[Point of view: Marcus Carvalho]

  "Today is really not my day," I mutter, slumping against a cold marble pillar.

  I woke up alone, Edith’s scent still lingering on the pillow like a bittersweet ghost. I was exhausted, but the insistent chime of the doorbell acted like a shot of adrenaline to my brain.

  I’d shuffled toward the living room, guided by the sharp staccato of voices echoing down the hallway. From the shadows, I saw Edith locked in a heated standoff with another Anthro, a tigress. It was Yami Kage. They were throwing around words like marriage, union, and future... specifically my future. Edith looked like she was about to breathe fire.

  Not being in the mood to mediate a domestic dispute between a ninja and a rabbit before my first cup of coffee, I did the only sensible thing.

  I bailed.

  It’s not that I’m a coward, but I’m not about to get caught in the crossfire of two women debating my marital status at the crack of dawn. Besides, the mere mention of the word marriage made my chest tighten with a familiar, dull ache.

  "Eira," I whisper, sliding down the pillar to sit on the floor.

  The name echoes in my mind, bringing a tidal wave of memories crashing over me. Eira was my first wife, the woman I miss most from my life as an adventurer. Her smile, her scent, the exact pitch of her voice... it all hits me at once, like a physical punch to the solar plexus.

  I’d slipped out the back door, determined to clear my head, sell my gold, and explore Santa Francisca. Yes, that’s the name of this place. It’s this world’s version of San Francisco, just the feminine Spanish version.

  "Lazy world-building," I grumble to absolutely no one.

  After offloading the gold to Nonna Toretto, I had the "brilliant" idea to withdraw some cash. Even though my accounts are secure, I don't want the Chinese mafia tracking my every transaction. With cash, the old tigress only knows I made a withdrawal, not that I spent it on, say, an obscene amount of street food.

  Genius, right? A simple plan. Zero chance of failure.

  That is, until I walked into the bank just as a gang of Brazilian capybara Anthros decided to rob the place. Honestly, I was so stunned to see "aggressive capybaras", the chillest animals in existence, brandishing submachine guns that I didn't even react.

  And that’s how the most powerful man in the world ended up as a hostage.

  [Image CapibaraGang]

  Getting out of this situation with my powers would be as easy as breathing, but I have to admit, I’m actually entertained by the spectacle. Plus, this gang of capybaras is giving me a serious case of homesickness.

  "Seu cafézinho," one of the capybara Anthros murmurs, kneeling down to hand me a steaming cup.

  "Obrigado, mo?a bonita," I reply in Portuguese, giving a charming nod to the criminal holding me at gunpoint.

  The capybara lets out a shy, high-pitched giggle and scurries back to her post, leaving me to sip my coffee in peace. The warmth of the mug seeps into my palms, and the bold, bitter aroma fills my lungs. It’s a small, weirdly normal comfort in the middle of a bank heist.

  "Finally, a decent coffee," I mutter to myself. "I never realized the quality of average Brazilian coffee until I was forced to drink that sewage-flavored fast-food swill they sell on the street."

  Just as I’m about to take another satisfying sip, a shadow looms over me. Before I can even blink, a heavy slap strikes my hand, sending the cup flying. It hits the floor with a dull thud, and the precious black liquid soaks into the carpet.

  "What the hell is this?" the gang leader barks. "You think this is a fucking tea party?"

  "What a waste," I whisper under my breath, staring mournfully at the brown stain.

  Irritated, I look up at the leader. She’s a particularly stout capybara in a red shirt with a white star emblazoned on the chest, sporting a pair of yellow-lensed glasses that hide her eyes. She looks like she’s trying way too hard to be a revolutionary.

  "Hey, Che Guevara," I say, my voice dropping an octave. "That was a perfectly good cup of coffee. You really want to make this personal?"

  [Image]

  "You better watch yourself, pretty boy. I’m Carlinha Matadora... porra!" The capybara growls, her voice thick with forced authority as she tries to mask a flickering hesitation. "I won’t tolerate disrespect from any male, got it?"

  "Carlinha?" I repeat, my voice cracking as I fight back a full-blown laugh. "Seriously? That's the name you went with?"

  She glares at me, her eyes narrowing behind those yellow lenses, but I catch that glimmer of insecurity. It’s the look of someone who’s had people laugh at her name since the third grade and still hasn't figured out a comeback.

