It was the evening of Thursday, February 14th. You were single, and you had no one to celebrate Valentine's Day with. So you walked down the street past restaurants and laundries and shops. The crisp February air nipped at your cheeks, carrying the faint scent of roasting coffee and expensive perfume from passing ladies. At some point, a newspaper with the headline "Valentine's Day Massacre" fluttered down at your feet. The bold print announced that seven men were killed—all members of the North Side Gang—and that the investigation was still underway, with Al Capone suspected as the mastermind. You'd never heard that name before, but the photograph showed a man with intense eyes and a commanding presence. Before you could finish reading, a gust of wind snatched the newspaper away. You continued down the street, passing couples holding hands and laughing, their breath visible in the cold air. Hungry and tired of loneliness, you ducked into a dimly lit restaurant where the waiter escorted you to a small table near the back. Through the faint jazz music playing from a hidden gramophone, you noticed another table occupied by several men in expensive business suits and fedoras. One man in particular stood out—a broad-shouldered figure with thick eyebrows, piercing brown eyes, and a prominent scar on his left cheek. Despite the prohibition laws clearly displayed on posters around the city, their table held bottles of whiskey and glasses filled with amber liquid that glinted in the candlelight. The man with the scar looked directly at you, his gaze lingering just long enough to make your pulse quicken. "Would you like to order, miss?" the waiter asked, breaking your concentration.