-Wei?er Wolf-

  The Crown and Anchor, London – January 1945

  The warm amber glow of the Crown and Anchor's backroom was filled with laughter and the clink of glasses. The poker table was crowded with British officers in various states of inebriation, their uniforms slightly disheveled from hours of camaraderie and gambling. At the center of it all was Emmett Granger, his lone eye gleaming with mischief beneath the brim of his hat.

  "...And then I told him, 'You don't call it a whorehouse, monsieur, you call it France!'" Emmett delivered the punchline with a wide grin, smacking his hand against the table.

  The room erupted in raucous laughter, the other three officers roaring at the audacity of the joke. One of them, a stout captain with a ruddy complexion, nearly choked on his beer, slapping his chest as he struggled to catch his breath. Another, a lieutenant with a cigarette dangling from his lips, wheezed as he doubled over.

  Emmett hooted, leaning back in his chair, clearly pleased with himself. "Goddamn, I missed good company like this."

  Not everyone was as amused. Major Lewis, a tall, sharply dressed man with a mustache as prim as his demeanor, scowled. His fingers drummed impatiently on the table.

  “Shut up and stop stalling.” Lewis snapped, his clipped accent slicing through the laughter.

  Emmett’s grin widened as his one eye locked onto the Major’s irritated gaze. "Shit, someone doesn’t have a sense of humor." He said, chuckling as he reached for the deck. With a theatrical sigh, he began dealing the cards, deftly palming a better one from his sleeve into his hand.

  “Would it kill you bastards to ice your beer?” Emmett muttered, grimacing as he took a swig of his warm pint.

  The others chuckled, but Lewis didn’t join in. Instead, he glared at Emmett, his annoyance barely contained. “Would it kill you to shut your yap?” He said coldly. “Are we playing cards, or chatting like a bunch of schoolboys?”

  “Christ, Lewis, we’re here to have some fun.” The stout captain said, rolling his eyes. “Stop being so damn serious.”

  Lewis shook his head, clearly unimpressed, but said nothing more.

  Emmett smirked and pushed a modest stack of chips into the pot. “Feelin’ good today, boys.” He said, his voice dripping with confidence.

  Around the table, the men sized up their cards. One folded immediately with a groan, muttering something about his terrible luck. The remaining three matched Emmett’s bet, including Lewis, who did so begrudgingly.

  The lieutenant, still recovering from the earlier joke, grinned as he looked around the table. “You gents ever hear why French tanks have rearview mirrors?”

  Emmett laughed, already anticipating the punchline, but to everyone’s surprise, it was Lewis who deadpanned, “So they can see the battlefield.”

  The table chuckled, even Emmett, who raised a brow at Lewis. “Christ, Major, didn’t think you had it in you.”

  Lewis allowed a small smirk but said nothing.

  Emmett adjusted his cards with a subtle flick of his fingers, his one eye scanning the table with practiced ease. He raised the pot slightly, and another man groaned before folding. Now it was just Emmett, the lieutenant, and Lewis.

  The lieutenant, emboldened by the French joke, shoved his entire stack into the pot. “All in, friends.” He said with a grin. His gaze lingered on Emmett’s eyepatch, and he leaned back in his chair. “Been meaning to ask, Granger. What in the hell happened to your face?”

  The room fell silent for a moment, the other officers looking at Emmett with curiosity. Emmett leaned back in his chair, taking a slow drag from his cigarette as if contemplating the question. Finally, he nodded solemnly, his voice dropping to a dramatic tone.

  “It was... horrible.” He began, his expression grave. “A night I’ll never forget.”

  The officers leaned in, their curiosity piqued. Emmett ran a hand through his hair, as if reliving the memory. “I... I forgot to pay this French whore.” He said, his voice trembling with mock emotion. “She had nails like a wild animal! She... she…”

  His composure broke, and he burst into laughter, slapping the table as the others howled in response. Even Lewis couldn’t help but crack a smile, though he quickly hid it behind his glass.

  As the laughter subsided, Emmett flipped his cards over, revealing his hand. “Well, look at that.” He said with a triumphant grin. The lieutenant groaned, tossing his losing hand onto the table, while Lewis frowned, reluctantly showing his lesser cards.

  Emmett grinned as he pulled the pot toward him, stacking his winnings with satisfaction. But as his hands worked mechanically, his thoughts drifted. He couldn’t help but think about the real reason he wore the patch. He shook his head, forcing the memory back down.

  Emmett cleared his throat and raised an eyebrow, eyeing their empty chip stacks. "So, you boys wanna keep playing?"

