“So, what does this society do?”
The gatekeeper’s question hung in the cold night air, hovering like the fog swirling down the deserted alley. It was a cold winter night and the Great Clock on the Southern Avenue struck exactly ten times. Local shops had been shut down by their owners. People had retired to the comfort of their cozy homes. A rusted signboard swung gently above the tall oak door, standing amidst the loneliness of an isolated alley. It was creaking with each gust of wind—Reclaimers’ Society, etched in faded letters, barely visible under the flickering gas lamp.
The man at the door—a strange-looking, middle-aged gentleman, with one finger missing from each hand—tilted his head toward the guard.
“O’ these age-old rules to identify doppelgangers…” he muttered under his breath, his eyes darting down the alley, “I hate them. Listen, there’s an emergency. Time’s running out and I need to get in really quick.”
But the gatekeeper, stoic as stone, didn’t move. “No exceptions, sir. You know the code well.”
The man exhaled sharply, frustration flickering across his face, and stepped closer. “Jackal. The Reclaimers’ Society, as you damn well know, exists for the noble cause of Euthanasia or mercy killing, as the layman would say. But..”
“But?” The gatekeeper seized the opportunity to cross-question.
“But with a twist. We make them beg. We make them crawl, we peel off their lies and torture them until they pray for death—and then, we grant them peace, salvation, mercy killing. Do you wish to know more?”
A tense pause. The guard nodded slowly, stepping aside. “Get in. Mr. Lion’s waiting inside.”
Jackal pushed open the heavy door and stepped into the dimly lit hall. The room, garnished with unease, had the typical retro setting of the den of criminal masterminds. Shadows stretched along the dark wood-panelled walls, and a fire crackled in the hearth, casting grotesque silhouettes. Few men were at the bar-corner, helping themselves with drinks; the others were discussing about newly-imported revolvers.
At the center of all chaos, sat a man like an ancient titan, muscles taut beneath a tailored black suit. Mr. Lion—the founder, the visionary, the tyrant. A glass of wine rested lazily in his hand, crimson and thick. He had founded the secret society in the belief of the great mission to reclaim the world from the good men and hand it over to the dark powers- evil and corrupted.
Beside him, Mr. Venom, the Secretary, smoked a cigar, the smoke wreathing around his face like a poisonous halo. His eyes, sharp and impatient, landed on Jackal the moment he entered.
“You heard about the traitor?” Lion growled, his voice a low thunder, demanding a strict silence in the chaotic room.
Jackal’s eyebrows furrowed. “You mean the old bartender? Oscar Vermont?”
Venom sneered, puffing violently. “Evil man. Greedy rat. I told you from day one. His brother might have been a very rich merchant, trading in drinks. But that old fellow, Oscar, made terribly bad drinks for us at the Society meetings every fortnight.”
“Enough, Venom,” Lion interrupted, waving his hand dismissively. “Oscar has crossed all his limits. A crime! A grave one. Last night, he murdered a junior intern. The boy came to fetch some notes—he probably must have seen the truth of that old devil behind his innocent mask. And he paid with his life.”
“Any evidence to support the same?” asked Jackal.
“O’ yes, of course. Two eye witnesses- almost accidental,” replied Mr. Lion.
From the far side of the room, two figures stirred.
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Mr. Jaguar, tall and composed, adjusted his cufflinks. Beside him, Miss Cobra, beautiful yet cold, set her glass down and stood, her voice silky but sharp.
“We saw it,” Cobra said. “Oscar didn’t expect us so soon. We heard the scream, rushed in—and there he was, bloodied dagger in hand. He panicked, dropped it, fled like a coward.”
The room erupted in murmurs and curses as the witnesses finished presenting the story of that night.
“A devil, through and through,” someone spat. “Cursed be his dynasty that has bred such monsters.”
“He’s psychotic,” said another. “I saw him once or twice, looking at the mirror and shave off the hair upon his head with a razor. The man needs medication.”
“Or worse—a police spy. It’s very common for those detectives to plant such a strange character in our underworld society and get hold of evidences against us. Maybe the intern had seen him doing his work.”
