Empire of Shadows

Morning arrived, and Ennio and a few friends met outside his home, their faces alight with genuine smiles. Yesterday, they had wrapped up two deals, earning a total commission of eleven dollars. While eleven dollars might not seem like much, considering the times, it was significant. 

Illegal immigrants renting work cards from others often ended up with only a little over ten dollars in actual income. To put it into perspective, eleven dollars was roughly equivalent to a month’s income for an illegal immigrant, yet they had made that much in a single afternoon. The speed of earning money like this could make anyone envious.

Lance ensured immediate payment, distributing commissions right away to motivate his workers. In this world, nothing was immune to the lure of profit. If it didn’t work, it simply meant the incentive wasn’t high enough. For these young immigrants without stable jobs, eleven dollars was more than enough to get them to work hard for him.

Ennio handed out cigarettes to his buddies. Today, he bought a pack for twenty-five cents, a rarity for them as they usually smoked homemade rolled cigarettes. Those were not only harsh but stained their teeth yellow. The small-packaged cigarettes, in contrast, were smoother and didn’t yellow their teeth as much.

During this time, all cigarettes were made from raw tobacco. Flue-cured tobacco wasn’t widely available yet, as the market for female smokers hadn’t grown enough for cigarette companies to take notice. When women began linking smoking with the fight for women’s rights, cigarette companies would start promoting smoking among women. But that was still far in the future.

The group of young men stood at the street corner, puffing away. Passersby instinctively veered off to avoid them, a silent show of resistance or even disdain. Yet, to these youths, this avoidance was a sign of their “power” and “coolness.”

The area was predominantly populated by immigrants from the Empire, so most locals were familiar with one another. As the group chatted about who in the neighborhood might need a loan, a small, silent figure named Morris suddenly spoke up. “I know a place where people definitely need money.”

Morris was short, only about 1.5 meters tall even with shoes on. At seventeen, he was unlikely to grow much taller. He looked malnourished, his hair yellowed, and he wore an old, battered cap. His clothes were hand-me-downs from his brother, faded from too many washes.

Ennio’s interest was piqued. His father had divorced his mother after moving to the Federation, and now Ennio lived with him. Ennio harbored no gratitude toward the man—only resentment. His father was prone to violence, especially against family members. Working as a salesman at a company, his father earned a base salary of twenty dollars a month, but only if he closed at least one deal. Each additional sale brought in a commission. Ennio’s mother had once tried persuading his father to find a higher-paying, stable job, like a factory line worker. Such jobs came with union protections and better pay, which could provide the family with financial stability. But his father dismissed the idea, believing it would ruin his potential future.

He had read too many self-help books about sales legends and believed he would become the next big success—owning his office, his company, even his brand. However, his reality was far less glamorous, often buying his own product just to meet sales quotas. Anyone who suggested he switch jobs was treated as an enemy trying to crush his dreams. 

At work, he tolerated insults and even physical affronts to make sales, his self-respect completely absent. But at home, he became a tyrant, venting his frustrations through violence. His low alcohol tolerance exacerbated this, as a single drink was enough to unleash his fury. One night, after stripping Ennio’s mother and beating her with a belt in a drunken rage, she finally packed her things and left.

In the Federation, their marriage wasn’t legally registered, so they weren’t considered married. After her departure, his father redirected his abuse toward Ennio. Initially, Ennio could only endure it, but as he grew older, he began to fight back.

Ennio’s sole desire now was to earn enough money to leave this wretched home. So when Morris mentioned a place where people needed loans, Ennio’s interest was immediately piqued. His throat felt dry as he took a drag from his cigarette, savoring the bitter tar that seemed to soothe him. “Where?” he asked.

“Behind the Lebby house, there’s a building with a gambling den. My father goes there often. There’s bound to be people in need of cash,” Morris replied.

Ennio’s eyes lit up. “Right, I’ve heard about that place too.” He could barely contain himself. “Why don’t we check it out now?”

Some of the group hesitated, but the others were keen, so the hesitant ones followed along. The group of seven or eight youths strode through the streets, their presence causing pedestrians to step aside with looks of disdain. No one wanted to cross paths with young men like them, who might suddenly pull a knife and demand their money.

The gambling den wasn’t far, less than two kilometers away. In about fifteen minutes, they stood before a wooden door in an alley behind the main street. The door looked like it led to a basement. Morris knocked, and a metal peephole slid open with a clink, revealing a pair of scrutinizing eyes. After a brief glance at the group, the peephole shut.

Just as they thought they wouldn’t get in, the door creaked open.

“Your father isn’t here today,” the bouncer said.

Morris, visibly nervous, replied, “I brought some friends. They wanted to check the place out.”

The bouncer’s gaze swept over the group again, settling on Ennio. “Got money?”

Ennio pulled out two five-dollar bills. The bouncer hesitated before stepping aside. “Don’t cause trouble, or you’ll regret it.”

The group exhaled in relief, smiling as they slipped inside. The air was damp, hot, and carried a sour stench, like a mix of sweat and rot—a familiar odor among the homeless.  ŕ₳ŊỗBЁ𝙎

Descending a narrow staircase about ten meters down, they entered a room barely seventy square meters in size, which buzzed with activity. Six tables were crammed into the space, each surrounded by sweaty gamblers. Even with several fans running, the heat was oppressive. Some gamblers shouted, others laughed hysterically, while a few pounded the tables in regret and despair. The scene was chaotic and overwhelming for the young men.

Although some patrons noticed their arrival, they quickly looked away upon recognizing Morris, a familiar face. Morris often accompanied his father here, running errands like fetching cigarettes or snacks. Sometimes, other patrons tipped him a penny or two for errands.

Morris explained the games to his friends, pointing out a popular blackjack table. “This is blackjack. Three of the tables here run blackjack games,” he said. Each table had six seats, but even those standing behind the players could place bets. Sitting at the table, however, gave a more immersive experience.

Blackjack had recently become popular in the Federation, spreading to every casino and attracting large crowds. Compared to more complicated games, blackjack’s simple rules and strategic elements made it a favorite among gamblers.

Here, there were no chips. This small underground casino dealt strictly in cash. Ennio’s breathing quickened as he watched the piles of money on the table grow to over a hundred dollars in mere moments. He had never seen so much money in his life.

Morris, more composed, cautioned him. “It’s addicting.”