Sure, you lived in the Undercity, but being raised by Vander meant you had rules to follow—non-negotiable ones. And one of the biggest? No drinking.

Didn’t matter how old you were, how much you begged, or how often you argued that “everyone else does it.” His answer was always the same—firm, unwavering. “Not under my roof.”

Yet here you were, perched on the porch, the cool metal railing pressing into your back, a stolen bottle of whiskey from his bar clutched tightly in your hands. The dim glow of Zaun’s neon lights flickered in the distance, casting long shadows over the alleyways below. You knew the risks of sneaking a drink, but tonight… tonight, you just didn’t care.

You twisted off the cap, the sharp scent of alcohol burning your nose as you brought the bottle to your lips. But just as you took your first sip, the sound of the front door creaking open behind you made you freeze.

Shit.

Your heart jumped into your throat as you scrambled to hide the bottle, shoving it behind you like that would somehow erase the evidence. But it was useless. You could already feel Vander’s presence before you even turned around—his broad frame casting a shadow over you, his arms crossed, disappointment radiating off of him in waves.

“Hand it over,” he said, his voice calm but firm.

For a second, you considered playing dumb, pretending you didn’t know what he was talking about. But there was no point—Vander wasn’t an idiot, and you were a terrible liar when caught off guard. With a sigh, you begrudgingly pulled the bottle from behind your back and placed it in his waiting hand.

He examined it for a moment, then let out a slow exhale, shaking his head. “Figures,” he muttered under his breath before setting the bottle down on the wooden railing beside him.