[Point of View: Carlie]

  I find myself on my knees, forehead pressed against the cold floor of a pitch-black room. Incense burns nearby, smoke serpents dancing through the oppressive shadows. The small space feels like it's suffocating me, the walls closing in with every shallow breath I take. The air is heavy, thick with a mix of expectation and raw fear that weighs on my shoulders like lead.

  A single candle flickers, its weak light illuminating my mother’s severe face as she sits on her throne. Her eyes are pools of pure disappointment, piercing the darkness to pin me where I lie.

  "Mother, I-."

  "Silence, HǔPò," she barks in Mandarin. "You disgrace of a daughter."

  Her voice is a whip, cracking through the stagnant air. Every syllable feels like a fresh stab. My throat tightens, and my heart stutters out of rhythm.

  "You have dishonored me. You have dishonored our name, HǔPò."

  Each word is a knife. My breath falters, my chest feels like it’s being crushed. The room, already stifling, has become a coffin. The scent of incense, once a comfort, is now a chokehold.

  "I swear, I fought with honor and every ounce of my strength," I say, desperate to calm her. "He was... he was just different."

  "Different?" she repeats in English, only to burst into a jagged, mocking laughter.

  The sound is sharp and cruel, echoing off the walls and amplifying the humiliating weight of my failure.

  "‘Different’ is just an excuse for the weak. You are a tigress, HǔPò, though you’ve shamefully never acted like one." My mother snarls the words, her disgust palpable. "You act more like a goddamn plant-eater."

  Every muscle in my body tenses. The urge to scream, to fight back, claws at my insides. But I know my place. I know the crushing weight of the family name I carry.

  "Yes, Mother."

  My voice is a ghost of a whisper, lost in the dark. The candle flickers, casting dancing shadows across the matriarch’s face. Her eyes, cold and calculating, never blink.

  "The only value you ever offered this family was your strength in the arena," she says, her voice dripping with disdain. "But now that you have lost, now that you have humiliated us in front of so many, there is only one path left for your redemption."

  "Tell me, Mother!" I exclaim, lifting my head with a surge of hope. "I will do whatever it takes to restore our honor," I promise, my voice finally finding its strength in the gloom.

  The candle gutters again, revealing the widening smile of a predator on my mother’s face. My stomach churns, a dark premonition chilling my blood.

  "To restore our honor, HǔPò, you must bear a child with the man who defeated you."

  The air leaves my lungs. The world spins.

  "W-what?" I stammer, my mind reeling. My voice is a hoarse wreck, disbelief vibrating in every syllable.

  "Don't be a fool, girl. Mate with the Dragon Warrior. Bear a strong heir, one who isn't a pathetic weakling like you."

  I can only stammer as her command echoes through my skull. "Mother, I... I can't..."

  "Silence!" she cuts me off, her voice a whip-crack that ends the discussion.

  "Mother, please..." I beg, my voice a desperate, broken whisper.

  "Please what, HǔPò? Please, spare me the shame? Please, let you continue to drag our name through the mud?" She laughs at me again, that sharp, cruel sound bouncing off the walls. "No, HǔPò. No more weakness. No more dishonor."

  She stands, her imposing figure looming over me like a mountain.

  "As of this moment, you are banished, HǔPò. Exiled! If you ever wish to enjoy this family's wealth again, you will return pregnant with the Dragon Warrior's cub."

  "Mother..."

  "Out of my sight. Before I set the guards on you."

  [Point of View: Edith Nivea]

  I wake up with the sun warming my face, a silly, helpless smile plastered on my lips.

  What a wonderful dream, I think, stretching my limbs with a slow, languid luxury.

  The memories are still vivid, Marcus and I, finally together. Just replaying the moments in my mind makes me feel giddy, my heart fluttering against my ribs. I turn to my side, eyes still heavy with sleep, and then I freeze.

  Right there, inches away, is Marcus.

  He’s naked, lying with his back to me in my very own bed. The sheets are a tangled mess between his legs, and his broad chest rises and falls in a gentle, rhythmic slumber.

  "It wasn't a dream," I whisper, the shock hititng me like a runaway train.

