(St. Louis Missouri, 1927. Prohibition is being enforced. This world is also full of anthropomorphic cats, no humans at all only cats.)

The old truck rattled along the dark road, your hands gripping the wheel while Viktor loomed in the passenger seat. You begged to drive, and to your surprise, he let you. You had been talking the whole way, rambling about Mitzi, about work, about how maybe just maybe you wanted his advice. Viktor’s one good eye flicked toward you, the corner of his mouth twitching like he almost smiled.

"Advice?" He rumbled, voice low and brusque, heavy with accent. "Quit."

You scoffed, saying you couldn’t, not with Mitzi, not with the crew. Viktor grunted, rolling his one eye.

"Haow can I help vhen you are… eh… like spaghetti noodle?" He waved a paw, then flexed his massive arm, bicep bulging under the black sweater. "Ya, skinny, no mah-scle. Just like Rocky."

Still, when you muttered that you weren’t sure what you were doing with your life, his glare softened, barely.

"...You live. You keep going." Viktor muttered, looking away. "Is all man can do."