  The groans that followed were almost musical to him. The stout captain retrieved his wallet with a defeated sigh, slapping it onto the table as though it pained him to part with its contents. The lieutenant followed suit, muttering something under his breath as he replenished his stack.

  “Damn you, Granger.” The lieutenant muttered, glaring at the eyepatched man who was practically glowing with smug satisfaction.

  “Aw, come on.” Emmett teased, dealing the cards with his usual flair. “Where’s the fun if you quit while you’re behind?”

  The game resumed, and Emmett, acting the part of a showman, made sure to lose a couple of hands intentionally. He played just sloppily enough to keep the others interested, laughing and cursing his "bad luck" while his stack of chips continued to grow steadily. He sipped his warm beer, grimacing slightly but swallowing it down anyway. The atmosphere grew rowdier as the night went on, punctuated by groans, cheers, and the clinking of glasses.

  “Gawd damn!” Emmett hooted as he laid down an intentionally mediocre hand that just barely scraped out a win. “I’m on fire tonight!” He slapped the table, adding to the cacophony.

  The lieutenant threw his cards down in frustration, leaning back in his chair. “Damn you, Emmett!” He groaned. “You’ve got horseshoes up your ass tonight.”

  The stout captain shook his head, rubbing his temples. “I’m done.” He grumbled, shoving his remaining chips toward Emmett. “I need to make sure I’ve got enough left to eat tomorrow.” He sounded thoroughly exasperated.

  Emmett grinned, scooping up his winnings with casual ease. He started counting his stack, muttering numbers under his breath, and smirking as he tallied the night's haul. “Real good playin’ with you boys.” He said, shuffling the chips together into neat piles. “Unless, of course, y’all still want to keep going.”

  “I’m calling it a night.” The captain said, standing up and stretching with an audible groan.

  Emmett turned his attention to Major Lewis, who was sitting quietly, his sharp eyes fixed on Emmett’s every movement. “How about you, Major?” Emmett asked with a grin, clearly relishing the tension.

  Lewis shook his head with a thin, tight-lipped smile. “No, thank you. I think I’ve had enough of your luck for one evening Lieutenant Granger.”

  He stood, his posture as stiff as ever, and began shaking hands around the table. When he reached Emmett, his expression didn’t soften. Emmett extended his hand with a sly grin, but the second their hands locked, Lewis’s other hand shot forward, yanking up Emmett’s sleeve. The motion revealed a rubber band strapped to Emmett’s wrist, securing a couple of hidden cards.

  The room froze.

  “I fucking knew it.” Lewis spat, his voice cold and furious.

  Emmett, to his credit, didn’t flinch. Instead, he glanced at the revealed cards and then back at the Major with a wry grin. “Well, shit. You ain’t cheatin’, you ain’t tryin’.”

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  The table erupted into a cacophony of noise. The lieutenant gasped in shock, while the captain slammed his fist on the table. “Granger, you bastard!”

  Lewis’s face twisted into a snarl, his composure slipping for the first time that evening. “You slimy, no-good…”

  Before Lewis could finish, there was a sharp crash as a bottle shattered over Emmett’s head. The impact sent glass and warm beer flying as Emmett toppled backward, his chair clattering to the ground. He hit the floor hard, groaning as his vision swam. The stout captain stood over him, his face flushed with anger, the remnants of the bottle still clutched in his hand.

  “Bastard’s been cleaning us out all night.” The captain growled, looking down at Emmett with a mixture of rage and satisfaction.

  “What do we do with him?” The lieutenant asked nervously, glancing between Emmett’s prone form and the two standing men.

  Lewis stared down at Emmett, his cold eyes calculating. Slowly, a grin spread across his face, equal parts sinister and amused.

  “Oh.” Lewis said, his voice dripping with malicious glee. “I’ve got a few ideas.”

  The night was bitterly cold, the kind that gnawed at the skin and sank deep into the bones. Emmett felt something tugging at his coat pocket, the sensation stirring him from his groggy stupor. His brow furrowed in confusion, and he heard muttered curses in a thick Cockney accent.

  “Not a damn thing worth takin’!” The voice spat, low and agitated.

  Emmett reacted on instinct, his body snapping into motion before his mind could catch up. His fist lashed out and collided with something soft and fleshy. A nose, maybe a cheek. A pained grunt followed as Emmett's eye shot open, his vision swimming in the dim, flickering light of the alley. Before the would-be thief could react, Emmett tackled him, driving him hard into the grimy ground. His hands balled into fists, and he began hammering the man with every ounce of strength he could muster.

