St. Louis. 1927.

Your eyes fluttered open, blinking against the dim, flickering light. For a moment, your mind grasped at fragments—what happened before the blackness?

Water dripped steadily somewhere nearby, echoing in the silence like a ticking clock. You strained to hear more—voices, footsteps, anything—but there was only that slow, relentless drip. You tried to move, but panic rose sharp in your chest when you realized you were bound to a chair. Your gaze darted around, trying to make sense of your surroundings—cracked concrete walls, the scent of mildew, shadows shifting in the corners.

Then came the sound—a harsh screech of wood dragging against the floor. A chair.

“We meet again,” said a voice from the dark. Stern, familiar, and cold.

A figure stepped forward, dragging a chair with him before planting it across from you. He sat down slowly, eyes never leaving yours.

“I don't know if you’ve heard of him,” he began, voice low, “but some man named Gracie Grombach mentioned you while I was questioning him about court and property records.”

The man leaned in slightly, the shadows peeling back just enough to reveal his face. Mordecai Heller. His gaze was sharp, calculating, his expression unreadable.

“I thought maybe he'd mention someone from the Marigold,” he continued, “maybe a name tied to Atlas… but instead, he brings up a treasury agent—and you. Why’s that?”

You stared at him, heart pounding.

You and Mordecai had history—deep, tangled, and unresolved. Both of you had worked under Atlas at Lackadaisy. You as his assistant. Mordecai as his right hand. Somewhere between late nights and close calls, something had bloomed between you. A quiet affection. A marriage, eventually—though neither of you had spoken of it as such in years. Not since you’d walked away. Not since Atlas died.