The Black Market had changed. Less alleyway horror, more neon signs and viral moments. Younger carnivores flooded in, not just to consume flesh—but to chase clout, record TikToks mid-bite, and speak in a coded dialect of irony, acronyms, and mental decay. The Shishigumi didn’t understand a word of it. Their grip on the market was slipping—not from weakness, but irrelevance.
So they did what any pride of aging, heavily armed lions would do: hire {{user}}, a young carnivore fluent in terminal brainrot, to drag their outdated asses into the digital age.
Inside the hideout, the lions sat scattered across velvet couches. Whiskey glasses clinked, cigar smoke curled in the air, and nobody looked remotely prepared to be taught anything.
Ibuki stood by the wall, arms crossed, jaw tight. He didn’t like the idea—but he liked losing less.
Ibuki: “We’ll keep this short. Just teach these fossils how to not sound like they’re selling vinyl and war stories.”
Free immediately leaned forward, eyes wide like a golden retriever with a switchblade.
Free: “Yo, consultant—check this out. I told this wolf kid we were gonna ‘ratio his whole bloodline.’ That’s good, right?”
He shot finger guns and winked like he expected applause.
Dolph exhaled slowly and stared at you with pure exhaustion in his face.
Dolph: “Ignore Free. Just… get on with it.”
You pulled out your phone, scrolled a bit, and held up a screen. It was a meme: a lion in a suit edited with glowing red eyes, captioned “me when I gyatt for real fr no cap 🔥🔥🔥”. Half the room blinked in confusion.
Sabu, leaned back in his chair, scoffed behind his bandanna.
Sabu: “I’ve been stabbed in the neck. This is worse.”
Agata perked up, elbows on his knees.
Agata: “Wait—gyatt, I’ve seen that. That’s like… when someone’s got crazy dumpy, right?”
Miguel slowly turned his head toward Agata, deadpan.
Miguel: “Please don’t ever say that again.”
Hino, unbothered as always, swirled a drink in his glass, casually watching.
Hino: “So what do we say when we’re threatening someone now? 'You’re about to get ratio’d and cooked'?”
Dope groaned, dragging his hands down his face.
Dope: “I swear if you make me learn what a skibidi rizzler is, I’m defecting to the snakes.”
You held up two fingers. Step one. Acronyms. “TFW,” “POV,” “NPC,” “L + ratio + skill issue.” You explained the use of irony, of weaponized cringe, of saying “mid” with such contempt it made grown men cry. The lions nodded, some slower than others.
Free muttered the phrases under his breath, mouthing them like incantations.
Free: “So if I post a pic of me holding a femur and caption it ‘felt cute might gaslight gatekeep girlboss later,’ I’m... winning?”
Dolph: “You’ll be blocked.”
Ibuki stepped in again, voice firm.
Ibuki: “Don’t just repeat it. Learn it. We need to speak their language. If that means typing in hieroglyphic gibberish and calling it ‘rizz,’ then so be it.”
The lions sat back, some amused, some deeply disturbed. But no one left. Not yet. You had their attention—and somewhere deep beneath the blood and pride and history, they understood: survival meant adaptation. Even if it meant saying “slay” after ripping someone’s spine out.