“What rubbish!” exclaimed Mr. Lion. “We’ve been operating for so long in the city. No government, no police officer, no magistrate has ever been able to get hold of the Reclaimers- not until I am its mastermind.”
“But Sir, the new Inspector is suspecting one of our members for the quadruple murder case in Southern Avenue. My informer told me this. Maybe Oscar was really planted by them. If that’s the case, we’re going to fall into trouble.”
“Let’s hang the old bastard,” said someone in a drunken fit. “We have the murderer and the murder weapon both.”
Venom rose, slamming his fist on the table. “Enough chatter! Let’s drag him out and shoot him to death. Let the Reclaimers do what they do best. Let’s remind him what happens to a vermin. Greed is forgivable- we all carry it like a dagger in our cloaks. But treachery? Well- that’s poison.”
Jackal’s eyes flickered with uncertainty. “Wait. Let’s confront him. He owes us an answer.”
Lion nodded. “Tonight, we pay him a visit. Tonight, Oscar begs. I will compromise the great society at no cost.”
Later that night…
The car crawled along the muddy path, headlights piercing through the thick mist. The city lights had long faded behind them, replaced by endless dark fields of wheat. A solitary cottage loomed ahead, in the outskirts—rotting wood, sagging roof, and an air of decay clinging to it- radiating a mystic eerie feeling about it.
Jackal knocked sharply at the cottage door. After a pause, the door creaked open.
A young woman stood in the doorway—bald-headed, pale, with deep sunken eyes. She looked barely in her twenties, a faint smile on her lips.
“You must be Oscar’s daughter?” Mr. Lion asked with his age-old pride.
“Yes… Julie. You people must be from the place he works. Come in, please.”
They followed her inside. The house smelled of ruins and dust, and the cold seemed to settle into their bones. Julie led them through a narrow corridor, stopping before a dimly lit room.
Venom’s voice was harsh. “Where is the old devil?”
“He’s inside,” Julie said quietly.
She opened the door. Inside, Oscar lay on a broken bed made of wood, his left hand bandaged and stained crimson. His face was pale, eyes closed in pain. The wound was fresh—still bleeding.
Hearing the footsteps, he opened his eyes slowly, and a flicker of fear—or something like it—crossed his face.
“Must be wounds from the combat with the intern boy, right, Oscar?” Mr. Lion roared.
“Julie… leave us,” Oscar whispered gently.
Venom growled. “She should know what a monster her father is.”
Oscar raised his voice, trembling. “She suffers from cancer… stress could kill her. Excitement is averse to her health.”
Mr. Lion motioned towards the door. Julie hesitated, then silently walked away.
Venom stormed forward. “You’re done, Oscar. Your games, your plans—they end tonight. You have double crossed such a dangerous society like ours. Don’t you know what happens to traitors like you?”
Jackal stepped beside him, his voice cold. “Will you defend yourself? Or will your rich brother- the merchant man plead your case?”
Oscar chuckled bitterly, coughing as pain shot through him. “I… have no brother.”
The room fell silent. Lion’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
Oscar sighed, each breath a struggle. “I lied… lied to get hired by the Society… lied to make enough money for Julie’s treatment. She’s all I had left in this huge world.”
Venom stumbled back. “Then… the drinks? From where did you get them every fortnight, if not from your brother?”
Oscar’s eyes glistened. “You never guessed, didn’t you? The flavour… the ice… the mint and the colour. None could hide the taste- but my conviction did.”
“Taste of what?” The Jackal shouted out hysterically.
Oscar slowly lowered his gaze, staring at his bleeding hand. A drop fell to the floor—drip.
Silence consumed the room.
They understood.
Every fortnight, for years… he had bled himself to prepare those drinks. No merchant. No rich brother. Only desperation and a hope that life will be better.
Oscar closed his eyes upon the bed.
Outside, Julie sat alone in the dark, humming a lullaby to herself, unaware of the revelation behind the door.
And in that silence, the Reclaimers stood—murderers, monsters themselves—now stripped bare by a man they thought evil, stunned by the story of Julie- maybe that’s the only Oscar helpless souls like her have- a selfless father like the old bartender!