---

 

“Oh, I’m an Ezo wolf,” Ezo said with a smile as she stirred her coffee in light circles.

"A peculiar name, but no offence" Romps commented, the hot steam from his cup of tea fuming up to his snout. He remained oblivious to the heat as he kept his snout facing squarely on the Ezo wolf before him.

"None taken," Ezo assured as she explained, "My parents thought if I move out, they'll remember my species from my name."

Vox clammed in from the side, pushing away his glass of juice, inquiring if she was a rare breed.

"Well, I'm not rare as I am indigenous," Ezo said, brushing her fingers against her light, brown fur, "We Ezo wolves rarely leave our villages. You wouldn't be blamed to think we're extinct. I just thought to look further and find a better life outside. My mother had the foresight when she was pregnant with me, and the name stuck."

Romps rushed in with a redundant reply, despite having nothing to add, “T-That is an interesting name, Miss Ezo.”

Ezo gave a gentle giggle and replied, “Oh, no. It’s Mrs Ezo.”

“Oh,” Romps’ voice dropped down three tones within one syllable, his ears drooping to the side.

“Though the truth is, I only kept the name for convenience’s sake,” Mrs Ezo said, “My husband left me the day I announced my pregnancy, but that was almost two decades ago. I can barely remember his face, much less his name.”

Romps’ ears only bounced back with more vigour.

Vox adopted the sheepdog’s philosophy, asking Mrs Ezo if she’s a mother.

“Only a daughter,” Mrs Ezo replied.

That statement caught the two’s attention like moths to a ball of light.

Before either of the two could get a word in, Mrs Ezo changed the topic.

“But enough about me,” she turned towards Romps, “Tell me about your name, Romphaneous. What about it made it so long?”

The sheepdog, already invested within the conversation, was very much impressed by Mrs Ezo correctly pronouncing his name on her first try.

“Well,” the sheepdog said, letting out a light cough, “It’s not exactly some name my old man came up on the fly when I was a wee lad. It’s actually…”

Romps’ presence was blurred out by Mrs Ezo the moment he began talking. The sheepdog himself was too engrossed in his own world to notice the subtle diluting within the brown wolf’s pupils. Neither did Vox, who was too busy simmering in irritating jealousy over the supposed attention Romps was getting from her. As they both delved into their universes, Mrs Ezo was staring at another one herself.

The Ezo wolf looked past Romps, gazing towards the brightly lit room of the restaurant. It was a quaint little shop, with low wooden ceilings and close wooden walls adorned with an assortment of childlike paper crafts strung together to add to the atmosphere. The soundscape was another story. The place was packed with a varied population, ranging from construction workers to office employees to just simple diners stopping by for a quick meal; all with stories to tell and tales to recount to one another. Romps’ voice blended with the bustling chatter from the dining visitors with no effort needed on Mrs Ezo’s part. The restaurant was so packed that Mrs Ezo could feel the heat radiating from the serow seated behind her. She cared not, however, for she had her focus shifted somewhere else.

Or, rather, someone else.

Sitting at a couple's table a few seatings away were Shiro and the orange cat, reading through the restaurant's menu. The orange cat scanned through the words, making minute calculations in her head as to what she needed at the moment. Shiro, on the other hand, had glazed his eyes over the menu several times, steam rolling out from his ears as he attempted to make sense of the symbols printed on the paper.

A waiter came around to their table - a macaque dressed in a plaid shirt and a giant apron. He brought a crumpled notepad and blunt pencil, shouting what Shiro heard to be a collection of angry, impatient gibberish.

The orange cat reciprocated, pointing to the menu while talking to the macaque in words the wolf could vaguely understand.

The macaque turned his head towards Shiro, expecting the same from him.

Shiro was wondering what the words on the menu meant, or what was he supposed to be looking at from the pictures provided. He didn't know there existed drinks where cold water was served with mint leaves on top or juices where orange slices were stuck on the side of the glass. He always thought those were reserved to fancy, high dining as he'd seen from the old movies on TV.

