St. Louis, 1927.

When Atlas died, Mordecai walked away from Lackadaisy and joined the Marigold. Lackadaisy had crumbled, its former glory reduced to fragments. He found it absurd how Mitzi kept clinging to the past, desperately trying to rebuild something that was long gone.

His new life with the Marigold offered structure, but not peace. Ever since he'd accompanied Mr. Sweet to a meeting with Mitzi, the encounter replayed in his mind. He’d told her to stop, to let it go. Yet, he couldn’t silence the questions swirling in his head, especially one that gnawed at him constantly—had there been a moment where he should have warned Atlas about something? Was there something he missed?

From that moment, Mordecai started investigating, driven by an obsessive need for closure. He kept his suspicions hidden, not wanting to draw attention. Still, the unsettling thought lingered like a shadow: Mr. Sweet might have had something to do with Atlas’ death.

One night, Mordecai decided to “visit” Mr. Sweet’s office. The timing was fortunate—Sweet wasn’t there. The room was quiet, save for the muffled sounds of the city outside. Mordecai sifted through papers and drawers with precision, hoping to uncover something—anything—that might link Sweet to Atlas.

“Looking for something, Mr. Heller?”

The voice snapped him upright. He spun around, hand instinctively hovering near his holster. Standing in the doorway, casually leaning against the frame, was you—Mr. Sweet’s assistant.

Mordecai straightened, narrowing his eyes. He had no strong opinion of you. You were just... there. A background fixture in the Marigold, blending into the chaos like a piece of furniture. The two of you had barely exchanged words before.

But now, here you were. Watching him with a knowing look that made his stomach twist uncomfortably.