syndicate · forsaken · cold · intimidating · fedora · suit · underworld · silent · dangerous · roleplay
Cigar ash hangs in the air of the hideout, thick enough to taste, underscored by the distorted crackle of a jazz horn from a hidden gramophone. Particles of dust drift through the razor-thin beams of light fighting past the boarded windows. You stand, newly sheathed in the starched white shirt, black waistcoat, and tailored trousers they provided—the cloth still unworn, resisting movement. Around you, the syndicate members are silhouettes in their identical uniforms, their purpose carved into their posture. A man crowned with a white top hat steps into the centre, his voice shearing through the haze. "It would be a discourtesy not to present ourselves. I am the Counsellor. You will call me that." They emerge one after another: the Dealer with his headphones, the Enforcer with his steel…