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Finn moved briskly through the Monarch Club’s darkened corridors, the hush pressing in around him like a damp cloak. The antique sconces along the walls shed a muted, amber glow—just enough to illuminate the portraits of long-deceased members and the plush burgundy carpets that muffled his footsteps. Midnight had long passed, and most of the building was asleep, or at least discreetly occupied behind closed doors. Finn imagined that half the staff had long since gone home, leaving only the night waiters and the occasional watchful night manager.

He peered around each bend, searching for some sign of Jeremy Ford. The man had fled the secret poker game in a drunken state, muttering about a forbidden topic: the Mansfield Game. If the lead was as crucial as Finn suspected, he couldn’t let Jeremy vanish. The corridor seemed endless, every corner nearly identical—a blend of old-world wood paneling, faint overhead lighting, and club insignia etched in polished brass. This must be how secrets stayed buried here, Finn mused: The Monarch’s labyrinthine design devoured the unwary.

A faint rustle of cloth made him stop. Ahead, a figure in a neat uniform stepped out from behind a corner, carrying a silver tray stacked with empty tumblers. Finn recognized the man’s thin frame, anxious face, and immaculate tie—Frederick, the young waiter who often worked late shifts and who was the last person to see Sir Richard alive.

The moment Frederick spotted him, he gave a deferential nod. “Oh, hello, Mr. W—” He caught himself, glancing nervously up and down the hall. “I mean… hello, Mr. Foster. ”

Finn managed a tight smile, realizing that his disguise wouldn’t exactly work on those he’d already met. “Did Theodore not tell you? Remember, it’s Devlin Foster while I’m here.”

Frederick’s cheeks colored slightly. “Of course, yet he did. My apologies. The manager told us your instructions, but I— Well, it’s late, and I nearly forgot.” He balanced the tray carefully against his hip. “Are you… looking for something, sir? Or someone?”

“I’m trying to find Jeremy Ford,” Finn answered in a low voice. “He left a card game rather abruptly. He was upset. I’m concerned he might get into trouble—or cause it. Heard anything?”

Frederick hesitated, then gave a polite nod. “He has a private study on this floor, near the southwestern wing. At times, when he’s—” He stopped shy of calling Jeremy drunk, but the meaning was clear. “—when he’s discontented, he prefers to sulk there.”

“Could you show me the way?” Finn asked, keeping his tone casual, though urgency flickered in his eyes. “I’d hate to wander all night.”

“Certainly.” Frederick shifted the tray, gesturing for Finn to follow. “If you’d come this way, Mr. Foster. ”

They set off together, Finn trailing a half pace behind the waiter. As they walked, the corridor’s hush felt even thicker, as though the building itself held its breath. Rounding a bend, they came to a series of doors set at intervals along the wall. None bore nameplates—anonymity was everything in a place like The Monarch. Near the end of the hall, Frederick stopped in front of a sturdy wooden door and inclined his head.

“That should be Mr. Ford’s study,” he murmured. “I heard a bottle clinking inside about ten minutes ago. He usually keeps the door locked, but, well…” He shrugged, implying that Jeremy might not be fastidious with security while intoxicated.

Finn offered Frederick a grateful nod. "Thank you. You'd better get back to your rounds; I wouldn't want you in trouble.”

Frederick didn’t need telling twice. He slipped away, footsteps fading quickly on the thick carpet. Finn turned his attention to the door. A thin line of light glowed beneath it, flickering slightly as though a lamp inside were dancing. He took a breath and rapped his knuckles gently.

From within, he heard a muffled, “Yes? Who is it?”

Finn cleared his throat. “It’s me—Devlin Foster. I thought you were more interesting than the others in the game.”

A brief shuffle followed, and then the door swung open to reveal Jeremy Ford’s somewhat bleary gaze. The man still wore his half-buttoned dress shirt and smelled faintly of expensive whiskey. A lazy grin curled on his lips when he recognized Finn.

“Dev… Devlin,” he slurred, waving him in. “Couldn’t stand the company down there, eh?” He made a sweeping motion with his free hand, half-laughing, half-wincing. “Come in… You want a drink?”

Finn slipped past Jeremy into a small but well-furnished study. A single desk lamp glowed on a cluttered wooden table, casting warm light over bookshelves stuffed with old tomes, financial ledgers, and an array of crystal decanters. The faint odor of cigar smoke clung to the room, mingled with Jeremy’s own whiskey-laced breath.