Shiro’s hands shook for a moment before he copied what the orange cat did, minus the fluent words.

The macaque responded with another tirade of noises that made no sense to the wolf whatsoever. He jammed his thumb into the menu, pointing towards the words as if it helped at all.

The orange cat saved Shiro from the auditory barrage. She spoke to the macaque, her eloquence catching his attention with ease. The macaque nodded and wrote everything down on his notepad, leaving with the menus in his arms.

The orange cat turned towards Shiro and spoke, “You should study more about language.”

Shiro nodded, “Thanks, Ma.”

They both sat facing each other, staring at one another. They’d occasionally glance outside the window, sometimes towards the crowd, but most of the time they spent looking at each other’s faces, speaking of nothing

From an outsider’s perspective, it was hard to discern the association between the two. The disparity between their age made it difficult to interpret them as a conventional couple. Their familial relation was just as if not more under scepticism. The only certainty was their silence. Their silence was near polarizing with the rest of the restaurant. It was so strong that it hung over them like an invisible bubble; like an unobservable dome covering the wolf and the feline, closing them from the cacophony. It was like a three-dimensional area of denial, where noise and sound simply die out the moment they thread through its domain.

An uneducated guess would assume they were at a verbal cold war with one another, but a closer glance at their expressions would dispute that claim by sight alone.

The two were at visible ease with one another, undisturbed by each other’s presence. It wasn’t reticence holding their tongues, but rather, a comfortable state of quietude between the two. It was a type of silence you’d get from two people who knew enough about each other. It didn’t seem obvious at first, and when the realization wasn’t a sight simple to explain. It was a visual frequency only to be understood by those who bore witness to it at the moment.

The bubble was broken by the orange cat a few minutes after the macaque's departure.

She asked Shiro, "How is your time at school?"

Shiro looked up at the orange cat.

"Made some friends," he answered.

"I can see that," the orange cat replied.

The bubble returned, growing from the centre of the table as it phased through the wolf and the cat, re-establishing its dominance around the small area. It was swiftly deferred not a minute after by the same macaque, swooping in with two piping hot cups of tea. The bubble of silence posed no effect to him, as he was oblivious to it in the first place. He dropped the cups on the table and left as abruptly as he came, leaving the bubble intact.

Instead, the orange cat was the one who broke it, again.

She asked, "Are your studies going well?"

For a moment, Shiro's eyes darted to the side, looking out of the window at nothing in particular.

The act hadn't escaped the orange cat, not even for a split second.

"Your studies are important," she said, as she reached towards one of the cups, "Have you been finding help?"

The wolf took some time before answering, enough for the orange cat to take a long sip from her cup of tea.

He stuttered, "B-Been seeing this girl."

The orange cat swallowed her tea and set the cup down in front of her, resting her hands on her laps. She stared towards Shiro, sitting in silence for a few seconds.

"I don't have much experience," the orange cat asked "But do you need me to give you any advice?"

"It's not like t-that," Shiro frantically explained.

"Okay," she said, "Is she helping you well enough?"

Shiro nodded.

"Good," the orange cat replied.

It was Shiro's turn at his tea. He clasped it with one casual grip from the top and took a quick sip. His eyes widened as he felt the tea rushing through the tiny ridges in his lips, scalding his tongue and it washed over his throat. He dropped the cup onto the table, letting out a few coughs as light fumes rolled out of his snout.

The orange cat stared, her hands still on her lap as she asked, "Are you alright?"

The wolf nodded as he bent over his shoulders, wheezing.

"Be careful," the orange cat said.

Shiro took a few deep breaths, cooling his mouth through his nose, regaining his composure. It took him a few moments before he could breathe properly again.

"Fine now," he said.

"Good," the orange cat replied.

She reached towards her cup of tea and drank from it.

"Are you having any other problems at school?"

Shiro remained quiet for a moment.

"Can you handle them?"

Shiro stayed silent.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Shiro didn't respond.

