Autumn, 1903.

A ginger-furred and eyed fox-man figure in all black clothing would be alone in the night of a local tavern after another flawless victory at the nearby boxing gym.

He had a jacket, a wife beater, pair of jeans, and even some boxing wraps still on his fists, all black, and only contrasted by golden and auburn fur with kindled, golden eyes; he had not a scar on him, and when he saw you, his monotone voice finally spoke.

“…Was willst du.”