Arthur was the kind of man who could sell sand to a desert nomad and make them believe they got a deal. Seated at a bar so upscale it served martinis in glasses too clean to trust, he looked every bit the part of someone who didn't belong there.
His scuffed leather jacket clashed with the polished wood and sparkling chandeliers, yet he lounged like he owned the place.
Across from him sat Gregor Mulligan, a sweaty, red-faced businessman who clearly thought too highly of himself. He adjusted his gold cufflinks for asa the third time in as many minutes, his eyes darting to the cards laid out between them.
"You nervous, Gregor?" Arthur asked, his tone amused.
"No," Gregor lied, clearing his throat. "Just... thinking."
Arthur shuffled the deck in his hands, the cards moved in a blur. "Thinking about what? How bad this hand is? Or how you're going to explain losing to a guy who can't afford socks without holes in them?"
Gregor's jaw tightened. "Double or nothing," he said, slapping a wad of cash onto the table.
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Bold move. I like it. But are you sure you've got the stomach for this? Wouldn't want you keeling over mid-game. I'm not certified in CPR."
"Just deal," Gregor snapped.
Arthur obliged, and flicked the cards onto the table with a flair that made Gregor's eye twitch.
Five minutes later, Gregor's face was the color of wet cement. Arthur smirked, tapping the table with a finger.
"Well, Gregor," he said, leaning back. "It seems Lady Luck's been playing favorites tonight. Again."
"You cheated," Gregor hissed, as he slammed his fist on the table. The glasses rattled, and a few nearby patrons glanced over before quickly looking away.
Arthur gave an exaggerated gasp. "Cheated? Me? Gregor, I'm wounded. You wound me, sir!"
Gregor pointed a stubby finger at him. "There's no way you're that lucky!"
Arthur leaned forward, his smirk widening. "Maybe I'm just better at reading people than you are at hiding your tells. Did you know your left eye twitches when you're bluffing? It's adorable, really."
Gregor's face went beet red. Before he could explode, Arthur gathered the cash from the table and tucked it into his jacket. "Now, don't be a sore loser. I'll buy you a drink next time. If you can afford it, that is."
He turned to leave, ignoring Gregor's spluttered protests. But just as he reached the door, a hand gripped his shoulder.
"Leaving so soon?"
Arthur froze. The voice was smooth, confident, and just sharp enough to make his stomach twist. He turned to see a man in a tailored suit standing behind him. Victor King.
"Mr. King," Arthur said, his smile returning, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I didn't know you frequented establishments like this. Shouldn't you be terrorizing a boardroom somewhere?"
King didn't laugh. His icy blue eyes studied Arthur, unblinking. "Sit down," he said, gesturing to an empty booth.
Arthur hesitated. He'd spent years avoiding men like Victor King, ruthless power players who crushed people like him for sport. But the bar was too crowded to make a scene, and Arthur wasn't about to test his luck any further tonight.
He sat.
King slid into the booth across from him, steepling his fingers. "You've been making waves, Arthur. Small ones, but waves nonetheless."
"I like to keep busy," Arthur said, shrugging.
King's lips curved into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Busy is fine. Reckless is not. Your little schemes are starting to attract attention. And attention, in my line of work, is inconvenient."
Arthur's heart raced, but he kept his expression neutral. "I'm just a small-time guy, Mr. King. No reason to waste your time on me."
"Oh, but you're clever," King said, leaning forward. "And clever people are useful. I've got a proposition for you."
Arthur's instincts screamed at him to walk away, but he forced himself to stay put. "I'm listening."
"There's a man I need leverage on," King said. "A competitor. You're going to get it for me."
"And if I refuse?" Arthur asked, his tone carefully light.
King's smile widened. "Then I'll make sure you can't refuse. Permanently."
Arthur left the bar an hour later, his mind racing. King had given him a name, an address, and a deadline. The job wasn't impossible, but it was dangerous, really dangerous. The man King wanted Arthur to look into was just as difficult as King and ten times as ruthless. Arthur had spent his entire life avoiding the kind of trouble men like Victor King represented.
"Think, Arthur," he muttered, pacing the alley behind the bar.
Arthur found his way to a dive bar, to run one more con before the night was over. The bar wasn't as big as the previous bar but he didn't care, he wasn't there for a drink anyways.
His eyes scanned the room looking for his next victim and he found one. As Arthur moved closer, he realized who the man was, there was no mistaking it—the man was Martin, Victor King's accountant. For a moment Arthur froze, then he saw that the man was drunk.
He could tell by how Martin slurringly cursed out King and mumbled to himself about how unfairly he was being treated by King and how under appreciated he was. Under normal circumstances, Martin would never have the gonads to say half of what he was spilling out in public.
The problem with people like King was that they saw everyone as a pawn. But Arthur had learned long ago that pawns could be dangerous when they stopped following the rules.
A plan began to form. If King wanted leverage, then leverage he would get, just not in the way he expected.
"Do you have any idea what it's like working for that bastard?" Martin slurred, gesturing wildly. "I could bury him with what I know."
Arthur smiled, his tone casual. "Bury him, huh? Sounds like you've got some interesting stories to tell."
Martin was reluctant at first, but all that faded away when Arthur poured him another cup and urged him to drink up, Martin foolishly downed the cup in one go.
He coaxed enough information to start piecing together King's financial indiscretions.
The real jackpot came when Martin, in a drunken haze, mentioned an offshore account King used to funnel money from less-than-legal ventures.
"I even have access to the backups," Martin bragged. "Not that I'd ever use them."
Arthur leaned in, his voice smooth. "Of course not. But hypothetically, if someone did want access…"
Arthur didn't stop with the documents. He knew King would call his bluff if the threat wasn't airtight. So, he spent the rest of the night crafting a set of damning photographs and email forgeries, planting breadcrumbs to make the evidence seem like it had come from an anonymous source.
To make it worse, Arthur fabricated a narrative that King had been double-crossing his partners, a move that would ensure retaliation from within King's own ranks if the documents went public.
The next morning, Arthur walked into King's office with a confidence he didn't entirely feel. King looked up from his desk, his expression unreadable.
"Arthur," he said, his tone cool. "You're early. That's rare for you."
Arthur dropped a thick envelope onto the desk. "Consider this a peace offering."
King opened the envelope, his eyes narrowing as he sifted through the contents—photos, financial records, and a few incriminating emails Arthur had obtained from King's disgruntled employee.
"You've been busy," King said, his tone icy.
Arthur shrugged. "I like to stay ahead of the game. Now, here's how this is going to work: You forget about your little favor, and I forget about these."
King's expression didn't change, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop. "You've got nerve, Sterling."
Arthur smirked. "That's what they tell me."
For a long moment, King said nothing. Then, to Arthur's surprise, he laughed—a low, chilling sound that sent a shiver down Arthur's spine.
"You're playing a dangerous game," King said.
"I wouldn't have it any other way," Arthur replied, standing. "Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. King."
Arthur's victory was short-lived. That night, as he walked home through the city's backstreets, a group of men stepped out of the shadows, blocking his path.
"Arthur ," one of them growled. "You've been sticking your nose where it doesn't belong."
Arthur sighed. "Can we skip the part where you try to scare me? I'm already late for my nightly existential crisis."
The first punch came fast, knocking Arthur to the ground. He scrambled to his feet, but the gang closed in, their fists and boots raining down on him.
As the world began to fade, Arthur felt a strange sensation, like a spark igniting deep within him.
And then, everything went dark.