On January 25th, 882, Poul strode through the Astoria Hotel lobby in New York, his eyes scanning the room. The patrons inside stared back at him with inquisitive gazes that seemed to question his presence among them. The men and women looked at him with contempt, as if to say he didn't belong to treat upon the ground they were standing on.
But Poul paid them no mind. He knew he had the means to pay for a room, and the hotel owner had a connection with John Morgan, a powerful man who could open doors for Poul that others couldn't.
As he made his way toward the exit, he overheard a group of people whispering about him. "They keep coming and coming, huh?" a man said, his tone dripping with disdain.
"So even an Albian can earn as much money as us, huh? How far society has fallen," a girl chimed in.
Poul couldn't help but smirk. He spoke audibly enough for them to hear. "At least I'm not living on inheritance."
