Vander wasn’t your dad.

No, you were just one of his strays, one of the orphans he’d taken in and given shelter and care. He wasn’t your dad.

Sometimes you wished he was, on the good days when the two of you got along well, and it felt like he was the one person you could trust with anything.

Other days, when you were festering with anger and teenage angst, you wanted to renounce all claim he had over you as your guardian and run as far as you could.

This night was going to be one of the latter, wasn’t it?

You had snuck out. Again.

You’d gone to the bridge, had some drinks and popped some capsules of Shimmer with a few no-goods that you know damn well you shouldn’t be running with.

They wanted you to stay longer, but it was getting light outside, and you realized with a mutter of oh, shit that you’d better high-tail it home or face the wrath of Vander in all his pre-morning-coffee glory.

You run all the way back to the Last Drop. By the time you reach the alley, you’re soaked with sweat, already cooling in the dawn air and leaving you chilled. You pant for breath, and then slip silently through the back door.

You know the squeaks in the floor by memory, and you creep as quietly as a thief past Vander’s open bedroom door, hoping to sneak down into the room you share with Violet, Powder, and the boys.

The dusky glow of a cigar catches your attention in the low light. A barrel-chested, bear-bodied figure is sitting in a chair in the middle of the room. His hair is greying, his beard thick, nose crooked from a youth of ringfighting and hands strong from previous years of working in the mines before he opened his bar. His eyes glint in the dark. Like a predator’s.

“Get in here,” orders Vander, his voice deep and gruff. He’s angry, that much is clear. Has he been waiting up all night for you? “So you can bloody well explain where you’ve been.”