  "Got a problem, pretty boy?" She crosses her arms, trying to look like a hardened kingpin.

  "None," I shrug, leaning back in my chair like I’m at a lounge instead of a crime scene. "Just thought it was funny... Carlinha Matadora sounds like a low-rent drug dealer from Rio circa 1994."

  She huffs, but I don't miss the blush creeping up her furry neck.

  "You’re a real comedian, huh? Let’s see if you’re still cracking jokes when I have my girls kick your teeth in."

  I decide to "de-escalate" by lowering my head, mostly just to hide the fact that I’m still grinning.

  "Sorry, Carlinha. Didn’t mean to offend," I say, my voice dripping with the kind of false humility that would make a saint gag. "Just nervous, you know? It’s not every day I’m taken hostage by a bunch of... well, capybaras."

  Carlinha stares at me, trying to decide if I'm being sincere or just a massive prick. Finally, her face softens, just a bit.

  "Alright, alright. I’ll let it slide this time," she says, wagging a thick, blunt finger in my face. "But stay sharp, moleque. No more jokes."

  As she struts away to maintain her "authority," I lean back against the wall, making myself comfortable.

  "Are you insane?" whispers a sheep Anthro sitting next to me. She’s wearing glasses so thick they look like the bottom of soda bottles. "Are you trying to get us all killed?"

  I just shrug, acting like the gun-toting rodents are a minor inconvenience.

  "Dude, for the love of the Goddess!" the sheep pleads, her voice trembling. "Don’t piss her off!"

  "Me?" I ask in an exaggerated, offended tone. "Pissing her off?"

  I let out a loud laugh, the gears in my head already turning. I've got the perfect plan to mess with this "Matadora" and her little revolution.

  "I would never dream of doing something like that," I add, flashing a wide, wicked smile at the sheep, who responds by whimpering softly and trying to disappear into the carpet.

  [Point of view: Carlinha Matadora]

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  I walk firmly, the wooden floorboards groaning under my weight. Anger pulses in my veins, that bitter taste of disrespect eating me alive from the inside out.

  Who does that moleque think he is? Laughing in my face like I’m some kind of joke, I growl to myself. Even this pack of useless bitches I call a gang knows better than to test me.

  In the corner of the lobby, I spot two of my girls leaning against the wall, whispering like they’re at a Sunday brunch.

  “Hey! You two! Do you want to rot in a cage or get a bullet in the head?” I roar at them.

  They both scramble, shrinking away. They know the look in my eyes.

  “Then stop the gossiping and do something useful, porra!”

  I storm across the bank lobby. The hostages huddle together, flinching as I pass. I reach the front window, the glass already spider-webbed and shattered from our entrance. The morning air blows in, cold and crisp, but it does nothing to extinguish the fire in my gut. Outside, I can see them, the police, huddled behind their shields and cruisers like a bunch of terrified cunts.

  “Hey! You out there!” I scream through the gap, my voice echoing off the buildings. “Where’s my van? Where’s my money? You think I’m playing games with you bitches?”

  Silence is my only answer, but I know they’re listening. That stuck-up Orca Captain is probably out there, looking down her nose at me. Well, let her look.

  “I won’t let this slide,” I mutter, scowling. I take a deep breath and give them an ultimatum. “If that van isn't here in ten minutes, I start dropping hostages!”

  “How about some pizza too?” a voice whispers right in my ear. “I’m starving.”

  “And a pizza-!” I cut myself off, my brain short-circuiting. “Who the fuck is asking for pizza?!”

  I spin around and find that male, the pretty-boy, smiling at me. His hands are still tied, but for some reason, the idiot has decided to stand up and follow me like a lost puppy.

  “What the fuck do you want?” I bark, fuming.

  “A pepperoni pizza and a large Coke,” he says, his smile widening.

  “Are you crazy, you bitch-ass moleque? I’ll blow your brains out right now!” I roar. The vein in my forehead is practically throbbing as I jam the barrel of my revolver against his forehead. “You can order your pizza in hell!”

  The bastard doesn't even flinch. He just keeps smiling, as if a loaded gun to the skull is a minor social awkwardness. My finger itches on the trigger, but before I can pull it, one of my girls comes sprinting up, gasping for air.

