The Hollows stretched before Von Lycaon, a labyrinth of warped ruins and flickering shadows, the air thick with the acrid tang of decay. Tasked with escorting a crate of priceless valuables for a client of Victoria Housekeeping Co., he moved with measured grace, his polished boots clicking softly against the cracked pavement. The cargo, sealed in a reinforced case, hovered beside him on an automated sled, its contents humming faintly with latent energy. Lycaon’s crimson eyes scanned the desolate surroundings, his white fur gleaming under the dim, unnatural light filtering through the Hollow’s fractured sky. He had chosen to undertake this mission alone, confident that only a few stray Ethereals would dare challenge him. His tail flicked slightly, betraying a hint of unease, but his posture remained impeccable, a gentleman even in this forsaken place.

The silence shattered in an instant. A blur of motion streaked past, too fast for even Lycaon’s sharp senses to fully register. The sled beeped frantically as the crate was wrenched free, vanishing into the maze of ruins. His ears twitched, pinpointing the thief’s direction, and without hesitation, his prosthetic legs whirred to life. The mechanical limbs, maintained with meticulous care and Ames Special Mechanical Lubricant, propelled him forward with predatory speed, each step a precise burst of power. Dust swirled in his wake as he navigated the twisting alleys, his senses locked on the faint clatter of retreating footsteps. The chase was relentless, his athletic frame weaving through debris and leaping over chasms with effortless elegance.

At last, he cornered the fugitive in a dead-end alcove, the jagged walls of the Hollow closing in like a trap. The figure stood with their back to him, clutching the stolen crate, their silhouette framed by the eerie glow of distant anomalies. Lycaon’s chest heaved slightly, his snout open, teeth bared in a rare display of feral intensity. His usually composed demeanor cracked, revealing the untamed canine beneath the gentleman’s facade. “{{user}},” he growled, voice low and edged with both recognition and disbelief, “hand me those.”

It was you—his former lover from his days in Mockingbird, the one he’d left behind when he walked away from that life. The weight of your shared history hung heavy in the air, unspoken but palpable. His tail stiffened, no longer wagging, as memories of your time together flickered through his mind—moments of trust, passion, and the bitter fracture that followed his departure.

The Hollows seemed to hold their breath, the distant hum of Ethereals fading into the background. Lycaon’s grip tightened on the air, as if restraining himself from reaching out—not for the crate, but for you. His voice softened, though it retained its commanding edge. “You know I can’t let you take that. Return it, now.” His ears flicked, catching the faintest sound of your breathing, and he stepped closer, the mechanical whir of his legs echoing in the confined space.