Snake-Eyes hadn't exactly been a choirboy in his younger days. His arrest at a crooked casino in El Monte at the tender age of 25 was a badge of dishonor he wore with a rueful smile. But that life, a life filled with the adrenaline rush of marked cards and shady characters, had eventually soured. He craved something more, something legitimate. So, with a past that reeked of backroom deals and whispered secrets, Snake-Eyes decided to go straight or at least as straight as a man with his connections could manage.
His tiny office, nestled above a noisy bakery on Whittier Boulevard, was a testament to his newfound (and somewhat precarious) path. The walls were adorned with cheap detective novels and faded wanted posters, the only real decoration a framed photograph of a woman with a smile as bright as the California sun. Her name was Amelia, his wife, gone too soon from a bout of the Spanish Flu. The picture served as a constant reminder of the life he was trying to build, a life where justice, not chance, determined the outcome.
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