  Reality settles in with a heavy thud. Marcus and I... we actually made love? I can hardly believe it. Marcus stirs then, a low, masculine grumble escaping his lips, and my heart nearly leaps out of my throat. He shifts, his muscular body stretching lazily in the morning light. I seize the opening, carefully sliding out from under the covers and off the bed.

  I glance back for a heartbeat. He’s still under, his face serene and handsome in repose. I let out a jagged sigh of relief, my body finally relaxing a fraction as I tiptoe toward the door, each step calculated to avoid a single creak.

  The door hinges give a faint moan as I pull it open. I hold my breath, turning to stone. Marcus shifts again but doesn't wake. I slip out into the hallway, closing the door behind me with a soft, decisive click.

  I lean my back against the wall, heart still hammering against my chest like a trapped bird. I stare at the ceiling, trying to untangle the knot of my thoughts, but a sudden noise cuts through the silence.

  DING-DONG!

  I bolt down the hallway, my long ears swaying wildly. The wooden floorboards protest under my feet, but there’s no time for caution. The bell rings again, urgent, insistent.

  DING-DONG!

  "I'm coming!" I hiss desperately, reaching the front door.

  I yank it open, my breath hitching. Standing on the porch is a young tigress. She’s wearing thick-lensed glasses balanced on her nose and has a large, heavy suitcase resting by her side.

  "Edith Nivia?" Her voice is firm, professional, and entirely too straightforward for this hour.

  "Yes, that's me," I manage to say, my voice coming out steadier than I feel.

  The tigress assesses me from head to toe, her yellow eyes sharp as needles, taking in every detail of my disheveled state. "I see. Then I assume Mr. Marcus Carvalho is also present?"

  A sharp pang of irritation stabs at me. A sudden, fierce possessiveness flares up in my chest at this cat’s prying.

  "You ask a lot of questions," I retort, my tone drying up instantly. "Who are you, and what the hell do you want with him?"

  The tigress adjusts her glasses, a timid, almost shy gesture that contrasts sharply with her rigid posture. "Miss Nivia, you likely don't recognize me, but Marcus and I have met before."

  I arch an eyebrow, my disbelief plain across my face. The visitor sighs wearily, nodding as if she expected my skepticism. Slowly, she straightens her back, standing tall with her chest puffed out. There’s something familiar in the silhouette now, but it isn't until she reaches up and removes her glasses that the pieces click into place.

  "Yami Kage?" The name escapes me before I can catch it.

  The tigress, the very same ninja Marcus faced in the ring, fixes me with a piercing gaze. Her yellow eyes gleam with an intensity that makes me instinctively recoil a step.

  "I see you've finally recognized me, Miss Nivia," she says, her voice dropping into a low, authoritative growl.

  My mind races. "What do you want here?" I demand. "Did you come to kill him? To get your honor back?"

  Yami Kage’s eyes widen in genuine shock. She throws her hands up in a gesture of surrender, her long, elegant fingers trembling.

  "No, Miss Nivia! You've got it half wrong," she says hurriedly, her voice laced with an urgency that wasn't there a moment ago. "I'm not here to hurt Marcus. Quite the opposite."

  I cross my arms, narrowing my eyes. This is all too bizarre, and I’m not about to play nice with a predator on my doorstep. "Then what do you want, Yami Kage?" I spit.

  She averts her gaze, a faint blush creeping onto her cheeks. She fidgets, her long fingers intertwining and pulling apart in a nervous, restless rhythm.

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  "I... I came to live with my husband," she whispers.

  I stand there, frozen. My mouth hangs open as her words echo through my head in a whirlwind of confusion. "Husband?" I repeat, the word sounding foreign. "Who is your husband?"

  Yami Kage looks back at me, her yellow eyes burning with a mix of raw determination and agonizing nerves. She takes a deep breath.

  "The Dragon Warrior," she says, her voice full of a strange, sacred reverence.

  The shock hits me like a lightning strike. The rabbit in me wants to bolt, to find a dark hole and hide, but my feet are leaden.

  "Marcus?" I stammer, my voice thin and uncertain. "You're talking about Marcus?"

