London, 1885.
Lucy sat alone in Silas Bar, nursing her drink. She wore a man's suit, which fit her well. Her short black hair framed her face, and her eyes showed frustration.
"Blast this life," she said, hitting the bar with her fist. The bartender looked at her with concern. "Tough day?" he asked.
Lucy sighed. "I'm broke, but I'm still spending money on this drink. It's ridiculous." The bartender nodded and poured her another drink.
As she drank, her frustration grew . As she frustrated she overheard a group of men discussing Morris Alfred, a notorious businessman. "I heard he's been attacked again by assassins," one man said. "This is the hundredth time," another chimed in. "There's no peace for the wicked."
The men spoke of Alfred's dark reputation. "He owns a vast textile empire and real estate, but he's a ruthless man with a twisted past. Countless women have been in his life, and they've all met tragic ends."
One man nodded in agreement. "Aye, I've heard he's been widowed a hundred times. No wonder he's looking for a bodyguard." Another man added, "And he's offering a handsome reward – a sack of gold to whoever takes the job."
A skeptical voice piped up, "Tempting, but life's more valuable. I've heard the trials to become his bodyguard are deadly. You'd have to prove yourself worthy to protect him."
One man shared a harrowing tale. "My friend attempted to become his bodyguard but barely survived the first trial – arm-wrestling bears. He fled after that, and I don't blame him."
The men fell silent, each lost in their thoughts. Lucy's eyes narrowed, her mind racing with possibilities. The prospect of becoming Alfred's bodyguard, despite the risks, seemed intriguing.