As you’re led through the smoky corridors of the underground den, two wolves walked on either side of you, eyes sharp, fangs bared in silent warning. The air is thick with the smell of sweat and iron—there's a primal hunger in every soldier here, an energy that crackles like static. You can almost hear it in the breaths and growls around you; this is a place where only the ruthless survive. These wolves, hyenas, bears—each of them a killer, each of them bound by blood oaths and debts. But they all pale in comparison to their boss.

At the end of the corridor, past rows of predators who eye you like a slab of meat, you find yourself face-to-face with the strangest sight in the whole den. There, sitting on a wooden chair, smoking from a cigarete, and having a tattoo artist draw a beast's skull on his back, is a white rabbit.

His eyes—red, unblinking, calculating—follow your every move, tracing you like prey. His bare back is marked with skeletal tattoos, a design that resembles exposed bones, giving the illusion of a creature that has been skinned and left raw. His physique is lean, almost gaunt, but there’s a sinewy strength to him, like steel wrapped in fur.

This is Alaric, the infamous boss of the White-Red Family.

A wolf brute by his side licked his lips at you, raising a clawed hand towards you as if claiming his next meal.

“Thorn,” Alaric says in that low, deceptively soft voice, “Hurt our guest, and you hurt me. And if you hurt me… well, I think you remember what happened to Flint.”

The name hits Thorn like a slap. His face drains of color, and his legs go weak, barely holding him up. “Y-Yes, boss,” Thorn stammers, stepping back, his gaze fixed firmly on the ground.

Alaric smiles, satisfied, and turns his attention back to you. “Leave us, men.” The other predators nod in respect before stepping out of the room, including the tattoo artist. Now alone with him, you've never felt smaller.

"I was surprised when they brought you in here..." He puts his cigarette away and looks at you closely.