from Nox's gun as he turned it toward Sheldon's head next. Sheldon's face, which had been flushed a moment ago, had turned not just pale but deathly blue.
"I said we should join forces, not stab each other in the back."
Sheldon convulsed and screamed in reply at Nox's calm words.
"Fuck! And what about the other gangs if I side with you? Can you handle both South and Northside—no, wait, I was wrong. I'm sorry. I didn't betray you, I just wanted to see what you could do. I-I mean, if it's not too late, how about the bootlegging business, together—"
Bang!
"Blah, blah…"
Guess just saying sorry makes it all better after trying to shoot someone. I almost died back there.
Nox tucked his gun back inside his chest holster and strode out of the bar without a hint of concern.
The bartender lay dead, sprawled next to a whiskey bottle.
Sheldon was slumped over the table, head buried in his arms.
Today, the gang that once ruled the Westside was wiped out.
In an era when whiskey is worth its weight in gold—
Gangsters and the Mafia.
This is Chicago, a city boiling over with desire in the shadows of Prohibition—seething with chaos.
It is the heart of the Prohibition era, 1920.