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The building is on a street corner. It’s old, and slightly dilapidated, but the neon red sign out front lights up the dark street like a lighthouse in a storm. There isn’t a bouncer at the front entrance, this isn’t that kind of club. Besides, there’s too many off-duty precursors and Maria hitmen there to try anything. The front door is simple, betraying the club’s origins as a ordinary house, though now it has become anything but ordinary. The door opens into a wide dimly lit room, with a bar on the left wall and rows of tables on the right. Throughout the room there are billiard tables, almost always occupied. The bartender, nicknamed Jack, built the club from nothing but a debt owed by a contractor and Mafia blood money. It’s now the most popular club in the slums of Alleycity, especially for the criminal underground. They come here often, and the precursors often turn a blind eye. Money and drink, two of the great equalizers. In the back right corner of the Jack, there’s a set of stairs, rarely climbed, and cleaned even less. If you climb them however, things get a bit more interesting. The stairs come to a small hallway, with 2 doors on the left. It’s the second of the two that matters. The first is a lawyer’s office of some sort, the name on the front faded away years ago. The second door has the words Ace Tawson, Private Eye written on it. The paint is fresh, as he’s only moved in there a few months ago. His office is small, 4 meters by 4 meters, and the cramped feeling is an enhanced by the lack of lighting, for a tin savant need so little, and walls covered in large, intimidating bookshelves, the only blank space being reserved for a large bulletin board. His desk is towards the back of the room, placed such so that it hides the old mattress behind it. It’s hard to afford a place like this, and the strain of expenses can be seen in the coat with many a patched bullet hole, and the 2 days old Rosharan takeout sitting on the desk. The private eye needs a case, and soon. As he looks over various police reports and files, hoping to find a case hidden in there, the only emotion that fills his mind is despair. The chorus of screams in his head may in reality be only a low whine, but that is often when they are the most loud. He picks up the last file, examining it. It’s recent, only a few days old, and it says something about how a man has been broken out of the State Penitentary. He puts it down quickly, its clear that those responsible would be caught soon. Itsonly as he stood up to grab the remainder of the takeout that he sees something that catches his eye. The identity of the man who was freed. Ace had worked on that case, back when he was still in the force. Even for as experienced as he had been with horrible sights, the crime scenes that that serial killer had created had been shockingly terrible. To think that such a man was free. Ace starts, then quickly stands, pushing aside the rest of the files, picking up the one about the crime, and stepping over the remains of previous meals to get to the bulletin board. He pins it in the center, then goes back to files, pouring over them now with a different purpose, as he knows what his case is. He’s looking for mentions of one man, and one man only. James Myriad