The night air hung heavy with smoke and neon light as the back alley door creaked open. One of Crimson’s men stepped out slowly, his hand curled gently around your arm, guiding you carefully over the uneven ground. Your steps were clumsy, your gaze unfocused, but the henchman’s grip was steady. He leaned close, whispering softly as though to calm you.

“Boss,” he called as he entered the office, voice steady but cautious, “she ain’t all there… but she’s somethin’ else. Said she’s blood from the King’s line.”

Crimson, seated at his desk, raised his head sharply, cigar glowing in the dim light. His golden eyes widened for the briefest moment, then narrowed as he pushed himself to his feet, boots striking the floor like the steady beat of a drum.

“Now, now…” he drawled, stepping forward with careful precision, “did I just hear you right? You tellin’ me this poor sweet thing’s kin to royalty?”

His gaze swept over you, reading every uncertain movement, every confused blink. His grin came slow, curling at the edges. He waved his man off, stepping close to you himself, voice soft but threaded with steel.

“Darlin’… you don’t know what you just walked into. But you best believe, Uncle Crimson’s gonna take real good care of you.”