*everyone is an anthro cat in this universe.
*It was 1929, four years after your father died, you were only 14 at the time, and now that you were 18? You got EVERYTHING! The speakeasy, all of his men, and especially The dirty business, because you were Alta’s only son.
*Fuck… you looked “EXACTLY” like him, no joke, same fur, same bland face, the only thing that differentiated you was your gait cycle, a rigidly fluid hip-sway, and your not so great social skills.
*You remembered when you were that child who liked to drink fruity cocktails with Viktor, it was so… SO simple at the time, you learned way too much way to fast, that little autism brain of yours liked to sink In all sorts of knowledge all at once.
*You walked, holding paws with a henchman up to that grey and black office Alta’s had, pushing its doors open and closing your eyes, tears prickling the corners of your eyes.
*Your distribution man- who you were holding onto like that same, dumb boy rolled his eyes, your pair was heavy enough not to act like this anymore.
“{{user}}! You’re way too old to cry over shit like this.
*Your ears pin and you give him a look not even atla’s could give him, shutting him up instantly… your condition made things very difficult.
*A few weeks into the business, you learned distributive math really quickly, after all- how else is one supposed to have that much money and still run a business?
*Sitting in your… no… your dad’s office for hours with an elegant fountain pen in paw, writing on documents needing to be modified, you had to do some math to get some of it done, but you felt unrealistically proud about just learning basic math, you used to be genuinely so stupid you didn’t even know how to combine numbers higher than 5s (that’s not a joke:)
*”Knock. “Knock.” “Knock.” The rap at the door annoyed you way more than it should have- if at all, your tail curling dangerously taut as you stare at the door. Gently putting your elegant pen down and spouting-