  Yami Kage nods, her expression dead serious. "Yes, Miss Nivia. Marcus Carvalho is my husband."

  The confirmation is a physical blow to my stomach. I stumble back, hand pressing against my chest to hold back the sudden, sharp pain spreading through me.

  "No... it can't be," I murmur, my voice trembling. "Marcus never mentioned..."

  Yami Kage takes a step toward me, reaching out a hand in a comforting gesture. I flinch away, the distrust rising like a wall.

  "Miss Nivia, please, let me explain-."

  I shake my head, tears already stinging my eyes. I can't do this. Not right now. I need to see him. I need to understand what the hell is going on.

  "I'm sorry," I choke out, before turning and sprinting back down the hallway.

  The bedroom door slams against the wall as I throw it open, the sound booming through the house. My eyes frantically scan the bed, but what I find makes my heart seize.

  The bed is empty.

  The sheets are rumpled, the pillow still bearing the warm imprint of his head, but he’s gone. I walk over to the mattress, my trembling hand touching the cold fabric where he had been lying just minutes ago.

  "Marcus?" I call out, my voice small and desperate.

  No answer.

  I look around the silent, hollow room. Then I see it, the window is wide open, the curtains swaying gently in the morning breeze. I walk to the sill, my heart feeling like a stone. The window looks out over the garden, the flowers waving mockingly in the wind.

  "Marcus is... gone?"

  [Point of View: Marcus Carvalho]

  "What a dad joke," I mutter, rubbing my face in irritation.

  I’m standing in front of a storefront with a sign so faded it’s practically a ghost: Golden Fleece & Needles. The window is a depressing display of dusty yarn balls, knitting needles, and a few finished scarves that look like they’ve been there since the last century.

  "Something's not right," I say to myself, double-checking the crumpled address in my hand. "But this is the place."

  I push the door open, and a little bell chimed with a cheery ting. The scent of aged wool and cedar hits me instantly. My eyes dart around the shop, looking for any hidden signal that the mafia tigress hadn't sent me on a wild goose chase. The walls are packed with shelves of colorful yarn, and baskets of needles overflow like some kind of fiber-optic jungle.

  "That old pussy-lying bitch," I grumble, my frustration peaking.

  At the back of the shop sits an elderly Anthro canine. Her golden fur has faded to a soft cream, and a pair of spectacles is perched precariously on the tip of her nose. Her hands are a blur, two knitting needles clicking away in a slow, rhythmic dance. As she notices me, she stops mid-stitch and gives me a look of pure curiosity.

  I approach slowly, trying to look less like a guy who just crawled out of a death-match arena. A badge pinned to her apron reads: Mercedes Toretto. I stop at a respectful distance and run a hand through my hair.

  "Good afternoon, Mrs. Toretto. My name is Marcus Carvalho," I say, pausing to see if she’s actually listening.

  The old canine’s eyes widen. She looks at me like I’ve just performed a miracle right there next to the crochet hooks.

  Oh, come on, I think, my stomach sinking. Did I already mess up the secret handshake or something?

  Determined to stay on her good side, I try to push forward. "Sorry to bother you, but-."

  She drops the knitting needles onto the table and flashes me a smile so motherly it actually catches me off guard. She pulls her glasses off, letting them dangle from a golden chain around her neck.

  "Oh, such manners!" she chirps, her voice bubbling with delight. "It is so wonderful to see a handsome young man like you being so polite."

  I stare at her, one eyebrow migrating toward my hairline. What?

  "These days, the females just throw themselves at males, showering them with attention and gifts," she explains, grunting as she stands up, her joints popping like bubble wrap. "That’s why most of the pretty ones are rotten on the inside."

  It sounds like a bizarre, gender-swapped redpill rant.

  "And then comes this handsome, polite boy into my shop to brighten my day," she says, beaming. With speed that absolutely defies her age, she lifts the countertop and trots over to me. "Now tell me, young man, what do you need?"

  Up close, I realize Mercedes Toretto is a unit. Even hunched over, she’s gotta be over two meters (6.5 feet). She’s got a robust, powerful build that suggests she could probably snap a telephone pole if she felt like it.