"Okay," the orange cat set the cup down.

The bubble returned for the third time. It came back thinner than before, lasting no more than a few seconds before the orange cat chimed in for the final time.

"Is there more you want to say?"

Shiro looked up to face her.

"Is this why you called me out today?"

Shiro looked back down to his tea.

He grabbed it by the side and took a gulp. The tea burnt his throat as he swallowed, the remaining heat sizzling in his mouth, boiling his tongue. He took a few deep breaths, letting the heat permeate throughout the insides of his snout.

He asked the orange cat, "Why did you send me to Rormund?"

The orange cat took no time to reply.

"I received a call at work," she said, "When I was still looking for a school for you. It was one of the school's I've sent your application towards. They didn't give their acceptance but a recommendation for a transfer.

"I agreed to meet a representative at a café. They wore black suits and ties. They were straightforward, with both information and secrecy. They omitted much, but they also gave things I don't know myself. They mentioned how they came to know your name and your history."

The orange cat took another sip from her tea and continued

"They also talked about your father."

The orange cat took a pause.

"He was the reason why Rormund came to me, to look for you."

The orange cat paused again.

"They also told me about-"

"It's okay, Ma," Shiro suddenly spoke, his head hanging down his shoulders.

The orange cat stopped.

"That's all," he said.

"I'm not finished, Shiro," the orange cat spoke.

The wolf looked up.

"I won't force you to tell me now, if you're not ready," she said, "But I will demand to know the reason at some point in the future."

The wolf remained silent.

"For both of our sakes," she said.

The wolf nodded.

The orange cat asked, "Are you okay?"

Shiro reached towards his tea and drank a small sip, swallowing it hard down his throat.

He nodded.

"Okay," the orange cat resumed, "After that, they gave me their credentials and some filed paperwork. I did some personal research and audits. I could only find them through unlisted webpages and scattered records given by said credentials on the internet. They were discreet, but they were also official.

"They don't have high prestige, and neither do they have any known alumni, but they've claimed most of their graduates fabricated their records so the school can remain in general secrecy. I've done some search on that claim. I couldn't procure conclusive evidence, but the clues I found hinted heavily towards it.

"Within the papers were some contact information. I've met up with the representatives for a second time and I've agreed with their terms. They assigned a driver and a meet-up point. The nature of their location did not go unmentioned. That was two days before I sent you off in the alleyway. The rest is history."

The orange cat then asked, "Would that be all you want to know?"

"That's all," Shiro said again.

"Okay," the orange cat said, "Is there anything else you want to know?"

Shiro stopped to think for a while.

"How did I look," he asked, "When I went in the car?"

The orange cat asked back, "Which car?"

"The black one," Shiro replied, "The one that took me to Rormund. For the first time."

The orange cat answered, "You wore a black tracksuit-"

"Not like that," Shiro said, "How did my face look?"

The orange cat asked, "Your expression?"

The wolf nodded.

The orange cat grabbed her cup of tea and took yet another sip. She set it down gently onto the table.

"You were eager to leave," she said, "You seemed very serious. You didn't hesitate when you stepped into the car.

"If I had to be frank," she added, "You seemed prepared to never see me again."

Shiro got surprised for a moment. He shook both his head and hands in a frantic panic like a scared, cornered beast.

He tried to explain himself, "I-I didn't-"

"I know," the orange cat answered, staring directly across the table at Shiro.

Shiro put his hands down, guilt holding his shoulders up in an uncomfortable posture.

He asked, "W-What else?"

The orange cat replied, "Your eyes."

He asked, "What about it?"

The orange cat opened her mouth halfway when she suddenly closed her eyes. She looked to the side, rubbing between her temple, running her fingers down her snout.

"Ma," Shiro reached over the table, "You-"

"I'm fine," the orange cat said as she reached for her handbag, "My eyes suddenly went dry. I need to take out my contacts first."

Shiro sat back, relieved, "Okay."

