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The furious crowd roared with curses, hurling garbage and stones at the gallows. The red fox hanging from the rope had stopped moving minutes ago, but that hadn't soothed their rage. As another wave of jeers erupted, I noticed a semi-liquid filth trickling down the fox's thigh, eventually dripping from his toes and mixing with the muddy water below.

A few taps on my shoulder—Santiago was telling me our table was ready.

Juan had insisted on buying me lunch as an apology for getting my clothes dirty. So I found myself in this restaurant, waiting for my laundry to be done while enjoying the hospitality of the maned wolves.

I clenched the brooch in my palm so tightly that the raised edges nearly pierced my skin.

“Don't you think this is all a bit barbaric?" I asked as I followed Santiago to our table and sat down.

“Hanging isn't exactly pretty, nor clean," Juan replied with a dismissive gesture, “but it's still better than ending up in the paws of the golden retrievers." He made a few gestures to ward off evil, and the other maned wolves around the table nodded in agreement. “Speaking of devils…" His expression twisted into a scowl.

I turned to follow his gaze and saw a group of golden retrievers walking into the restaurant.

The one in front didn't look pleased about the lack of a private booth to accommodate them all and was bickering with the African wild dog at the reception. Then the golden retriever seemed to catch a scent—he raised his nose, sniffed, and turned his head toward us. With an exaggerated grin, he brushed past the waiter and strode in our direction.

“Colonel Juan, amigo!" the golden retriever called out, arms wide as if ready to embrace someone. “What a surprise to see you here!"

“I'm just as surprised to see you this far south, Smith," Juan replied, drawing out every syllable with his canines bared.

“Such a twist of fate, isn't it?" Smith clutched his chest with one paw, tapping his chin with the other in mock contemplation. “Almost as if some invisible force brought us together at this very moment. Oh wait—it did." He pulled out a terminal, tapped it a few times, and tossed it onto the table in front of Juan. The rest of the maned wolves immediately stood, causing the silverware to clatter loudly.

Smith didn't seem the least bit fazed by the sudden tension. Still grinning, he waved a paw casually to signal his men to stand down.

“Sit down, boys." Juan read the message on the terminal, then slid it back across the table. “HQ wants us to hand over all the foxes to Golden House and assist with the escort."

A heavy silence fell over the maned wolves. They froze for a moment but, impressively disciplined, they all sat down without a word.

“Ah, Juan, you're the best!" Smith beamed, glancing around the table. “Looks like we're a bit short on seats. Think Maned Wolf House could make some room for us?"

That pushed it too far—even a few maned wolves growled low in their throats.

“Now, now, just two seats. For me and my deputy, Michael," Smith gestured toward the golden retriever standing behind him. “Think of it as… ice-breaking between future travel companions. We'll be stuck with each other for a while, after all!"

I glanced at Michael. Unlike Smith, he wore no smile—aside from the species' signature eerie smirk, his face was a blank slate. But his posture drew my gaze downward, to the rapier hanging at his hip—just as I'd suspected.

Juan sighed heavily, then nodded in reluctant agreement.

Smith immediately plopped down next to me, shoving aside a maned wolf, who responded with a disgruntled snarl.

“Speaking of foxes…" Smith threw an arm around my shoulder, his snout leaning in far too close. My fur bristled involuntarily. “Who's this little cutie?"

“Fire fox, Viera House," Michael answered coolly before I could. I hadn't even noticed him sit down beside Smith. “He's wearing a crest pin."

“Oho, an ally, huh?" Smith's glance at me, paired with the emphasis in his voice laced with something sickening, made me instinctively shove the brooch into my pocket. “Who would've thought? The herbivores just up and abandoned this mess, left their minions* to clean it up."

“Yeah, who would've guessed?" I replied flatly, not giving him anything more.

After a while, he seemed to lose interest in my indifference and turned to Michael to discuss the menu—loudly.

“Did HQ say why?" Juan muttered, tapping at his terminal with furrowed brows. “Why they suddenly want convergence now? And why send you so far from home? This goes against every prior directive."

“Aw, someone's feeling territorial," Smith cackled, throwing an arm around Michael and leaning his chin on his shoulder. He grinned at the increasingly agitated maned wolves. “Michael, be a sweetheart and explain things to our hosts, would you?"

I knew golden retrievers were odd, but Smith was… something else.

Juan remained silent, fingers interlocked, eyes locked on Smith. The other maned wolves looked just as tense. Smith seemed to revel in it, his grin growing deeper, while Michael appeared utterly detached—like the scene around him didn't concern him in the slightest.

“The Senate is preparing to field-test the security system," Michael said, eyes lifting from his terminal to scan the table. “Phase one begins with the foxes. If things go well, both our Houses might win the contract."

