Inside the lobby of the lodging house, a few children are engaged in a game of marbles which quickly scatters with a laugh when you approach. An elderly man with a sharp jawline waves a hand to get your attention.

"If you wanna stay here tonight, you're gonna hafta sign here." He raps on a worn ledger, filled with pages and pages of scribbles and semblances of names, with a gnarled fist. "Ten cents a night."

A clatter from the stairs attracts your attention for a moment, as well as that of the old man and the children with the marbles. A man in his early twenties ambles down the stairs casually, the brim of an old, faded cowboy hat caught between two of his fingers. He studies you for a minute, grinning slightly. "Well, you starin' 'cause I got somethin' on my face or 'cause you know me from the papers?"

"Don't be such a braggart, Kelly," laughs the old man, closing the yellowed ledger for now. He enters a room behind the counter and a door closes.

"Well," Jack Kelly, of strike and self-congratulatory fame, puts a hand on your shoulder. "What can I do for ya?"