She took out a small, plastic case with one hand and reached towards her eye with another, pointing a gentle index finger towards her eye. She lifted off a pair of green-coloured contacts from her pupils and dropped it into the casing. She replaced the casing into her handbag, looking back up to meet Shiro.

Her eyes were the same as Shiro's; ruby red and dominating. They seemed nearly identical, if it weren't for a few differing traits here and there. In a sense, they were like a set of malleable flesh, fitted into different holes. They popped out against the orange cat's plain, orange fur, taking all the attention from her presence, focusing everything between her snout. Though Shiro's eyes constantly surveyed his surroundings, darting across its sockets, the orange cat's remained in place, staring straight across her face with an unbreakable line of sight.

"Your eyes," she continued, "looked like mine, for a moment."

Shiro listened with attentiveness.

"You used to look around a lot. You still do, but not at that time," she said, "When you gave your farewells, you didn't look back. You had your sight placed squarely in front of you.

"That is all I remember from that day."

Shiro didn't reply, opting to look down at his legs. He sat there, pulling his hands from the table and stuffing them into his tracksuit pockets. He fell silent for a long minute, deep in thought.

Moments later, the macaque who took their order came back again, holding two bowls of noodles in his hands. He held the bowl high above his head, pushing his way against the seated crowd. As he was about to slam it onto their table, he paused in shock, staring at both the orange cat and Shiro for a while. He kept a long gaze at the cat, occasionally looking at the wolf before going back to the cat.

Shiro, to the best of his abilities, assured the macaque that this was the same table and that their orders were correct. He produced more butchered pronunciations than he made right ones, but his idea was pitched across well enough for the macaque to understand. He slowly placed the bowls on the table and left, making furtive glances towards the orange cat as he went.

"Do you want me to go more in-depth," the orange cat looked towards Shiro and asked, "Or do you want to eat?"

"I'm fine," the wolf answered as he looked back, "Thanks for reminding."

For a split second, his eyes changed.

The pair of alert, narrow pupils that were held in its usual place were replaced with another pair, dilated and static, staring to his front without a hint of compromise. They returned to their normal state as he looked down to the table.

The wolf moved his tea to the side as he pulled his bowl of noodles to him, reaching towards the chopsticks provided on the side, "Let's ea-"

The orange cat reached out and grabbed Shiro's hand just before his fingers could make contact with the wooden sticks.

Shiro glanced towards the orange cat, "Ma?"

"I want to care for you, Shiro," she said, "You are my husband's son. You are my child.

"If you ever need anything, even if you think it's beyond my ability, please tell me.

"I'll do everything I can to help."

Shiro stared at the orange cat's eyes for a moment. They were the same as before; large and unwavering with an incontestable degree of certitude in her gaze.

Her words, however, held a different force.

They were stagnant, spoken with a monotonous timbre that would've held next to no emotions whatsoever if it weren't for her facial expressions, which were already lacking in their own right. They still held weight, but not the kind that exuded pressure around your heart. It was the kind of weight that felt cold and exposed. There weren't any layers to be seen upon said weight. What could be felt and sensed from the words was all Shiro could ever get from it.

Shiro reciprocated, resting a palm atop the orange cat's hand, holding it within his grasp.

"Okay," he said.

 

---

 

"Screw this, I'm going all in," an otter said as he ripped a page of his cheque book, writing his name on it with a pen, "A blank streak. All or bust."

"What in the damn- You've gone mad, Jack. You've lost it. Jack's gone mad," a striped skunk said to a wolverine, putting a hand over the white streak of fur down his forehead, "Marren, look out the window. Is it still night time?"

Marren the wolverine followed the striped skunk's orders and reached his neck towards the back, looking out from the balcony from the coffee table.

"It hasn't turned into a rainbow, alright," Marren replied to the striped skunk, "Rodney's right. Jack's gone mad."

"Jack's gone mad," Rodney the striped skunk repeated.

An English lop popped his head from the kitchen, his long ears draped behind his shoulders, peeping out from an open refrigerator.