“Security system?" I didn't want to talk to Smith, but “testing it on the foxes" caught my attention.

“This!" Smith grinned, then pulled out a metallic band from who-knows-where and snapped it around Michael' neck. Only when it clicked into place with a mechanical chime did I realize—

“A collar?" My voice shot up an octave. I glanced at the maned wolves for confirmation. Some averted their eyes. Juan's ears drooped slightly.

“Oh, come on." Smith waved dismissively. “The herbivores were gonna put collars on them anyway. This is just justice, baby. They're getting what they deserve."

“This is insane…" I gestured wildly, struggling to find words. “This—this is slavery, plain and simple!"

“The constitutional draft allows slavery as punishment for criminals," Smith said, winking at me before jabbing a finger at Juan.

“What?!" I nearly shouted, but I didn't care anymore. This was surreal.

“Always read the fine print before buying— though constitution was only drafted after the war, the principle still applies." Smith said with a shrug.

Juan just sat there, face dark, seemingly confirming what he said.

I looked back and forth between Juan and Smith, then at the other maned wolves and everyone else in the restaurant. The silence was deafening, too loud. I felt like I'd been dropped into the deep sea—no light, no air, only the pounding of blood in my ears.

“…And then there's this!"

A strange crackling sound snapped me back. Everyone was staring at Smith. It took me a moment to realize—Michael was convulsing.

“I have to say, the herbivores really thought things through." Smith tapped something on his terminal, and Michael collapsed onto the table with a loud thud.

If the mood before was bad, it had now crossed into incomprehensibly bad.

“Okay, okay, no need to be so dramatic." Smith lifted Michael' chin and removed the collar. “Just a little zap, like a mosquito bite."

Aside from his labored breathing, Michael straightened up, fixed his clothes, and resumed his perfectly calm posture like nothing had happened.

A million questions flooded my mind—but I didn't want the answers to any of them.

“So, Mr. Viera, how do you plan to get to the Senate? Travel's a mess these days," Juan asked, clearing his throat loudly, clearly trying to rescue the rest of us from the same bewilderment.

“They've arranged a flight," I said, taking out the brooch and glancing at it before returning it to my pocket. “Quite generous, actually. Gave me ten seats for my entourage. But it seems I won't need them."

“That tournament?" Smith turned toward me with a grin. “What is this, medieval Europe all over again?"

“It's just swords, nothing fancy," I replied, still hesitant to speak with him. But if it kept him from doing anything weirder, I'd endure some small talk.

“So why a global sword tournament?" asked a maned wolf sitting beside Santiago, confusion on his face mirrored by the others. “Some kind of unity-through-sport event?"

“I didn't really think it through…" I murmured, resting my paw on the hilt of my sword. “The opportunity just came up, and I took it."

“I think I've heard about this before… it's that, uh…" Smith tilted his head, as if struggling to recall something long forgotten. “Michael, you mentioned once why you started training with a sword. I forgot again."

“Because a sword is a noble weapon. It doesn't need to be reloaded, and it looks cool," Michael replied flatly, his expression unchanging.

Smith burst out laughing, slapping Michael hard on the back. “You're hilarious! But seriously, what's the real reason?"

“Psychics," Michael answered again, eyes fixed straight ahead, making no unnecessary movements. “The Senate is recruiting individuals with potential to counter psychics. And swords are basically the only effective weapon against them."

I glanced around the table and was relieved to see that most people, like me, seemed completely unfamiliar with the term.

“I've seen a few reports," Juan said, scratching his ear as he tilted his head slightly toward Michael. “Sketchy stuff, but they all mention the same name—'psychics.' Most of them talk about squad members suddenly going berserk and attacking their teammates, even without any prior signs. No memory of it afterward, either." He tilted his head the other way and rubbed his temples. “But I honestly can't remember under what circumstances I read those reports…"

“That definitely sounds like a psychic's doing. Herbivore psychics are particularly good at that kind of thing," Michael said, as if it were common knowledge.

“Why are swords the only thing that works on them? What's wrong with bullets?" one of the maned wolves asked, voicing the obvious question.

“Bullets usually don't hurt psychics. Only swords stand a chance," Michael explained in the same emotionless tone, clearly not planning to elaborate further.

“So the Senate is trying to recruit sword-wielding guards to protect themselves from federal agents?" the same maned wolf asked, clearly determined to piece the puzzle together.

“I can only speculate based on the information we have," Michael replied, tilting his head slightly. “We'll have to wait and see what the Senate officially says. But I doubt wolves would accept bodyguards from other species. This is probably just a temporary solution until the number of Snows returns to normal."

“Snows? You mean those white reapers? Every time I see them fight, I'm just glad we're on the same side," Juan said, shaking his head gently. “It's hard to imagine what the situation would be like without their victory in Antarctica."