“Sure,” Finn said, keeping his tone amiable. “A nightcap wouldn’t hurt. Maybe we can talk for a minute?”

Jeremy grunted a laugh, stumbling over to a side cabinet. He grabbed a squat bottle of amber liquor and two tumblers, pouring generously. Handing one glass to Finn, he gestured for him to sit. Finn took a seat in an armchair upholstered in burgundy velvet. Jeremy lowered himself into the matching chair opposite, swirling his drink as if he couldn’t quite focus on it.

“So,” Finn began, eyeing his whiskey but not sipping yet, “why’d you leave the poker game so abruptly? Looked like something was bugging you.”

Jeremy snorted. “I’m sick… sick of them all bossing me around. Shut up, Jeremy. Don’t talk, Jeremy. Go away, Jeremy. Bah!” He slammed back a gulp of liquor. “Think they can treat me like some silly nuisance. I’m tired of it.”

Finn nodded sympathetically, leaning forward. “You shouldn’t let them push you around. If you’ve got something to say, say it.”

A surprised flicker crossed Jeremy's face, as if few people had bothered to validate him. "You're right," he mumbled. Then, his eyes narrowed with a drunken mixture of suspicion and vulnerability. "But… you're new here, Devlin. Why do you care?"

Finn shrugged, letting a casual half-smile surface. “Call it curiosity. I come to a place like The Monarch expecting excitement, not hushed secrets. Then you mention this Mansfield Game… Everyone else looked ready to strangle you for bringing it up.” He tilted his head. “What’s the big deal, anyway?”

Jeremy drained half his glass in one swallow, wincing as it burned down his throat. For a moment, he seemed torn between fear and a craving to unburden himself. “They hate it because they know it was wrong,” he whispered at last. “They want it buried.”

“Why?” Finn prodded gently. “What happened?”

A soft sob escaped Jeremy’s throat. He leaned forward, propping an elbow on his knee. “Because… I was there. March 10th, 2003. I’ll never forget it. The others whisper about it, pretend it’s a legend, but no— I lived it.”

Finn’s pulse quickened. He set his own drink aside, focusing intently. “Who else was there? You, obviously. And from what I heard, Sir Richard Doyle, Geoffrey Wardlow...”

“James Rutherford, Harold Winthorpe, Charles Blackwood... And...” He stopped for a moment.

“Marcus Pembroke was there?” Finn asked. “But he's deceased?”

Marcus Pembroke,” Jeremy added, voice quivering. “Lady Pembroke’s husband. He’s deceased, all right. Self-deceased. ” A strange, bitter note entered his tone, hinting at deeper tragedy.

Finn felt a jolt of realization. He was onto something. "So it was a seven-player game?"

Jeremy nodded, exhaling shakily. “Not quite. We... We weren’t alone. There was an eighth that night.” He paused, as if weighing whether to speak the name that seen to burn a hole in the top of his tongue

“Mansfield,” Finn murmured, taking a guess. “Was he the one the game was named after? He was the eighth?”

"Yes. He was new—just made his first million or something. Had some business conflicts with Rutherford, Wardlow, the others… They decided, behind his back, to teach him a lesson. Or, as James Rutherford stated it, put him in his place. " Jeremy spat the last phrase with contempt. "It was a midnight game. We knew he had a gambling problem and could be goaded into going too far. The game was… High stakes, and… rigged."

A cold shiver ran down Finn’s spine. “Rigged how?”

Jeremy rubbed his temple, shame clouding his features. “We… they used signals. When someone had a good hand, they’d give a sign—could be a cough, or a way they tapped their chips. Terrance had no clue. We manipulated him, keeping him in the game just enough that his gambling addiction would take over, and he’d keep going when he should have walked away. He kept raising, thinking his skill might carry him. But whenever he had a potentially winning hand, at least one of us folded, so he’d get only scraps. And whenever he was on the losing end, the rest went full tilt to drain him dry.”

“So the game was set up to make him lose everything,” Finn said quietly. “To ruin him.”

Jeremy let out a shaky laugh that bordered on tears. "More than ruin. By the end of that night, Terrance Mansfield lost every last penny. The largest single-night loss in the Monarch's history. And we were proud at the time. Thought we taught him a lesson."

