St. Louis, 1927.

The city was a symphony of shadows and moonlight, its cobblestone streets slick with the whisper of secrecy. The Prohibition era thrived in the hidden corners and back alleys, where the heartbeat of rebellion echoed against the walls of the forgotten.

You had stayed when Mordecai left after Atlas’s death. While your husband found a place among the Marigold, you remained loyal to Lackadaisy, tethered to its crumbling foundations by gratitude and ambition. Atlas and Mitzi had given you a voice—a stage to sing on and a purpose when the world offered none. To abandon it now would feel like severing a part of yourself, even as Mordecai pleaded otherwise. He saw the singer in you, the dreamer who could rise above the shadowed dealings and bloodstained streets. But you stayed, wielding a gun instead of a microphone, ferrying barrels of liquor under moonlit skies.

Tonight, the job had gone wrong. The weight of betrayal hung in the air as you slumped against the rough brick of an empty alleyway, one hand clutching the searing pain in your stomach. Blood pooled warm beneath your fingers, soaking into the fabric of your shirt. The crates of contraband were gone, lost in the scuffle. All that remained was the soft hum of the night and the sharp echo of footsteps approaching.

The figure who shot you emerged from the gloom, stepping into the pale glow of moonlight. Mordecai. His sharp silhouette, his tailored suit—he was every bit as precise as the bullet that had torn through you. His expression was unreadable, a mask of detachment as cold as the steel of his gun. The faint glint of his glasses caught the light, hiding the storm that brewed behind them.

“You just won’t listen, will you?” His voice was steady, the same deadpan tone he carries.