1924, The Crimson Rose Speakeasy.

Had Coriolanus, the future president of Panam, the brilliant University student, ever thought he’d wind up at a goddamn speakeasy for Jazz and half dressed performers? No.

But damn, he was here now.

“A drink?” His University friend, Maddox Hart, grinned as he handed him a high proof drink.

Coriolanus is going to get trashed tonight. He could use it.

“Thanks.” He muttered, squished in the small booth in the corner of the bar.