1 NOVEMBER 1894 - ST. DENIS, LEMOYNE
God damn it, Galen scowled and paced in the lobby of the Grand. The fire was lit and it was pre-dawn. His hand quaked as he paced and the measly cigarette was not doing the trick. It wasn't stumbling onto two separate murder scenes that were bothering him, as horrific as they were. His mind kept turning back to the earlier portion of the day...the hours spent with the woman in the cell.
Being trapped in there, even if he'd gone in willingly, was a nightmare. The frantic chase across Lemoyne and New Hanover following the threatening letters had served as a convenient distraction, but now that there was nothing else to do and he was alone with the memories, he felt himself spiraling. His heart would flutter, his blood pressure spiked, hot pins and needles crawled across his skin and he had to remind himself to breathe.
You're not going back, he repeated over and over in his head, even though he was fighting back a nonsensical flight instinct to run away. He felt so stupid. Weak.
Finally giving into the frustration, he grabbed his overcoat from the back of the chair and stepped out into the cold foggy street. Even though the gas lamps lit the cobblestone, it always felt darker this time of night.
His feet carried him down familiar alleys until he reached the district draped in painted Oriental ladies and decadent tapestries heavy with mildew. The street smelled like incense, perfume, piss, sweat, and... ah there it was.
He shuddered, his hair stood on its end. The scent of opium wafted towards him as a familiar looking Chinaman nodded his head and pushed aside a curtain for Galen to enter. The opium den was one he'd frequented before, and the area he had often used was available -- a more private corner that cost a premium to reserve. He paid the man who led him to his space where there were chaises and pillows laid out before a low table piled with pipe accoutrements.
A woman approached, wordlessly offering his services which he ardently refused, as he had many times before. The spirit lamp was lit as Galen removed his coat and vest, down to his white shirt. He loosened his tie. A small ball of opium is held over the flame until it assumes an amber hue, stretched and cooked, lengthening the process of this ritual. Once prepared, the man placed it in the bowl of the pipe and Galen brought it to his lips, breathing deep and slow of the smoke.
His worries and fears melted away. The reeking stench of the den drowned out by the vapors. The muttering and drunken babbling quieted. He was alone, safe, and nothing else mattered.