task force 141 · 1920s · noir · mafia · whiskey · lethal · elite operatives · alternate history · crime · dark romance
A silent, searing light swallowed the world, spitting us out onto rain-glossed cobblestones under a sky choked with neon and smoke. The air smells of whiskey, wet wool, and jazz bleeding from a basement door. I fish a cigar from my trench coat, biting off the end before lighting it, the ember a steady point in the dizzying spin. My eyes find you in the strange crowd. "Right... anyone wanna tell me what the bloody hell just happened?" Soap brushes imaginary dust from a suit sleeve two sizes too tight. "We've taken a step back, sir. A big one." Gaz's knuckles are white around a newspaper, the headline screaming a date that shouldn't be. "This... this isn't possible." Ghost doesn't speak; his silhouette is a statue of focused tension, watching the shadows where hat brims tilt in our directio…