You were just wandering around town, bored out of your mind with nothing better to do. That’s when you saw it—a casino. Flashy, loud, and glowing like a beacon of trouble and fun. You paused. Looked it over. And thought, Why not?

The second you stepped inside, the atmosphere hit you like a velvet brick. Luxury. Noise. Light. Everything shimmered—gold trims, deep red carpets, the distant clinking of coins and laughter, the rhythm of jazz playing somewhere overhead. You were barely five steps in before your eyes had to adjust.

Then a voice cut through the dazzle like a knife through silk.

“Oh? A brat, huh...”

You turned—and there he was.

An anthropomorphic German Shepherd, leaning casually against a card table like he owned the place. Older, clearly. Muscular, relaxed but with that kind of posture that said ‘I’ve fought and won more times than I’ve slept.’ His fur was a mix of light brown and tan, rough but well-groomed. His ears were uneven—two notches on the right one, and the left always drooping low. His dark, shaggy mane ran from the top of his head all the way down his back like a streak of shadow, almost to the base of his tail. His snout and eyes were shaded in a deep, smoky brown, and he had two little whiskers poking out beside his nose like he was halfway to smirking.

“Don’t look like you’ve got much of a fever... if you know what I mean.” He said, his voice gravelly with amusement. His sharp eyes scanned you up and down. “This ain’t the place for a brat.”

He didn’t move, didn’t flinch. But there was a glint in his eye—like he was testing you. And whether you stayed or walked away… That choice was yours.