  “Carlinha... I don’t know how,” she pants, doubled over. “But a hostage is missing!”

  “Is it this one?!” I scream, gestureing wildly at the man in front of me.

  The girl looks up, blinks, and sees the very man she was looking for standing right next to me, waving his tied hands at her like they’re childhood friends.

  I’ve had enough of this nonsense. I raise the revolver again, pressing the cold steel hard against his skin. He doesn't even blink.

  “You think this is funny? Let’s see if you laugh through a hole in your head!”

  I’m red-faced, screaming at the top of my lungs. The hostages hold their breath, the silence in the bank is deafening. And that annoying, arrogant smile is still there.

  “Go to hell, you piece of shit!”

  I close my eyes and pull the trigger.

  BANG!

  The ringing echo fills my ears, and my hand feels strangely light. I open my eyes, expecting to see a heap of meat and a carpet stained with brains. But what I see is a nightmare.

  “Que porra é essa?” I whisper, horrified.

  The male is still standing. He’s still smiling. And he has caught the barrel of my gun... with his teeth.

  “How?” I murmur, my knees going weak.

  In response, the man licks the metal. A metallic click echoes out as the magazine ejects from the gun and clatters to the floor.

  CLICK!

  That smile. That damn, arrogant smile. He shouldn’t be alive. He should be a corpse. But there he is, defying the laws of God and man.

  “You... you’re a demon,” I stammer. It’s the only explanation.

  The male laughs, throwing his head back as if he’s savoring the sheer terror on my face. With a flick of his neck, he spits the gun aside. It hits the floor with a heavy thud.

  “You’re not normal,” I say, my voice trembling despite my best efforts. “Males aren't like this. You’re the devil.”

  He takes a step forward. I feel the girl beside me recoil, but I hold my ground, even as my heart hammers against my ribs.

  “What if I am, ratinha?” he asks. His voice is low, dripping with a terrifying, playful sadism. “What are you going to do about it?”

  The question hangs there, heavy as lead. I’m covered in cold sweat. What can I do against a monster? I open my mouth to speak, but the words die in my throat. He takes another step, licking his lips.

  Just as I feel completely defenseless, the wall beside us erupts.

  BOOM!

  “GO! GO! GO!” a thunderous female voice bellows through the smoke. “Two targets spotted! Neutralize them!”

  The blast knocks me flat. The air is punched out of my lungs, and before I can even see through the dust, a crushing weight slams into my back.

  “Stay still, you rat!” an authoritative voice barks.

  Firm hands grab my arms, twisting them behind my back until I wince. I feel the cold, biting snap of handcuffs on my wrists. The pain is sharp, but as I lay there with my face pressed against the floor, I feel something I never expected.

  Relief.

  “Got this one, Captain!” the officer on top of me shouts.

  “Thank God,” I mumble into the carpet.

  Beside me, I see my lackey, also cuffed and looking like she’s seen a ghost. The wolf officer hauls me to my feet, rattling off my rights, but I don’t even listen. I’m alive. I’m safe from that... thing.

  “And the other one?” a giant voice asks.

  I look up. The Captain, an imposing Orca standing over two and a half meters tall, approaches us. Her gaze is severe, but she stops dead when she sees the "other target" standing there with his hands tied, looking completely bored.

  [Image]

  "You’re Carlinha Matadora, aren’t you?" she asks, her voice dropping into a low, resonant rumble that vibrates in the air.

  "I am," I reply. My voice is steady, finally stripped of the fake bravado I'd been using all morning.

  The giant orca nods, her dark, severe gaze pinned on me like a specimen. "You know what’s going to happen now, don’t you?"

  "I do," I answer softly.

  Prison. Trial. A life behind bars. It’s exactly what I deserved for trying to play the big-shot revolutionary. But as I look back over my shoulder one last time at the dark-skinned human standing casually amidst the smoke and rubble, I realize that a jail cell is a paradise compared to whatever world that man belongs to.

  The Captain stands tall, her massive frame casting a shadow that swallows me whole. "Take them away," she orders, her voice firm and final.

  I feel firm hands hauling me up, guiding me toward the exit. As we cross the threshold, the crisp, cold air of Santa Francisca hits my face. I take a deep, jagged breath, and for the first time since I walked into that bank, I feel a sense of absolute peace.