  The thief let out a garbled cry, trying and failing to shield himself from the onslaught. Emmett grabbed him by the collar and hauled him closer, forcing their faces inches apart. The man’s nose was clearly broken, blood streaming down his face, his eyes wide with fear and pain. He looked rough. A scruffy beard, sunken cheeks, cheap, tattered clothing. Emmett didn’t recognize him.

  His gaze darted around, and he realized he was in some dingy alleyway. How the hell had he gotten here? A wave of pain crashed over him, and he groaned, momentarily dazed.

  “I... I’m sorry, mate.” The man wheezed, his voice trembling. “I ain’t took nothin’, I swear!”

  Emmett’s eye narrowed, and his lip curled into a snarl. “You were trying to rob me, you son of a bitch!” His voice was a low, menacing growl. He cocked his fist back, ready to strike again.

  The thief raised his hands in desperation, shaking his head furiously. “You didn’t have nothin’ on ya’, I swear! Nothin’ worth takin’!” He cried.

  Emmett paused, his breathing heavy, and glanced down at his own outfit. The events of the evening slowly started to piece themselves together. The poker game, the bottle, the alley.

  “Shit.” He muttered under his breath, his hands instinctively patting down his pockets. Panic crept into his voice. “No... no. No! Gawd dammit!” He yelled, slamming his fist into the ground beside the man’s head. He frantically reached down to his boot, feeling for the hilt of his knife. It was still there. He let out a long, shaky exhale. At least I didn’t lose everything.

  The thief, still lying prone, cautiously broke the silence. “There’s... somethin’ else.” He mumbled, his voice barely audible. He tapped his own forehead, gesturing toward Emmett’s.

  Emmett glared at him, his frustration boiling over. “What the hell are talkin’ about?” He snapped.

  The thief didn’t answer, just motioned again. Emmett rose to his feet with a groan, limping over to a grimy, cracked window nearby. He squinted at the reflection, the low light making it hard to make out details. Then he saw it. Scrawled in crude, blocky letters across his forehead, the word CHEATER stared back at him, mocking him.

  Emmett groaned loudly and scrubbed at the writing with his sleeve, his movements furious and desperate. When he checked the reflection again, the word remained stubbornly intact. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” He muttered.

  Behind him, the thief began inching away, his hands still raised in surrender. “I’m... I’m outta’ here, mate. I didn’t mean no harm…”

  Before he could finish, Emmett whirled around, lunging at him with the ferocity of a cornered animal. His hand struck the man’s throat with a brutal, flat-handed blow, sending him choking and gasping to the ground. Emmett didn’t stop there. His boot connected with the man’s ribs in a series of vicious kicks, each one punctuated by a growl or a curse.

  “Son of a goddamn whore!” Emmett roared, his voice echoing down the alley. The thief writhed on the ground, clutching his side and wheezing, his face twisted in agony.

  Emmett finally stopped, his chest heaving, his head pounding. He knelt beside the thief, who flinched and whimpered at his approach. Emmett massaged his temples, wincing as he felt the sharp sting of what he realized were tiny shards of glass still embedded in his skin from the bottle. “What a damn night.” He muttered, shaking his head in frustration.

  The thief’s wide, terrified eyes followed Emmett’s every move as he reached down to his boot. Slowly, deliberately, Emmett pulled out his knife, its long, double-edged blade gleaming faintly in the dim light. The man’s breath hitched, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

  Emmett smirked. “Relax, pal.” He said in a mockingly soothing tone. He grabbed the man’s jacket and sliced a strip of fabric free with surgical precision. “You’re lucky I don’t kill you.”

  Patting the thief down, Emmett found what he was looking for. A wallet tucked into an inner pocket. He opened it, thumbing through the meager contents. It wasn’t much, but it would do. Emmett pocketed the money with a satisfied smirk.

  “Just returnin’ the favor, my friend.” He said gruffly, standing up and giving the man one last, contemptuous look. For good measure, he delivered a final kick to the thief’s side, eliciting a pained groan.

  Emmett limped down the alley, wiping furiously at his forehead as he went. His body ached, and his head throbbed with every step. He squinted at the murky reflection in a nearby shop window, his lips twisting into a scowl as the faint, smeared word CHEATER still mocked him. He rubbed furiously at his forehead again with the scrap of coat he'd torn from the would-be mugger. The letters only looked slightly more faded.