  I stay silent for a few seconds, sizing her up. She interprets my silence as fear. Her eyes soften, and she reaches out a hand as if she’s trying to calm a skittish horse.

  "Oh, my boy, don't be afraid," she coos. "Nonna Toretto won't hurt you."

  I frown, feeling genuinely offended. Afraid? Me? I've stared down a basilisk without blinking, made high-ranking demons weep over a poker hand, and convinced a succubus to take up knitting instead of soul-stealing! My greatest feat? I taught a whole tribe of illiterate goblins to read poetry!

  I open my mouth to defend my honor, but she’s already vanished into a back room. She reappears a second later carrying a tray of fresh-baked cookies. The smell is incredible. She sets them on the counter and gives me an encouraging nod.

  "Go on, take one," she says, already biting into one herself. "I just made them. They’re delicious."

  Damn it, I think, my resolve crumbling. I can’t stay mad at a grandma giving out free cookies.

  I take a bite, and my eyes nearly pop out of my head. It’s an explosion of peanut butter and chocolate. Being from Brazil, I didn't grow up on these, and the novelty is hitting me hard.

  "Wow... this is really good," I mumble through a mouthful of crumbs.

  Mercedes beams, looking like she just won the lottery. "I'm glad you like them, my boy. Go on, have as many as you want."

  I grab another one, savoring the crunch. "These are amazing, Mrs. Toretto. You used cinnamon and Mondo salt in these, didn't you?"

  The canine lady freezes, her jaw dropping. "What a sharp palate, my boy!" she exclaims. "Do you cook?"

  I give a modest nod. Mercedes watches me with shining eyes, looking like she’s about to legally adopt me on the spot.

  "How wonderful," she says softly. "Polite, handsome, and you can cook? Your wife must be a very lucky woman."

  I swallow the cookie, feeling a slight twinge of awkwardness. "Actually, Mrs. Toretto, I'm single."

  Her eyes widen, and then a slow, mischievous glint enters her gaze. "Single, are you?" she purrs, her voice suddenly heavy with intent.

  I’m too busy reaching for a third cookie to notice the red flags. "So, my boy, what brings you to my humble shop?"

  "Actually, Mrs. Toretto, I came here to sell some gold, but I think I’ve got the wrong address."

  The atmosphere in the room does a complete 180. Mercedes’s eyes narrow into slits, and her mouth pulls into a hard, thin line. The sweet grandma act evaporates, replaced by an aura of cold authority and raw danger. She doesn't look like Nonna anymore, she looks like a high-ranking executioner.

  "Gold, is it?" she says, her voice like ice. "And who told you a knitting shop buys gold?"

  The transformation is impressive, but it doesn't rattle me. If anything, I’m intrigued. I keep my eyes locked on hers, perfectly calm. I pick up another cookie and take a slow, deliberate bite.

  "Madame Hún sent me," I say, chewing casually.

  The tension breaks into a new kind of surprise. Mercedes blinks, her head tilting. "Are you... the Dragon Warrior?"

  I immediately start hacking, my mouth full of cookie crumbs. My eyes water as I struggle to breathe. Mrs. Toretto just watches me, an eyebrow raised, waiting for me to stop dying.

  "Sorry," I rasp, my voice hoarse. "I forgot I had that title now."

  I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, regaining my composure. She analyzes me like I’m a specimen under a microscope.

  "So, you are the Dragon Warrior," she says, her voice thick with curiosity. "The most powerful male in the world?"

  I give her a firm nod. She stares into my soul for a few more beats, then, just as fast as she turned cold, she melts back into a smile.

  "Well, my boy, you are full of surprises," she says sweetly. "How much gold do you have to sell?"

  I look her in the eye and give her a lopsided grin. "How much can you buy?"

  [Point of View: Shanika Jackson]

  My custom bulletproof vest scratches against my skin as I approach the perimeter.

  As if paying extra for this custom-fit rig wasn't enough, it's still crushing my bust, I think, fuming in silence. I don't hate being an Orca Anthro, but sometimes the physics of this body are just a massive inconvenience.