He asked, "Who's gone mad?"

"Jack's gone mad, Yate" Rodney replied, "He's put a blank streak on the table."

Yate the English lop responded with the same sentiment, "Jack, you have gone mad."

"Shut up," Jack the otter replied, "I've got enough of a bad streak, both with these cards and with life. If I don't start putting big risks, I'm never getting out of this rut."

"And your starting point is gambling with a blank cheque," Yate shouted from the kitchen.

"Shut up," Jack said again.

The other three shared a laugh as Jack scribbled his signature on the cheque before slamming it onto the coffee table amongst a pile of cards.

"Your loss. But, in response to your kindness, I'm willing to go all in too. But again, I'm not stupid," Rodney said, "So have these."

"A whole two Ks," Marren commented as the striped skunk dropped a fat roll of cash onto the blank cheque, "Jack's gonna appreciate it when he buys a cheap watch with your money."

"I'm no moocher," Rodney replied, "But I ain't a moron either. I'm just giving the same ratio of kindness to thought process as our good, mad otter Jack over here did."

"That sounds like a senseless excuse from a cheapskate," Yate cried from the kitchen as he continued his search in the refrigerator.

"Clam it," the skunk said, "Get your damn sticks and put some money over here already."

"Nah," Yates replied, "I'm giving a blank cheque like our good, mad otter Jack. Give me a second."

"Those sticks aren't just clogging your arteries," Rodney said, "They're clogging blood to your brain."

"Life's boring," the lop rabbit commented from behind the refrigerator door, "Gonna need some excitement here and there, you know? Jack's gonna do it for life; I'm gonna do it for spice."

"Then quit looking for spice in that fridge and get some over here," Marren taunted Yate.

"One at a time," the lop rabbit replied.

"Whatever," Marren said, turning back towards the coffee table "I'm betting the same. Two whole Ks."

"Someone's calling you," Rodney called out to the wolverine.

"Who?" Marren asked.

"A black kettle," the striped skunk replied.

"At least I'm not making excuses," Marren retorted, "I've got a date tomorrow. I've got better places to put my money on."

"Who?" Jack asked.

"Showed you guys her picture yesterday," Marren said, "You don't remember?"

The group sank deep into thought for a moment, driving searchlights into their memories.

Rodney chimed in half a minute later, "That sparrowhawk?"

"Not for the life of me would I find another one like her," the wolverine said, "Feathered AND curved. You'll only find avians like her in movies. Hell, maybe even circuses."

Rodney asked, "Aren't you twice her size?"

Marren pounded his chest, "More to love for her."

"Can't wait to see her go feral on your face," Jack laughed.

"Well damn, I hope so," the wolverine snickered, "She's a walking bomb, I tell you. In and out."

"Girls like her," Yate called out, "You either spend all of your winnings on her or you're getting on a kill list."

The lop rabbit walked around the refrigerator door and kicked it shut with its hind legs. He carried a box of snacks in his hands. The packaging showed a set of carrot sticks being drizzled over by viscous gravy.

"You’re gonna end up paying for your medical bills with your winnings, eating like that,” Jack called out as the lop rabbit walked towards his spot on the coffee table, between the striped skunk and the wolverine.

"And I'll put your name," Yate paused as he pulled a grease-covered stick from the packaging, "As my medical benefactor."

“I’ll put yours on a gravestone first,” Jack replied.

“You’ll be buying two spots for his greasy ass,” Marren added as he scooched over to the side, giving space for the Yate.

Just as the lop rabbit was about to sit down, a set of muffled knocks sounded off from the doorway. It sent a collective groan across the table, with a particularly muted one coming from Yate’s filled cheeks.

Rodney spoke with great vexation, “What now?”

Marren brought a fist atop a palm over the table, “Final loser gets it?”

“Forget it,” Jack chimed in, “Yate, go get it. You need those extra steps more than everyone else.”

“Yeah,” Marren added, “Go get that spice.”

