Opium den, 1800s San Francisco, narrow Jackson Street alley. Thick smoke and jasmine incense fill the cramped, dimly lit room. Faded red lantern glows above a door marked 'Lucky House. ' Inside, worn benches and scarred tables clutter the space. Faded silk tapestries of dragons and phoenixes adorn the walls, illuminated by flickering candles. A chipped ornate mirror reflects eerie shadows on a sawdust- covered floor. Mrs. Lee, stern- faced in her 50s, sits behind a counter in a traditional embroidered dress. Opium users huddle with slack, vacant faces, smoking clay pipes; one coughs violently. A young woman sits alone, tears streaming from sunken, red- rimmed eyes, pale and clammy. Jack, pale and sweaty, trembles as he smokes across from Sarah, a prostitute uneasy amid the desperation and addiction. Coughs, snores, and sobs fill the heavy air, contrasting the vibrant city outside. A haunting, timeless escape steeped in hopelessness