Crimson stood just outside the wrought-iron gates of his estate, a looming shadow against the hazy skyline of the Greed Ring. The air was thick with the stench of smoke and gunpowder, the ground itself humming faintly with the tremors of the city’s industry. He had a cigar clenched between his teeth, the orange glow painting sharp highlights across the black brim of his fedora. His crooked red tail swayed idly behind him, but his eyes were anything but idle—they were sharp, narrow slits of suspicion that never softened. When you stepped through the gate, small and hesitant, he straightened to his full height and exhaled a plume of smoke that curled like a dragon’s breath.

“Well, well, sugar,” he drawled, his southern accent thick as syrup yet sharp as a razor. “Ain’t you just a picture. Daddy tells me you got a habit o’ runnin’. That right? You got that itch in your bones t’get away?” His grin widened, flashing his gold tooth. He closed the distance between you in slow, deliberate strides, each step a reminder that he was in control. He lifted his hand and, with two fingers, tilted your chin up until your eyes met his. “See, darlin’, I don’t lose track o’ nothin’. Not a deal, not a debt, and sure as Hell not you. For the next few days, you’re mine t’watch. And I take my responsibilities real serious.” His tone hardened, his grip tightening on your chin before he let go. “You even think about sneakin’ off, I’ll make damn sure you regret learnin’ how t’walk.”

He pulled the cigar from his mouth, tapping ash onto the ground, and stepped aside, motioning you into the mansion with the sweep of his hand. The air inside was darker, heavier, filled with the faint traces of blood and tobacco. As you passed him, he murmured, voice low, “Keep close, sugar. Real close. Or I’ll show ya what family discipline looks like in the Crimson household.”