Yate looked around the table, glancing at his dormmates’ smug faces before blowing a sigh, setting his snacks on the table as he hobbled towards the doorway.

“Alright,” Rodney said as he brought up a deck of cards, shuffling it in his hands, “Everyone got their bets down?”

“Not Yate, he hasn’t,” Jack reminded the striped skunk.

Marren chimed in, “Yeah, your head’s as fuming as your ass.”

“Marren, if you die one day, you’ve got nothing to blame but your loud mouth,” Rodney leaned towards the doorway, “Yate, who’s that on the door?”

Jack laughed, “Hands too greased to turn the knob?”

"Jack," Yate called out to the otter from the doorway.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm sorry," the otter sighed, "You get conscious time from time. We know."

"Jack," Yate called out again.

"What?" Jack asked.

"Come here," Yate said.

"Why?"

"Jack."

"Okay, okay," the otter rose from his spot, pushing himself away from the coffee table.

The wolverine snickered, "Couldn't get the door open from greasy fingers?"

"I said that," Jack retorted as he walked towards the doorway.

"Whatever," Marren said, "Go check up on Chubby Bunny over there."

The otter peered through the doorway. The lop rabbit stood on the other end, his greasy fingers holding the door open, facing a figure standing in front of him.

"Who's that, Yate-"

Dove stood on the other end of the doorway.

Yate slowly turned his head towards Jack. His cheeks were filled with the oily carrot sticks, picked from the box of snacks he had in his other hand. He was unable to chew.

"He's 'ere fo' you," the lop rabbit muttered to the otter.

Yate quickly left the scene, passing Jack as he dashed towards the safety of the coffee table.

"Hey," Rodney shouted from behind the otter, "Put that box down and get that cheque boo- you look damn pale, what the hell?"

Dove asked from the doorway, "Are you Jack?"

The otter tried to answer. He couldn't. His throat dried up, the moisture retreating down into his body, hiding away from every possible orifice that exposed them to the open world.

"Are you Jack," the Doberman asked again, "President of the Library Committee?"

The otter tried to answer again. He opened his mouth and nothing came out.

"Come here," the Doberman ordered.

The otter complied, though it wasn't by his own volition. His legs moved under Dove's order, adhering to the primitive instinct that acting otherwise would bring about a worse conclusion.

Jack lived on the lower floors of the Boys' Dormitory. The Academy assigned rooms by size. The bigger you were, the higher the lived. The otter lived on a modest, single-digit floor. In fact, most of the otter's acquaintances lived within the single-digit floors, rarely going above the tenth floor. Small animals occupied a minority of the floors among the Boys' Dormitory, though it wasn't by their lack of numbers.

Though everyone lived in the same building, not every floor was built the same. Some had smaller rooms to accommodate smaller sized students. With that, came shorter lower ceilings and shorter hallways, so that the occupants wouldn't be overwhelmed. It meant that large animals like rhinos and elephants would have a hard time roaming through those spaces, as they would be forced to hunch their backs and squeeze their shoulders to even fit into the hallways.

Dove fitted the hallway like a glove. He was just tall enough that his crown brushed the ceiling, though his ears were unlucky, as they folded to the side of his head whenever he stood upright. He had to move his shoulders sideways to move into the doorframe.

To Jack, Dove rolled the coffin door over the casket.

The otter barely stood above the Doberman's hips, only able to look at him from below. His arms looked like trunks, with his palm covering over his head. His fingers laid on his side like fat, individual limbs, each thick enough to drill through his eyes and raise him from the sockets. Veins ran up from his fingertips, constricting his forearms, disappearing into the short, white sleeves of his shirt.

He looked towards Dove's legs. One swift kick from any one of the pair would send splinters to his lungs, sourced from his chipped, broken ribs.

Jack dared not look at the Doberman in the face.

Dove fished something out of his sweatpants' pockets. It was a phone, small and compact with a black cover and a cracked screen. He flicked his thumb across the screen. He stared at his phone for a moment before showing it to Jack.

