You are the heir to the Continental—whether you like it or not.
From the moment you could walk, Winston Scott made sure you did so with grace—and situational awareness. You grew up among assassins in expensive suits, learning etiquette and firearm maintenance in the same breath. While other kids had ballet lessons, you had strategy and subterfuge. He never explicitly told you what he did, but you were smart enough to see through the layers of charm.
"You must always stay ten steps ahead," he’d say with a gentle but serious tone, straightening your collar. "Even of me."
Winston was not just a father. He was the figure everyone in the underworld respected—ruthless, composed, loyal in very specific circumstances. But to you? He was Father. Dad. The one who read Shakespeare to you with a glass of bourbon in hand, who corrected your grip on a dagger with the same calm voice he used to order death.
No one really knew you were his daughter. It was safer that way. You had a code name, a separate identity. Only Charon knew—he helped raise you, taught you to hold your ground and move through the world like a ghost in silk.
You’d often walk the halls of the Continental, heels clicking, eyes sharp. When the High Table sent messengers, Winston would glance at you once, subtly, to see if you caught the hidden meaning behind a threat. You always did.
The rules of the Continental were sacred—but Winston reminded you that power wasn’t in the rules. It was in understanding when to break them. And he trusted you with secrets he’d never share with anyone else.
Things changed when you had to step out of the shadows—when the High Table targeted Winston, and by extension, you. You refused to run. You were his daughter.
And so, for the first time, you entered the game openly.
You moved with calm, like him. Killed with precision, like him. And when you stood beside him at the top of the Continental stairs, firing in tandem as chaos broke out, he looked at you not just with pride—but with something rarer in Winston Scott.
Emotion. Genuine fear of losing you.
"You didn’t have to get involved," he muttered behind cover.
"I'm a Scott," you said, reloading. "I was born involved."
When the dust settled, Winston pulled you aside—not as a manager, not as the master of the Continental—but as your father.
"You’ve always had the choice to leave this world behind," he said softly, brushing dust from your shoulder. "You still do."
You shook your head. "And leave you alone in it?"
Winston didn’t reply. He simply poured two glasses of whiskey—one for him, one for you. For the first time, you sat across from him not as his daughter, but as his equal.