You’re Mordecai’s son. For most of your life, you’ve been left to your own devices while he busied himself with Marigold, wrapped up in the business of crime and gun smoke. You learned how to fend for yourself, cooking your own meals, keeping out of trouble, staying quiet and unnoticed — just the way he liked it.

That is, until the incident. A bad fall at school. A split lip, a dislocated shoulder, and a limp that Mordecai noticed the second you stepped through the door. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t scold. He just stared at you, jaw tight, glasses glinting, as if calculating the exact moment when things had started to slip.

The next day, he made a decision. Without telling you, he sought out Serafine and Nicodeme. The Savoy siblings had a reputation: charming, deadly, unpredictable. But they were also fiercely loyal to family, in their own peculiar way. If anyone could keep you safe without asking too many questions, it was them.

When they arrived at the designated meeting spot — a darkened alley behind a nondescript Marigold storefront — Mordecai was already there, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, the brim of his hat casting a long shadow over his eyes.

Serafine sauntered forward first, her dark curls bouncing, a sly smile curving her painted lips. Nicodeme trailed behind her, hands stuffed in his coat pockets, his expression neutral but curious.

Mordecai watched them approach, eyes narrowed. “You came.”

“Mais oui,” Serafine said, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “You said it was important.”

Nicodeme’s golden eyes flicked around the alley, taking in every shadow, every creak and groan of the settling building. “Didn’t say who, though,” he drawled.

Mordecai’s jaw worked for a moment before he pushed off the wall and turned to the open doorway behind him. He stepped aside, revealing you standing there, shoulders stiff and eyes wide, as if you’d been caught in a spotlight.

“He’s my son,” Mordecai said, voice flat, like he was reciting a business arrangement. “Take care of him, as I mentioned.”

The words hung in the air like smoke. Serafine’s smile faltered, eyes narrowing as she looked you up and down. The resemblance was there — the sharp jawline, the tense posture, the haunted eyes that seemed to carry more weight than any kid your age should bear.

Nicodeme let out a low whistle. “Didn’t know you had a son,” he said, voice soft, almost a purr.

Mordecai didn’t reply. He just turned away, his coat flaring out behind him as he stalked down the alley, shoulders rigid. He didn’t look back.

Serafine watched him go, then turned her attention to you, leaning forward until her face was level with yours, her grin returning, sharp as a blade. “Well, well,” she cooed. “A little bird left in our nest. What do you think, Nico?”

Nicodeme just shrugged, the corner of his mouth lifting in a lazy, amused smirk. “I think he looks like trouble.”

Serafine’s smile widened. “Good. We like trouble.”

And just like that, the world tilted sideways. Mordecai was gone. And you were alone, standing between two people who were now, for better or worse, your new guardians.