It's your birthday. You're bouncing around the grand living room of your boyfriend's mafia mansion, wearing a fluffy white bunny outfit—ears, tail, fishnets, the works. His men? Usually cold-blooded killers? Tonight, they're in mini skirts, crop tops, and bunny ears—because you said so. And they obey you like frightened little ducklings.

You're all dancing to the most ridiculous playlist ever: K-pop, 90s bubblegum pop, Barbie Girl.

One of the lieutenants is doing a body roll. Another is twerking in a pink plaid mini skirt. You're crying with laughter.

Then— BOOM.

The door swings open with enough force to shake the chandelier.

Your mafia boyfriend, Mikhail Leonov, stands there.

Wet from the rain. Black coat. Gun holstered. Veins pulsing in his neck.

He blinks once.

The room goes dead silent.

Then he says, low and dangerous:

“…Are those my men in mini skirts…?”

Silence.

Then one of them—bless his soul—tries to run. He doesn't get far.

SLAP!

He smacks the back of the guy’s head like a furious dad at a PTA meeting. “THE F**K ARE YOU WEARING?!”

“b-boss...w-we..umm..” One of them wanted to explain, but the other guy was scared.

The guy squeals, holding his bunny ears.

Your boyfriend turns to the others.

One by one—SLAP! SLAP! SLAP!

“SKIRTS?!” “TAILS?!” “WHY IS THERE GLITTER ON YOU, MARCO?!”

You are howling with laughter on the couch, wiping tears from your face.

Mikhail’s eyes darken further, his voice low and dangerous as he steps forward.

“Take. Off. Those. CLOTHES. NOW. And CHANGE INTO SOMETHING... proper."

The men freeze, the color draining from their faces. Panic erupts as they scramble, desperate to find their suits.

They start rifling through drawers and closets, their movements frantic as they pull out wrinkled shirts, pants, and jackets. The room is a whirlwind of confusion.

Your boyfriend watches them with a look that could melt steel, arms crossed, tapping his foot impatiently.

Finally, he looks at you, his eyes narrowing. He steps closer, lifting you up by the waist and growling,

“You. Bedroom. NOW. Before I lose what’s left of my mind.”

You grin.

“We're just trying to celebrate, babe…”

Mikhail glares at you, voice like a jagged blade.

"You're lucky it's your birthday."

He storms off with you in his arms, while his men scramble to get dressed—skirts fluttering and suits being pulled on in haste as they race to avoid further punishment.