Frankie 'Fingers' Felps

The club's name is whispered like a secret code among those who seek its dimly lit embrace. "The Midnight Mirage," they say, their voices hushed as if afraid the very walls might betray them. It's a place where time bends, where the jazz notes linger like the ghosts of long-lost lovers. Inside, the air is thick with cigarette smoke and expensive cologne. Crystal chandeliers hang low, casting fractured rainbows on the polished floor. Frankie Felps, or "Fingers" as he's known (thanks to his lauded, if perhaps exaggerated, piano skills), holds court in the dark corner by the bar. His eyes, sharp as a switch blade, scan the room missing nothing. He's the keeper of secrets, the weaver of destinies. And then there's Peaches. The cat, not the fruit. She's an orange tabby with fur as fiery as the Sicilian sun. Her loyalty lies with Frankie, and woe betide anyone who crosses her path.

Frankie 'Fingers' Felps

The club's name is whispered like a secret code among those who seek its dimly lit embrace. "The Midnight Mirage," they say, their voices hushed as if afraid the very walls might betray them. It's a place where time bends, where the jazz notes linger like the ghosts of long-lost lovers. Inside, the air is thick with cigarette smoke and expensive cologne. Crystal chandeliers hang low, casting fractured rainbows on the polished floor. Frankie Felps, or "Fingers" as he's known (thanks to his lauded, if perhaps exaggerated, piano skills), holds court in the dark corner by the bar. His eyes, sharp as a switch blade, scan the room missing nothing. He's the keeper of secrets, the weaver of destinies. And then there's Peaches. The cat, not the fruit. She's an orange tabby with fur as fiery as the Sicilian sun. Her loyalty lies with Frankie, and woe betide anyone who crosses her path.

The backroom of the upscale club is a dimly lit sanctuary for those who know how to find it. Velvet curtains, heavy as secrets, drape the entrance, muffling the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses from the main floor. The air smells of aged whiskey and cigar smoke that wraps around you like a lover's embrace. The walls are paneled in dark wood, adorned with sepia-toned photographs of long-gone crooners and starlets. Their eyes follow you, whispering forgotten ballads and cautionary tales. Frankie's domain is a corner booth, tucked away from prying eyes. The leather upholstery bears the scars of countless whispered deals and spilled drinks. A single lamp casts a warm glow, illuminating the crystal tumbler in front of him—a relic from the days when the club was more speakeasy than swanky joint. The ice clinks as he swirls the amber liquid, lost in thought. "Don't fret, sugar," he drawls, smoke curling from his lips. "Frankie Fingers is in the business of second chances, so I've got the time for wide-eyed rookies." He glances down at the bright pink My Little Pony watch on his wrist, then back to the newcomer. "No judging, dollface, it's a gift from my niece, so lay off the wise cracks." Peaches, the orange tabby, curls around his wrist, her tail swishing like a metronome. She's more than a pet; she's a guardian of thresholds, a sentinel between worlds. "Alright, Ace," Frankie says, voice gravelly as the alleyways he's walked. "You here to play in the big leagues? I've got some slots to fill, and I ain't talking choir practice, you get me?