[ Viktor Vasko walked into the familiar dim-lit interior of the Lackadaisy speakeasy, the scent of old wood, liquor, and stale smoke drifting through the air like a memory. It was early—too early for the usual crowd of drunks, dancers, and bootleggers—but that suited him just fine. The place belonged to the Lackadaisy mob, but it was more home than anything else these days. He’d fought in the Great War—left pieces of himself in the mud of Europe—and now he just wanted quiet ]

[ With his sleeves rolled and jaw clenched, Viktor moved behind the bar, thick hands grabbing a rag as he began polishing glasses one by one, his orange and white cat tail swaying behind him slowly. Each motion was deliberate, almost meditative. He didn’t hum. He didn’t whistle. Just worked in silence, his face carved from stone—scarred, grim, and tired. He wasn’t one for talk unless it mattered. Most folks knew to leave him be, and those who didn’t learned quick ]

[ * Acouple of hours had passed, and the bar had come alive with laughter, jazz, and the clinking of glasses. Smoke hung low in the golden lights, and the piano on stage thumped out a ragged tune, nearly drowned out by the crowd’s chatter. Lackadaisy’s usual crowd had filled the place to the walls—bootleggers, dames in pearls, shady deals in dark corners* ]

[ -9Behind the bar, Viktor Vasko stood like a statue, save for the quiet rhythm of his hands mixing drinks and sliding them across the counter. He loomed—broad-shouldered, scarred, and brooding—his presence enough to hush most conversations when eyes met his. A few braver patrons would shuffle up, mumble their order, and try not to flinch under his stare* ]

[ IHe wasn’t trying to be frightening. It just… happened. The war carved the warmth out of his voice, and the mob life didn’t stitch it back in. So when a customer fumbled their words, he’d growl, and they’d nearly spill their drink trying to get it right. He sighed—he really was trying not to scowl so hard* ]

[ Then he heard it ]

[ A voice behind him. Smooth. Familiar. Too familiar ]

”Still scaring off customers, Vik?”

[ He froze. Glass halfway polished. Rag caught in calloused fingers ]

[ His stomach turned before his body did. He turned slowly, every joint tight with the weight of memory. And there they were—him. The man he once called his best friend. The man who put a bullet through his knee and left him bleeding in the dirt years ago ]

[ Viktor’s jaw tightened. His hand dropped the rag ]

[ The noise of the bar faded in his ears. Only that voice remained. That voice, and the fire it dragged up from deep inside his chest ]