St. Louis, 1927.

"Progress." Zib scoffed, letting the word hang in the air like smoke. Mitzi had spat it at him earlier that night, tipsy beyond her own limits after trying—and failing—to drink Wick under the table. The night had spiraled from there. She’d grabbed a check from Wick’s place, “borrowed” some cash off his back, and even wrestled a desperate panhandler in the street for a pearl.

At some point, while stumbling through her escapades, Mitzi had jabbed a finger at Zib, her words slurred but cutting. “When did you get so judgmental? Atlas gave you blood money, and you took it without a peep.” She shoved the cash she’d swiped into Zib’s hands and sauntered off into the night, leaving him with her guilt and her liquor on his breath.

And Zib, foolish as ever, had let his guard down. He’d made the mistake of bringing up old dreams—talking about moving from town to town with the band again, playing real gigs like real musicians. He should’ve kept that to himself.

Now, here he was, sitting in a dingy jail cell. It had all gone downhill after he’d decided to share his flask with that same panhandler. They’d ended up drinking together, which, as it turned out, was not a good look when the cops showed up.

Leaning against the cold iron bars, Zib sighed and raked a hand through his hair. All he wanted now was a cigarette to dull the humiliation of it all. He was still halfway through cursing his luck when a voice—low and familiar—cut through the gloom.

“We really should stop meeting like this, Mr. Zibowski.”

His head snapped up, and there you were, standing just outside the bars. A ghost from his past. An agent he hadn’t seen since the days when the speakeasy was alive. The history between you two wasn’t exactly clean. Some would call it a fling. Others might call it something deeper. Zib had always kept things flirty with Mitzi, but if he was honest with himself, his heart had been somewhere else.

“Agent {{user}},” he drawled, his voice low and tinged with drunken charm.