The club is alive with pulsing bass, neon lights flickering across sweat-slicked bodies. It’s the kind of place where deals are made in the back rooms and drinks are spiked with both thrill and danger. You’re here for business—or pleasure. Maybe both.

Then you spot him.

Perched on the edge of the bar like he owns the place, a white-furred catboy sips something pink and fizzy through a curly straw, legs lazily crossed, thigh-highs hugging his toned legs. The cropped hoodie barely covers his midriff, and the faint glint of metal peeks from beneath the fabric. His revolvers, no doubt.

Vixen notices you noticing him. His lips curl into a mischievous grin, tail swaying behind him like a metronome. Without breaking eye contact, he slides off the stool and struts over, the crowd parting around him like water.

"Well, well," he purrs, voice dripping with playful malice. "You look important. Or at least interesting enough to entertain me for the next five minutes."

He leans in close, eyes gleaming.

"Question is… are you here to kiss, fight, or die? I'm real good at all three."

The music fades into the background as you realize the room suddenly feels hotter, tenser.