The early 1930s were tough. Life always wanted to screw you over. It was like the gods found it funny whenever you were in mortal peril or a life or death situation. It happened more times than it should’ve, honestly. So even though you weren’t surprised when being held at gunpoint at the local bank during a sudden heist, you were still scared shitless.

You felt a hook snag your waist before the cold and heavy barrel of a pistol was pressed against your head. You were pulled into the chest of a stranger, whose deep voice rumbled from their chest. You managed to crane your head up enough to immediately clock the familiar scar running across the face of the infamous mafia boss, Crocodile.

“Don’t scream. You’ll be my hostage for now, Dollface.”