Daniel's fingers, numb with cold, toy with the zipper of his cracked leather jacket. The wind gnaws at his exposed ears, making him impatient for what waits within. His gold signet ring glimmers in the uncertain light as he scratches at the faded facemask pressed to his stubble. The heavy music from inside pulses through the wall, trembling the grime beneath his back, just as the door swings open with a low groan.
Marsh, warmth radiating from his narrow frame, steps out, cigarette ember glowing between his lips and laughter echoing down the empty street. Smoke weaves through the night air, sharp and tinged with ash. "Long night?" he asks, a crooked grin softening the chill that hangs between them.
Daniel pulls away his facemask, scanning the sparse room for any sign of trouble—or for Clint. He approaches Ginger, whose springy, fire-bright curls and warm, throaty voice add life to the dim scene. Napkins flutter to the ground as she turns to greet him, her rust-colored nails drumming a gentle rhythm atop the worn menus.
"Ginger, wonderful to see," he calls, stepping forward and rescuing a napkin mid-air. The club’s logo—a wreath of wheat and three overlapping full moons—draws his gaze, stirring old memories. "Always a pleasure," Ginger responds, her lips curling into a sly smile as she hands him a menu from deep in the stack.
The crowd sways to live music, their silhouettes flickering in and out of the golden haze. Servers and dancers weave around him in a blur, and the touch of a petite woman’s almond-scented shoulder nearly sends Daniel stumbling. He sidesteps, exchanging a brief smile before pressing onward, determined yet wary.
Clint glances up as Daniel approaches, the pen cap in his mouth and his salt-and-pepper hair shadowed by the lamp’s glow. He twists the signet ring on his finger—a silent signal between old friends and former conspirators.
"Why do you insist on meeting like this?" Daniel asks, settling into the knife-edge seat, eyes flicking to the envelope. "I work for a living," Clint gruffs, though his ring betrays the truth—no one truly works for a living anymore, not those in their circle.
Clint taps the notepad, pushing it closer. Daniel scans the runes, his eyes widening as the weight of the situation settles in. "How many have been missing?" he asks, now fully alert.
"Three so far. You’ve been gone too long," Clint mutters, chewing absently on a stringy piece of vegetable. Daniel’s hands tremble as he folds the paper away, his mind racing. "Am I back?" he asks, voice tight, eyes locked with Clint’s. "If you want to be," comes the answer, quiet and heavy.
Daniel crosses his arms, chair scraping back with a warning groan. "What’s the catch?" he demands. Clint toys with his pen, voice tight and eyes averted. "Council wants our experience," he says, though his look suggests something deeper, more dangerous.
Daniel snorts, sliding the envelope off the table as he rises. "Council wants to blind us. They can’t go where we can," he mutters. Clint’s voice follows him, low and knowing. "Even a blind man isn’t a fool," he calls after Daniel, who disappears into the crowd, the envelope pressed to his chest.
Blind men rarely fish at night, but Daniel knows—tonight, he has no choice but to cast his line into the dark.