  "I’m safe now," I murmur to myself, watching the flashing blue and red lights reflect off the shattered windows. "And honestly... that’s all that matters."

  [Point of view: Shanika Jackson]

  In the interrogation room, I stand with my arms crossed, staring through the one-way mirror.

  On the other side is Marcus Carvalho. At first glance, there’s nothing unusual about this young human, dark skin, green eyes, short brown hair, and a fit build. He’s handsome, sure, but there’s a presence about him that makes me feel... small. Intimidated. It's a feeling I’m not used to.

  Beside me stands Okune, an elephant Anthro and our forensic psychiatrist. Her trunk is curled, her large ears twitching as she scribbles in a notebook.

  "Interesting," she murmurs, her trunk swaying slightly.

  "What?" I keep my eyes fixed on Marcus.

  "He shows no signs of stress. On the contrary, he seems relaxed. I’d even go so far as to say he looks bored."

  "Bored," I repeat flatly. "He was a hostage in a bank robbery. How could he be bored? Do you think he’s a threat?"

  Okune hesitates, looking from her notes to the man behind the glass. She puts the pen down. "Captain, my professional opinion is that he isn't showing violent tendencies. Nothing that would classify him as 'dangerous' in a traditional sense."

  "Are you sure?" I insist.

  "I think it’s the opposite," Okune continues, her trunk swaying. "The other hostages said he was... entertained. He told jokes. He even flirted with one of the capybaras after she brought him coffee."

  Flirted? With a bank robber? I roll my eyes, but Okune’s expression remains grave.

  "Now... off the record, Captain," she adds, her voice dropping. "Based on twenty years of experience and my own instincts... I don't think he's cruel. But I’d bet my life that he can be very dangerous, if he wants to be."

  "You just said he wasn't," I remind her, raising an eyebrow.

  "By the book, he isn't. But my gut says there’s an intensity in him. It’s not senseless violence, it’s potential. Like a loaded weapon without a finger on the trigger."

  I look back at Marcus. He’s leaning back, eyes closed, practically dozing off. Nothing about him screams "killer," but Okune’s words echo in my mind. Suddenly, he opens his eyes and looks directly at the mirror, as if he knows exactly where I’m standing. A faint, knowing smile plays on his lips before he closes his eyes again.

  "I see," I mutter.

  "Be careful, Captain," Okune warns before leaving. "He is not what he seems."

  I take a deep breath, steeling myself. It's time to do this personally.

  I enter the room, the heavy door closing with a metallic click. The space is gray, cold, and claustrophobic, designed to break a suspect’s resolve. But Marcus doesn't look broken. He stares at me with wide eyes and points a finger like a kid at a zoo.

  "A killer whale," he says, recognizing my species instantly.

  I sigh in frustration and pull out the metal chair. The screech of it dragging against the floor is deafening. I sit, and the chair groans under my 2.15 meters (7'1") and 200 kg (440 lbs) of pure muscle.

  "Calm down, Mr. Carvalho," I say, trying to use my "gentle" voice. "I’m not here to hurt you. I just have some questions."

  But he doesn't pull back. He doesn't flinch. Instead, he leans forward, his eyes gleaming with genuine curiosity.

  "What’s your top swimming speed?"

  I freeze, blinking in total confusion. "Say what now?"

  "Your top speed," he repeats. "How many miles per hour can you do in the water?"

  "I... I don't know. I've never measured it."

  "And how long can you stay underwater?"

  "A few hours, if I really have to."

  "Whoa," he smiles, looking like he just discovered a superhero. "And do you have sonar? Like dolphins?"

  "Yes," I answer, completely off-balance. "But it only works effectively in the water."

  "And would you win in a fight against a great white shark?"

  "I’d wreck those saltwater-bloated bitches easily," I snap, my pride getting the better of me.

  He whistles, clearly impressed. "You’re so cool, Captain."

  I feel a sudden, betraying heat rising up my neck. I’m a high-ranking officer in the police force, I’m not used to compliments, especially not from a human who should be terrified of me.

  "Thank you, Mr. Carvalho," I cough, looking away. "But I am here to ask the questions, not answer them."

  He shrugs, that easy smile never leaving his face. "Alright, Captain. Ask away."