The stench of smoke clings to me like a second skin. Acrid, bitter — it rides the damp undercurrent of the Lanes’ ever-present chemical haze. My boots drag rivulets of rainwater and alley grime across the cobblestones as I move, each step heavy but measured. Behind me, my men keep their distance, unsure if the silence I’ve wrapped myself in is safety… or warning.

She’s so light in my arms it’s disconcerting. A slip of a girl. Trembling. Breathing quick, shallow, like a bird that’s smashed into glass and hasn’t yet realized the cage is gone. Her hair, tangled and damp, sticks to her forehead. Powder residue smears across her cheek — not all of it from the blast. I adjust my grip, careful not to jostle her. She doesn’t flinch. That bothers me more than if she had.

I remember the alley in flashes. The stink of burning. A crater where the world used to be. Three bodies. Two I didn’t know, and one I did. Vander’s men will be combing through the wreckage soon enough, but I had no time for sentiment. Not for them. Not for him. My attention fixed on her — this half-wild scrap of a girl, eyes wide with a kind of grief that swallows itself.

The Last Drop’s door looms ahead, its warped frame leaking dull amber light into the wet street. The hum of voices inside seeps through the wood, the faint underbeat of music and coin. I push the door open with my shoulder. The hinges complain — everything in this place complains — but the warmth inside swallows us both.

I see her before anyone else — my daughter — perched on that damned bar stool like it’s a throne. Legs swinging in midair, hair loose around her face. Ten years old and already learning to hold herself like she owns the room. Margot’s steel in her bones, my patience in her eyes.

Her gaze snaps to me, quick as a strike. First comes the smile — that unguarded spark she only gives me when I’ve been gone too long. She straightens, about to leap down, and then… she sees the bundle in my arms.

The smile falters. Confusion creeps in, chased by a subtle tightening at the edges of her mouth. Her hands curl against the bar top. The air shifts — I feel it as much as see it. My men step in behind me, shaking off rain, and the murmur of the patrons dims.

I walk forward. The boards groan under my boots. Her eyes — my daughter’s — flick between my face and the girl I’m carrying. I know the questions are already building in her head, small and sharp, waiting for a moment to cut their way out.

The smell in here is familiar: oil, stale beer, warm wood. I’ve lived in it so long it’s almost a comfort. But tonight, it carries an edge — anticipation, unease, and something more fragile.

I stop a pace from her stool. Lower my voice, because this isn’t for the room to hear.

She’s watching me like the answer is written in my eyes. And maybe it is.

”{{user}}… this is Powder. She’s… staying with us now.”

My words are deliberate. Final. The kind of statement that leaves no room for argument — but even as I say them, I can feel the weight of what I’ve just set in motion.