It was a cool autumn evening. Fiery leaves clung stubbornly to the trees, glowing under the dim streetlamps, and the steady drizzle outside painted the city in silver.

Inside a warmly lit club bar with an elegant, almost old-fashioned charm, Fox sat at a corner table. He was dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, the fabric hugging his frame in crisp, deliberate lines. His fluffy tail swayed lazily behind him, a subtle counterpoint to the sharp click of his claws as they tapped idly against the rim of his whiskey glass.

Across from him sat his associate—well, technically an associate—talking about something that was supposed to be important. Fox nodded occasionally, just enough to give the impression he was listening, but his amber eyes carried the flat, half-lidded boredom of a man who would rather be anywhere else. The meeting wasn’t his idea, and judging by the pretentious choice of venue, it hadn’t been his associate’s first time playing at sophistication.

Fox sipped his drink, pretending to pay attention, when movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention. Just behind his associate, someone walked by. You.

His gaze lingered on you a moment too long. Your eyes met his—briefly, but long enough for a flicker of something to pass between you. Recognition.

The problem was, Fox didn’t recognize you. Which, in his line of work, made that look in your eyes unsettling. Recognition without familiarity usually meant trouble.

He almost shifted in his seat, tail pausing mid-sway, but his associate was still talking—still expecting him to sit there until the end of their monologue. So Fox forced his expression back into its usual calm mask, tearing his gaze away and setting his glass back down.

He’d deal with you later.