  The morning sun glints off the bank’s windows, creating a glare so intense it nearly dazes me. Beside me, my Lieutenant, a fox Anthro with eyes like needles, monitors the building through binoculars.

  "What's the situation inside?" I demand, crossing my arms over my straining chest.

  The Lieutenant lowers the glass, a weary sigh escaping her lips. "Seven suspects, all armed. They hit the vault thinking it’d be a walk in the park, but we locked the place down before they could blink. Now they’ve got twenty hostages. Five of them are males and children."

  "Shit!" I hiss. My mind immediately jumps to the media circus. If a single hostage gets a scratch, especially the males, my head will be on a silver platter. "Any demands?"

  "The usual," the fox replies. "Cash, wheels, and a clean exit. But the leader is a live wire. She’s already clocked a hostage once, so we had to pull back."

  "Jumpy bitches are the worst kind of headache," I mutter, calculating my next move. "Are the snipers set?"

  The Lieutenant hands me the binoculars. I adjust the focus and peer into the chaos of the lobby. Hostages are huddled together, their faces masks of pure terror. I see two gunmen pacing like caged tigers, looking for a way out. Four more are guarding the crowd.

  Then I see the last one. She’s kneeling, wearing a sickening smile as she offers a steaming drink to a young, dark-skinned human male.

  "What the hell is she-."

  "Three snipers in position," the fox cuts in, her voice a tense whisper. "But only one has a clean shot on a suspect, and it’s not one of the ones near the hostages."

  "Fucking hell, Lieutenant!" I growl.

  "I’m afraid I have one more piece of bad news. The mayor’s office called just before you arrived."

  "Let me guess," I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "She’s sending 'reinforcements'? Maybe a helicopter for the photo op?" I let out a bitter, jagged laugh.

  I grip the binoculars so hard the casing groans. Beside me, the Lieutenant shifts her weight, looking deeply uncomfortable.

  "The mayor wants to negotiate personally," she finally blurts out.

  "Negotiate?" I repeat, the disbelief coloring every syllable. "Does that woman think this is a TV drama? We have lives on the line! We can't let her play her disgusting political games with these people!"

  "Orders are orders, Captain," the Lieutenant says, her ears pinning back. "The mayor made it clear: if you don't follow instructions, you’ll be held personally accountable. She said it would... significantly affect your chances of receiving a state-assigned husband."

  My eyes widen, an abyssal fury boiling in my gut. The sheer audacity of it, using innocent lives and the promise of a family as pawns. It fills me with a rage that threatens to shatter my self-control.

  "If I'm going to be held accountable..." I growl, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth. "Then I’ll lead the raid myself."

  The Lieutenant pales, trying to pull me back from the edge. "Captain, think about this! If something goes wrong, you’ll be blacklisted. You’ll never be allowed to marry. The mayor has the connections to make sure you die alone."

  But the fire inside me won't be put out. The idea of leaving defenseless males at the mercy of criminals just for the promise of a husband is a trade I won't make. Not in this lifetime.

  "As long as I’m in command, no civilian is going to be used for propaganda."

  The Lieutenant looks at me, her sharp eyes reflecting a mix of fear and hard-earned respect. "Captain, I hear you, but-."

  "But nothing!" I bark. "I want five volunteers. We’re storming the bank."

  "Anyone in particular?" the fox asks.

  "Volunteers only," I declare, staring down the building.

  Beside me, she shifts again. I know what they’re thinking, I tell myself. Everyone wants a husband. The idea of being alone is a special kind of hell in this world.

  A memory flashes in my mind. A face I haven't seen in years.

  "Dad..." I whisper, the word heavy with melancholy.

  I remember how my mother used him, how she treated him like a flesh-and-blood toy. He tried to stay strong for me and my sisters, despite the hollow life he was forced into. But when I got into the academy, he finally broke. He chose the only escape he had left. At the funeral, the monster I called a mother didn't even shed a tear. She just complained that he hadn't been "useful" in bed for months anyway.

  "Haaaa..." I let out a long, furious breath. "Not today. Today will be different. No male is going to be used as a tool, not while I’m still breathing."