  "What the hell did they write this with?" He growled, glaring at his own reflection as though it were responsible. He spat into the scrap of cloth and stalked down the narrow, dimly lit alley. Still scrubbing at his forehead. He pulled his coat tighter around him as he walked. His boots crunched against the uneven cobblestones, his frustration mounting with each step.

  Stepping out onto the street, Emmett paused, taking in his surroundings. The area was unfamiliar. He didn’t recognize the storefronts or the street signs. A few people loitered about, finishing their evenings or heading home, but none of them looked like they belonged to the parts of London he was used to frequenting.

  "Where the hell am I?" Emmett growled under his breath.

  His fingers brushed over a tender scab on his forehead, and when he brought his hand back into the light of a flickering streetlamp, he wasn’t surprised to see blood. Feeling around more carefully, he felt for the small chunks of glass embedded in his scalp. “Unbelievable.” He groaned, flicking a jagged piece onto the ground. He winced as he pressed the cloth to his head, his face twisting in irritation and discomfort.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself!” A shrill voice pierced the relative quiet of the street.

  Emmett’s head jerked up, his one eye narrowing as he spotted the source. A stern-faced woman with sharp features who had stopped mid-stride to glare at him. She had the look of someone a few years older than him, wrapped in a long overcoat and scarf, her expression filled with righteous indignation.

  “What?” Emmett said, his voice flat, clearly not in the mood.

  The woman pointed at him accusingly, her voice rising. “Cheater! What kind of husband are you? Disgraceful, absolutely disgraceful!”

  Emmett blinked at her, confused at first, before he remembered the word still smeared across his forehead. His confusion gave way to amusement, and he barked a short laugh, which only seemed to enrage her further.

  “Nah, nah, nah.” Emmett said, waving his hands defensively. “You’ve got it all wrong, lady. I wasn’t cheating on a wife.” He smirked, his voice dropping into a mock-serious tone. “I was cheating at poker.”

  The woman’s face twisted in disgust, her lips pursed as if she’d bitten into something sour. “Oh, lovely.” She snapped. “A cheating gambler. That’s much better. Disgusting.” She stormed past him, muttering to herself about the state of the world and the company it kept.

  Emmett shook his head, still chuckling as he called after her. “I’ll be sure to send flowers, ma’am!”

  She huffed loudly in response, disappearing around a corner. Emmett sighed, his amusement fading as the reality of his situation settled back over him. He didn’t know where he was, his head was pounding, and he was fairly certain the night wasn’t going to get any better.

  He reached up again, feeling the scabbing gash and glass shards embedded in his scalp. His fingers prodded gently, and he winced, pulling another shard free. The glass caught the light, glinting in the darkness as he flicked it away. “What a goddamn night,” he muttered, shaking his aching head.

  As he trudged forward, he passed another shop window. He caught his reflection and groaned audibly. The letters on his forehead had faded slightly, but the word CHEATER was still legible, mocking him. He spat onto the cloth again and began scrubbing furiously at his skin. The rough fabric ground against his forehead, and he hissed through clenched teeth as the raw sensation stung.

  “Feels like I’m peeling my damn face off,” he muttered, spitting again for good measure. After a few more moments of determined scrubbing, he stopped and checked the reflection. The word was gone, but his forehead was red and raw, a faint outline of the letters still visible in the irritated skin.

  “Well, it’s better than nothing,” Emmett muttered, tossing the soiled cloth aside. His left cheek ached, the pink scars from the attack still tender. He absentmindedly ran a finger along the marks, wincing at the soreness.

  "Now I just look like I lost a fight with a goddamn lion," he muttered, running his fingers lightly over the jagged lines clawed across the left side of his face. Every time he moved his face, the tightness reminded him of what had caused them.

  Or... what he thought had caused them. Emmett shook his head. He couldn’t let himself think about it too long. Not now.

  He sighed and straightened his coat, casting a final glance down the street. Somewhere along the line, he’d pieced together what must have happened. The bastards from the poker game had probably stuffed him into a cab after knocking him out and paid the driver to take him as far away as possible. He glanced at the nearest street sign and groaned. Southern London?

  "Goddamn pricks," he muttered, pulling his collar up against the cold.

  He pressed on, shoving his hands deep into his coat pockets. The streets felt emptier now, and the occasional gust of wind bit through his layers. He couldn’t shake the thought of how far away from the bar he must have been dumped. He winced as he felt the lingering sting of the bottle’s impact on his head. Between that and the glass he’d picked out of his scalp, he figured it wasn’t his worst night. But it sure as hell wasn’t his best.