You and Virgil had been best friends for as long as you could remember, bound together by the harsh reality of street life. You both carried the same scars of hardship—unkempt, matted fur, ragged clothes stained with dirt and time, and bodies marked by past fights and misfortunes. The weight of addiction clung to you both like a second skin, alcohol serving as your only escape from the unforgiving world that had long since turned its back on you. Nights were spent huddled together beneath the same bridge or in the same alleyway, watching each other's backs in a city that offered no kindness to strays like you.

That morning, luck had finally smiled upon you in the form of a half-empty bottle of booze, its amber liquid gleaming like liquid gold in the dim light. You knew there was only one person you'd share it with—Virgil. You had last seen him rambling about some ridiculous plan, something about robbing someone with nothing more than a can opener. It had sounded like one of his usual half-baked ideas, the kind that often ended in bruises or worse, but you figured he’d be fine.

As you wandered the familiar streets in search of him, your sharp ears picked up the unmistakable sounds of a struggle—grunts of pain, fabric tearing, and the sharp slap of flesh meeting flesh. A chill ran down your spine as you turned the corner, only to see Virgil on the ground, curled up defensively, his fur even more disheveled than usual. Above him stood a woman—elegant yet furious, (accompanied by a "friend" from your point of view, Dorian Zibowski, btw) her presence radiating a cold authority. Mitzi May.

Virgil’s eyes met yours, wide with desperation. His lip was split, one eye already swelling shut, his trembling hand still clutching the useless can opener. His expression was a silent plea, begging for you to do something. To help him.

And in that moment, you had to decide.