The Sapphire Room

Description - Exterior

A two-story brick building nestled between a boarded-up tailor’s and an old pawnshop, the Sapphire Room is dressed in fading glamour. Its once-vivid cobalt sign, now flickering and half-lit, casts a ghostly glow on the cracked sidewalk below. Iron bars guard the basement windows, and the darkened upper floors show no signs of life. A velvet rope hangs limp beside the heavy wood door, where a brass peephole clicks open before anyone steps in.

Description - Interior

Inside, the Sapphire Room is a dream haunted by its own past. A small stage framed by tasseled navy curtains holds a baby grand piano with chipped ivory keys. Tables crowd the floor, clothed in worn satin and ringed by mismatched chairs. Smoke curls lazily through the air, lit by low sconces and a flickering chandelier that hums faintly. The bar is polished nightly but smells faintly of mildew and old gin. In quieter hours, the soft echo of saxophone and applause seems to rise from the walls themselves.

Owner

Silas DuPont – A tall, weathered Creole man in his sixties with deep-set eyes and a voice like smoke. He was once a well-known bandleader in New Orleans before the fire that ruined both his career and the club's original roster. Now he tends the bar most nights, always watching the door.

Employees

Rashad – The house trumpet player, big and bold with a sound to match. Dresses loud, speaks louder.
Carla “Red” Vance – Server and sometimes-singer. Keeps a switchblade in her garter and a flask in her apron.
Frankie the Bolt – Doorman with a jaw like a vice. He used to fight bare-knuckle in Cicero; now he just stares through people.
Skips – Technically not an employee, but he’s always there, doing odd jobs or just loitering for Reggie’s supply.

History

In 1938, a fire during a packed Friday night show killed fifteen people—musicians, staff, and a few unlucky lovers tucked into booths. The building was shut for a year. When it reopened, whispers of ghostly music and cold spots kept some patrons away—but not enough to close the doors. Vincent, an Outfit soldier who died waiting for his girl Anna to finish her set, is now the club’s most dangerous ghost. He haunts the back booth where he once waited, his temper darker in death than it was in life.

Notes

The Sapphire Room is neutral ground—more or less. Locals, sinners, and feds alike come to drink and forget.
The jukebox is broken and always will be. Nobody touches it.
Vincent’s ghost is getting stronger. He’s starting to reach out.
The spirits of the old musicians replay their final show at midnight every so often. If you’re lucky, you hear it. If you’re not, Vincent finds you.

Type

Club