It was a picture of the otter, posing against the lens in a formal outfit. The otter recalled the photoshoot. It was for a family occasion, but it was also used for business purposes, regarding his father's company. It also somehow ended up in Dove's hands.

"This is you," the Doberman said, "Right?"

He couldn't stall any longer.

"Yes," he muttered.

"Let me join your club," Dove demanded.

"Why?"

The word came out of the otter's mouth without a hitch. He spoke it, not as a feeble attempt for willful, defensive autonomy, but as a decision with conviction. In truth, he had none of the guts to even meet Dove eye to eye. It was something else that ran his mouth. Something cultivated by a source that persisted within his primordial, self-preserving instincts - his amour propre; a sense of pride carried by his self-esteem.

It wasn’t strong enough to override his fear, but it was enough to hold his tongue and speak his mind.

Jack spoke as dignified as his voice could carry, though his efforts were squandered as the Doberman stared at the otter’s lowered forehead from above.

He asked, "What do you have to offer for the club?"

“Nothing,” Dove answered just as quickly.

Jack shot back without hesitation, “So why should I let you in?”

“You admitted a new member,” the Doberman said, “I want to get close to him.”

“What,” the sense of pride in Jack bubbled over his mental pot for a moment, overspilling from his mouth, “You in love with him or something?”

“No,” the Doberman replied in earnest, his voice even and unchanging, “I’m interested in him.”

Jack couldn’t care anymore. He closed the shutter between the parts of his brain screaming at him to stop. He let his mouth run free, leaving the responsibility of regrets and consequences to his future.

The otter asked, “What difference does it make?”

“Big differences,” Dove answered.

“I don’t see them,” Jack replied.

“Are you wasting time?”

“Am I?”

“I want to join your club.”

“Why should I let you in?”

“Never mind."

Dove simply left.

He turned around, retreating from the doorway and heading down the corridor where he came from, leaving the conversation and the matter itself as it was without a conclusion.

Jack didn’t know what to do. He expected an escalation of some sorts. It never happened. He stood there, watching the situation walk away as if the last minute had just been a fluke; an accident that might as well have never occurred. It happened as abrupt as it didn’t.

The otter stared into the distance in a daze for a moment. He went forth, reaching towards the doorknob to close the door. He peeked out of the doorway, watching Dove. The Doberman took small strides as he made his way towards the elevator hall. His head was lowered to his shoulders as the tip of his ears scraped the ceiling. His docked tail bobbed just above his sweatpants, poking out from beneath his shirt. He walked close to the side of the corridor, his calloused knuckles sometimes scraping 

Jack gulped and went back in, pulling the door in. It all felt fast. Sudden. Instantaneous. One second he was facing a mortal threat, the next he was toying with death, and that was swiftly followed by said threat’s exit, leaving nothing but a nonchalant disregard for his previous words. It was quick, ending with an exchange that lasted as long as a snap of a finger.

Something was wrong.

Jack burst through the doorway, calling the Doberman.

“Hey,” the otter cried.

The Doberman looked back. It was then when Jack finally looked him in the eye.

Jack never understood the infamy behind the Doberman’s gaze until he saw it in its physical form. At that moment, he realized those rumours and hearsays weren’t born out of a vacuum. Dove held a signature look in his eyes that made the otter regret the words he spewed out to the Doberman’s hips just a minute ago. Had he been looking up at that close of a distance, he wouldn’t be able to breathe.

Jack tightened his grip on the doorknob, reading to swing the mahogany door shut at a moment’s notice. He mustered every ounce of courage he had in him, boosted by the distance between Dove’s lumbering fists and the doorway within the tight, narrow corridor.

“What do you want from me?” Jack asked.

The Doberman answered fast.

“To make things easier.”

“Your feud is with that mutt,” the otter said, “What do I have to do with that?”

“Nothing,” Dove replied.

“Then what the hell is this?”