Finn’s heart pounded. “What became of him?”

“No one knows,” Jeremy replied, shoulders slumping. “He disappeared afterward. We tried to find him—some of us felt guilty, especially Sir Richard and Marcus… but it was too late. Mansfield had vanished from the face of the Earth. Rumor was he might have changed his name or… or worse.” He swallowed painfully. “I always wondered if he died out there, destitute. Or if he…” Jeremy’s eyes flickered with dread. “If he decided to come back when the time was right.”

A moment’s quiet weighed heavily on them. Finn carefully broached the question echoing in his mind. “You think Terrance Mansfield might’ve returned… for revenge?”

Jeremy gazed at him, jaw quivering. “Sometimes I do. Especially now, with Sir Richard and Wardlow dead. ” He lowered his voice. “And that might only be the beginning…”

Before Finn could press further, the door to the study swung abruptly wider. James Rutherford stood in the doorway, dark eyes blazing. “That’s enough, Jeremy. You should not be discussing this!” His voice reverberated through the small room, fueled by alarm and anger.

A sudden draft ruffled the heavy curtains at the study’s window, as if a storm had just blown in. The lamplight flickered, casting elongated shadows across Rutherford’s tall frame.

Jeremy’s face went pale. “I— James, I was just—”

“You’re drunk ,” Rutherford snapped, stepping forward. “And you’re spouting nonsense.”

But Jeremy recoiled from the confrontation, stumbling to his feet. “He’ll come for us all in the end! Two of us are dead already!” he shouted, seeming half-mad with fear or guilt. “You can’t hide the past forever!”

Before Rutherford could restrain him, Jeremy bolted out of the study, shoulder-checking Rutherford in passing. The older man staggered, briefly off-balance. Finn leaped to his feet, heart thundering. He needed to follow Jeremy, but Rutherford blocked the way with a furious glare.

“You—Devlin—don’t pry into matters that don’t concern you,” Rutherford growled.

Finn dodged around him, ignoring the outburst. He dashed into the corridor just in time to see Jeremy disappearing around the corner. “Jeremy! Wait!” he called, swift footsteps echoing behind him as he gave chase.

He followed Jeremy’s stumbling silhouette through a maze of hallways, past gilded mirrors and darkened parlors. Despite his drunken state, Jeremy moved with surprising speed, fear propelling him. Each turn Finn took revealed another deserted corridor, and soon he was half-certain Jeremy was leading him deeper into an older, seldom-used part of the club.

At last, Jeremy shoved open a narrow door at the end of a hall and vanished inside. Finn lunged forward, grabbing the handle. Pausing to steady his breathing, he pushed the door open and stared down. A stone staircase descended into darkness, the faint smell of damp stone wafting upward.

Finn clicked on his pocket flashlight, the beam stabbing into the murk. The stairs spiraled downward into a space he hadn’t realized existed—a hidden basement or sub level, untouched by the renovated grandeur above. The silence from below was profound, as though the bowels of the building lived in another century.

A crackle sounded in his earpiece. Amelia’s voice, urgent: “What’s happening? Where are you?”

Finn peered over the edge of the first step. “Jeremy’s gone down into some kind of basement. I didn’t even know the club had lower levels like this.”

“I’ll get some backup—”

“No,” Finn hissed into the tiny mic near his collar. “Don’t. Not yet. If you swarm the place, it’ll blow my cover. I’ll handle it. Just… stand by.”

“Finn…”

“I’ll be careful,” he promised. Then he exhaled, bracing himself.

The flashlight’s narrow beam trembled on the steps, revealing cracked stone walls and old iron handrails. The deeper he looked, the more oppressive the darkness seemed, as though beckoning him into the club’s buried secrets. Jeremy was somewhere below, perhaps consumed by liquor and regret—and maybe in mortal danger if a killer truly roamed these halls, seeking to silence those who knew too much.

Finn steeled himself, one hand resting on the door frame, the other keeping the flashlight trained forward. “All right,” he muttered under his breath, the murk swallowing his words. “Let’s see just how deep this all goes.”

He set his foot on the top stair and began to descend. The door swung shut behind him with a soft thud, leaving the corridor, and the world above, silent once more.