The hallway floor was covered with a red carpet. A group of unsteady men, swaying as they walked, followed a waiter who awaited them at the second-floor staircase. The group was promptly led into the second room on the left.
The room was quite spacious, with gas lamps turned up to their highest setting, illuminating everything in a dazzling golden glow. However, after the chaotic scene downstairs, this suddenly normal setting now felt disturbingly off.
The room itself resembled a typical parlor, but a large gambling table dominated the center. The table was wide, with plenty of chairs around it. Against the walls stood a liquor cabinet and two women dressed inappropriately, their faces painted heavily with makeup. The drunken men and the waiter who doubled as a dealer hadn't noticed Shade's presence, the intruder who should not have been there. The group merely moved on to continue their previous indulgence in this new room.
Shade stood by the couch, trying not to attract attention as he looked for an opportunity to slip out into the hallway. He briefly considered using his "Ignite" ability to cause a small distraction, but before he could act, the drunken man he had helped earlier began speaking to a man seated on the couch with a scar running down his cheek and his head bowed.
"Captain Radders, tell us again how, when those Southern rebels captured you, you tried to shoot yourself in the head eight times to stay loyal to the kingdom!" the drunk bellowed with laughter.
The man referred to as Captain Radders remained silent, staring gloomily at his boots. The drunkards around him erupted in laughter.
"Radders just got ransomed back to us. Let's not make him relive that... unless someone wants to grab a gun and have him demonstrate for us! Hahaha!" chimed in another man holding three cards at the gambling table. The room burst into raucous laughter again.
Taking advantage of the commotion, as they took turns mocking the recently freed "Captain of Eight Bullets," Shade discreetly slipped out of the noisy room and back into the hallway.
The thick walls and well-insulated doors muffled the laughter almost immediately as Shade moved forward. The hallway was empty, making it easier for him to proceed unnoticed.
Though he had no idea where young Franklin was, he knew from the former detective's notes that the second floor of the Lucky Southern Cross Club had a fire escape leading directly outside. He wasn't too concerned about getting caught.
But just as he thought this, he turned the corner and found himself face to face with a man wearing a different uniform from the casino guards downstairs.
Shade walked forward confidently, keeping his head up and shoulders back, trying not to show any sign of fear. Still, the man stopped him.
"Excuse me, sir, please wait a moment. I don't think I've seen you around here before," the man said, reaching for Shade's shoulder.
Shade, although lacking hand-to-hand combat experience, instinctively dodged the man's hand. This moment once again reminded him of how the abilities of an Enforcer extended far beyond just the mental or magical; his reflexes had improved too.
"I was invited up here. I just went to the restroom," Shade explained casually.
"But isn't the restroom that way?" The man pointed to the direction Shade had just come from, eyeing him suspiciously. "You've got some quick reflexes, I'll give you that."
"Well... that one's clogged," Shade improvised quickly. "One of those drunks threw up in it. Trust me, you don't want to hear the details."
Shade silently praised his own quick thinking. However, the man still frowned.
"You're not a guest on the second floor, are you?" The question was rhetorical; the man had already made up his mind.
Shade gave an awkward smile, realizing there was no point in continuing the lie. Thankfully, he wasn't carrying anything dangerous, nor was he actually doing anything illegal at the club.
"Alright, you got me. I was just curious about the second floor and followed some guests up here. I'll leave right away. I understand," Shade admitted.
But just as Shade was about to turn and leave, the man stopped him with another question.
"Wait a minute... you're not here for 'Poor Franklin,' are you?"
Shade paused, debating whether to deny it or not. After considering the situation, he decided honesty might serve him better.
"If you're talking about a young man with a gray hat, sailor's tunic, freckles, and small eyes, yes. His father asked me to come and take him home."
"His father sent someone again, huh? Follow me. Pay off his debt, and you can take him," the man said, motioning for Shade to walk with him down the hallway.
"You should've just said that downstairs. Guys like him who owe money, we're always hoping someone shows up to settle their debts."
Surprisingly, the man seemed reasonable, especially for someone working for a criminal gambling den.
"I figured... How much does he owe?" Shade asked, getting to the heart of the matter. Franklin's father had promised that if his son had any debts, the detective could front the money and be reimbursed later. However, Shade himself didn't have much cash on hand.
"One pound, six shillings. With interest and room and board for the past few days, two pounds, and he's yours," the man replied.
Shade nodded. The bets on the first floor were relatively small, and for young Franklin to lose that much in two days, he probably hadn't won a single round. But this wasn't Shade's problem; Franklin's father had agreed to cover any debt under ten pounds, and Shade just happened to have two pounds on him.
The man continued, "Of course, since you're here on his father's behalf, we could do what we did last time. If you're willing to pay us three pounds, six shillings, we'll give you a five-pound receipt to take back to 'Poor Franklin's' father..."
It took Shade a few seconds to realize what the man was suggesting. He had seen similar tricks in his previous world, but he was still impressed by the casino's business acumen in this one. After a moment of thought, he shook his head.
"Thanks, but I'll pass this time. Slow and steady wins the race," Shade replied.
The man actually agreed with him. "You've got a point. Slow and steady. Besides, 'Poor Franklin' will be back again sooner or later."
Shade admitted that he harbored some pretty dark thoughts about the club's "debt repayment" system. However, in reality, young Franklin was merely forced to wash dishes in the kitchen. Once he scrubbed enough plates, they'd let him go.
When the man led Shade into the kitchen, they arrived just in time to see a fat cook in chef's attire punch a skinny young man to the floor. The boy, with small eyes and freckles, lay sprawled on a pile of playing cards, blood from his mouth staining them red as his teeth hit the floor.
At the back of the kitchen was a bloody pig's head, steaming from a pipe that blasted hot air at it. The cook had apparently been tending to it before hitting Franklin.
"That's enough. Someone's here to pay for him," the man leading Shade said lazily. He waved away the smell of the kitchen from his nose before extending a hand for Shade to pay him. Shade handed over the two pounds he had prepared and then grabbed young Franklin from the floor.
"Your father sent me..." Shade began.
"Mr. Neat, he can't go yet. This little bastard tried to run away and bit me," the cook fumed, holding out his plump hand to show the bloody teeth marks. "Half a pound more, or he's not leaving."