“I think it's easy to imagine," Smith cut in, planting both elbows on the table. “We'd all be wearing collars."

The golden retriever's comment brought on another wave of awkward silence. Fortunately, the food began arriving just then, and everyone's attention shifted to the plates in front of them, allowing the conversation to move on to a new topic.

I picked at my shepherd's pie, trying my best to focus on the conversation between the maned wolf and the golden retriever as they discussed the current situation in the Americas. But my thoughts kept drifting, unable to escape the image of that large cage from earlier—filled with foxes.

After the maned wolves finished their roughhousing and left the restroom, I finally had enough personal space to relieve my aching bladder.

Once I was done freshening up, I let the paw dryer blow through my fur while glancing at my reflection in the mirror. My once fiery, crimson-red coat—now stained by the grime and dust accumulated over the journey—looked more like a muddy brown. No wonder no one recognized my bloodline.

As I worked at a few tufts of fur matted with dried mud, I noticed Michael walk in and head straight for the urinal. He didn't so much as glance my way, not even when he came up beside me to wash his paws.

“Why do you let him treat you like that?" I finally broke the awkward silence, blurting out the question that had been bothering me all this time.

“What would you be willing to give up for something you truly want?" he asked slowly, finally turning to meet my gaze. Up close, his brown eyes had a surprising intensity to them.

“No matter how badly you want something, there has to be a line you don't cross, right?" I tried not to sound like I knew exactly what he was “giving up," but it was hard not to wonder—was it money? Power? Status? What could be so desirable that you'd endure that guy?

“Oh, is that so… little fire fox from the Viera House?" Michael took a step toward me, lowering his head to look down on me. "What is it that you want, then?"

I noticed his eyes fix on my sword, and my paw instinctively tightened around the hilt.

Does he know? No, that's impossible. There's no way he could know. Stay calm. Don't panic!

“You probably don't realize it, but golden retrievers are all basically insane—unlucky Labradors included." Michael' voice was low and gravelly, almost a growl. He stepped even closer. “Smith is right around average."

“But you seem normal," I said.

I'd always assumed those outrageous rumors about pedigrees were just long-standing grievances that had morphed into malicious gossip. I never paid much attention—not even to comments like Juan's earlier. This was the first time I'd heard something directly from someone involved.

“Have you ever gone mad?" Michael' tone was calm and low, and he didn't move to press further—but I felt the threat radiating from him all the same. “If not, how would you even know whether I'm sane or not?"

Fair point. I'd never considered that before.

But instead of questioning my own sanity, I started to realize that maybe Michael wasn't the person I had thought he was. Those steady, composed brown eyes now seemed like the mouth of a bottomless abyss. And who knew what might be lurking inside.

Just then, I noticed one of Michael's ear twitches, subtly angling backward. But with his floppy retriever ears, it was hard to tell if he was really reacting.

Michael suddenly grabbed my right arm, snapping me out of my thoughts.

“Appreciate what you have. Wild type like you don't realize how lucky you are." He gripped so hard that I staggered slightly from the force. “Let's talk about 'line' again when the day comes that you've lost everything."

“Hey, Michael," Smith said, suddenly appearing and grabbing Michael by the collar, slamming him against the wall. “Aren't you being a bit naughty, picking on the fox like that?" he whispered, gently patting Michael on the chest. “Mind letting me in on what you two were talking about?"

“I was just explaining the curse that runs through our blood," Michael said, still with that emotionless tone, even as Smith leaned in so close that they could feel each other's breath. “Colonel," he added, finally lowering his gaze.

“Oh, that," Smith chuckled, glancing at me briefly before slamming Michael even harder against the wall. The loud thud made my ears shoot upright. “Can I join? I've got some personal experience with it too."

Michael was taller and broader—if he didn't allow it, could Smith really get away with this? Or was there a more complicated power dynamic at play here?

Do I even want to know the answer to that?

“I believe the Colonel is making Mr. Viera uncomfortable," Michael said. I was pretty sure I hadn't misheard—he had used a submissive tone and even slightly shrunk his posture.

“How rude of me—my apologies!" Smith didn't look at me, but gave a casual wave with his free paw, gesturing for me to go ahead.

I didn't need to be told twice. I immediately exited the restroom via the shortest possible route, keeping my gaze firmly forward to avoid disturbing whatever that was between them.

I walked past two golden retrievers clearly stationed as lookouts by the door and returned to our table as if nothing had happened. It wasn't until I saw the maned wolves enjoying their dessert that I noticed the fur on my arm was standing on end. As I smoothed it down, I hoped to wipe away the lingering discomfort clinging to my coat, while reflecting on what Michael had said to me about line.