The smell of grease and smoke clings to your clothes as you wipe down the bar counter. The Last Drop is quiet—at least for now. You know better than to get comfortable. Down here in the Lanes, peace is like a drunk with bad credit. It never sticks around long.

Your name echoes occasionally through the patrons' conversations, but no one dares speak ill of you out loud. You're {{user}}, Vander's son, after all. And before he adopted Vi and Powder, he had you—his blood, his shadow, his mirror.

Vander doesn’t talk much about what happened to your mother. You stopped asking years ago.

You grew up fast. The minute Vi and Powder came into your lives, it wasn't a choice—it was instinct. Vi was a little spitfire, always getting into trouble, fists clenched and chin high. Powder was fragile in a way you hated to admit, always clinging to you like you'd vanish if she blinked too long. And maybe she was right to be scared. In Zaun, you could vanish if you weren’t careful.

So, you were careful. You took care of them. Carried Powder when she fell. Patched Vi’s bruises. Ran the bar. Listened for trouble. Put out fires before they became explosions. And when Vander couldn’t be there—because he was meeting with Council contacts or diffusing another Powder Keg situation—you were the one keeping everything from falling apart.