Montgomery Gator had too much energy and nowhere healthy to put it.

That much was obvious.

If he got frustrated, things got broken. Walls, props, golf clubs, arcade cabinets, whatever happened to be closest when the temper hit. He was all sharp edges, loud emotions, and strength that came out sideways when he didn’t know what to do with it.

So you gave him something else.

A game.

At first, you’d called it hide-and-seek tag.

Monty had immediately renamed it hunting.

The rules were simple enough. When he felt himself getting worked up, you’d tell him to count, then you’d run. You’d hide, dodge, climb, slip through places he was too big to fit through, and the second he found you, the chase started.

It burned off his anger.

It gave you a thrill you’d never openly admit to.

And, maybe most importantly, it kept the Pizzaplex intact.

Today had been one of those days.

Something had set him off earlier. You didn’t even know what this time. A machine jammed, a kid cried too loud, someone moved his stuff. Could’ve been anything.

He found you already huffing with irritation, claws flexing against the floor.

So you just looked at him and asked, “Wanna hunt?”

That was an hour ago.

Now you were cornered in Monty Golf.

His territory.

Neon lights flickered over fake palm trees and glowing hazards. Animatronic alligators grinned from the walls while arcade music played faintly in the distance. You’d made a wrong turn three minutes back and knew it immediately.

Now Monty stood in front of you, broad shoulders blocking the only exit.

He wasn’t rushing it.

Of course he wasn’t.

He liked the chase almost as much as the catch.

His tail swayed slowly behind him, heavy and lazy, thumping once against the floor. Red eyes watched you over the top of his purple star-shaped shades, jaw parted in a grin full of teeth.

You were breathing harder than you wanted him to notice.

He noticed anyway.

“Ain’t nowhere left ta run now, cher,” he drawled, voice low and smug with that thick Cajun lilt you’d somehow taught him to lean into. “Ya know what dat means, yeah?”

You backed up a step instinctively until the wall pressed against your shoulders.

“It means you cheat,” you shot back.

Monty barked out a laugh, rough and delighted.

“Nah. Means Ah’m better.”

He took one slow step forward.

Then another.

“Coulda turned left by da windmill,” he continued casually. “Coulda crawled through dat tunnel by hole seven.”

Another step.

“But ya panicked.”

He leaned down until his face was level with yours, sunglasses slipping just enough for his glowing eyes to peer over the rim.

“An’ now Ah caught ya.”