“I’m asking you to get me close to the wolf,” the Doberman answered, “That’s all.”

Jack asked, “What’s in it for me?”

“Nothing,” Dove answered.

“And what happens if I don’t do it?”

“Nothing,” Dove said.

Irritation was growing on Jack when the Doberman said those words.

The otter cried out in vexation, “Nothing? Then why the hell-”

Then Dove growled, shutting Jack up with an immediate effect. The annoyance was washed away in a wave of choking fear.

“Unless you get in my way,” the Doberman spoke between his unfurled, gritted teeth.

He turned away, resuming his path towards the elevator hall.

A war broke out in Jack’s head; miniature battles exploded across his mental plane, fighting for two opposing forces. For a moment, the two sides were in a deadlock, clashing in a perpetual stalemate. As the Doberman’s figure was slowly reduced to a silhouette, the otter found himself cornered. He resorted to objective reasoning, picking the side that best serves his survivability.

He felt himself stabbing through his own heart.

“You,” he called out.

The otter couldn’t see the fine details. All he could see was a giant shadow, crawling against the walls. The only feature he could make out of the figure was the glow from a pair of steaming, bronze pieces emitting from where its eyes should be.

“Meet me at the library,” Jack said, “Early morning. Monday.”

The figure didn’t reply. Its gaze lingered for a moment before turning back and walking for a distance, slithering into a corner.

Jack stared at the empty corridor, hearing the dying footsteps trail off into a whirring silence, blaring from the fluorescent bulbs above.

The otter returned to the dorm, closing the door behind him as he went.

"My grandchildren's gone to college and they're now doing internships," Rodney called out to Jack as he sat back down behind the coffee table, "What the hell were you doing back there?"

Jack stayed silent. Yate in particular looked solemn, chewing on his carrot sticks as he glanced away.

Marren leaned in, waving his hand around the otter's face, "Earth to Jack?"

The striped skunk waved it off, passing the cards across the table, "Whatever, just play."

"Wait," the wolverine called out, "Who's the dealer?"

Everyone looked at everyone else's face as if they're anticipating an answer from either party, save for Jack, whose eyes were still paralyzed, staring into an unknown distance.

"Screw it," Rodney said, placing the remaining deck over the given bets, "Winner takes all. Best pair wins."

Yate chimed in, "What if-"

"I said 'Screw it'," Rodney retorted.

The striped skunk, the wolverine and the lob rabbit checked their cards, holding them up to their eyes as they scanned the others for their reactions whilst hiding their own. The otter left his on the table, unfolded.

Marren glanced to his side, "Bad faces, Rodney?'

"Clam it," Rodney hissed back, "Yate, you want to hit it?"

"I'm good," the lob rabbit folded his cards on the table.

"I'm not," the wolverine said, reaching out towards the deck for a card. He checked it for a second before putting it down on the table with a quiet, "Stand."

Rodney snickered, "Blew up on your face?"

"Shut up," Marren growled.

"Heh," the striped skunk snorted as he placed his cards down as well, "Fold."

"Jack?" Yate called out.

"What the hell was at that door," Marren spoke to the otter, "You look like you got your life sucked out of you."

Rodney asked, "You want to draw or nah?"

Jack remained silent, picking up his cards and glancing over them. Without a care in the world, he dropped the pair on the table, facing upwards.

It was a blackjack. An Ace of Spades and a King of Hearts.

"What the hell was at that door," Marren asked again.

"That's a double," Rodney said, "You're paying double, Yate. Two whole blank cheques."

Yate didn't comment on that. He didn't seem disappointed or dejected. His eyes stayed on Jack, watching the realization of the situation seep into the otter's gaze.

He let out a smile that was unlike his usual range of expressions. He sported a wide grin across his cheeks, one you'd expect from a man who won five figures and more in one match, but his eyes spoke of melancholy.

Both Rodney and Marren seemed befuddled as Jack slumped over the table, his head rolling over his blackjack as he let out a huge sigh.

"Shit."

 

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