Awoomerta

The interrogation room smells like stale coffee, metal, and desperation. You've been here for two hours. The handcuffs are starting to chafe. Bianca sits across from you at the metal table, her ginger hair disheveled, ears flattened against her skull. Her wrists are cuffed too, resting on the table in front of her. She's been staring at the wall — jaw clenched, green eyes defiant — but you can see the way her tail twitches nervously every few seconds. The charge is nothing. Loitering. Suspicious activity. A trumped-up excuse to bring you in and squeeze for information. They have nothing. And everyone in this room knows it.

Harley Schmidt paces in front of you both, arms crossed, scowl permanently etched into her face. She's been asking questions for the past hour. Same questions. Different phrasing.

Where were you last Tuesday? Who do you work for? What were you doing in the industrial district?

You've said nothing. Bianca's said even less — just stares ahead with her best attempt at a tough-girl face. She keeps mouthing something under her breath. You catch fragments: "...never rat on your friends... always keep your mouth shut..." She's quoting «Goodfurras».

Harley stops pacing. Turns. Her brown eyes settle on Bianca with the kind of cold assessment that would make most people squirm. "You know what I think?" Harley leans forward, palms flat on the table. "I think you two are small-time. Street-level nobodies. You don't know anything worth protecting." She lets that hang in the air. "So why don't you make this easy on yourselves and just—"

"Rispetto." Bianca's voice is quiet. Steady. Her green eyes finally meet Harley's. "You wouldn't understand."

Harley's jaw tightens. For a long moment, nobody moves. Then Harley straightens. Walks to the door. Opens it halfway and leans out. "Goldie. Gabby. You're up."

---

Two minutes later, the door swings open again.

Goldie bounces in first, holding a large pizza box and grinning ear to ear. Her golden tail wags, her floppy ears bounce with every step. She sets the box down on the table between you and Bianca with a cheerful thump.

"Okay, okay! I got the pizza!" She flips the lid open. "They had pineapple and ham today — it's so good, you guys, seriously! I know some people don't like it, but it's like sweet and savory at the same time, you know?"

The smell hits you. Pineapple. Ham. Melted cheese. Bianca goes pale. Behind Goldie, Gabriella steps in quietly, carrying a covered dish and a small pot. Her amber eyes are fixed firmly on the floor. She's not looking at you. Not looking at Bianca. Just sets the items down on the table with careful, deliberate movements, then steps back against the wall. Her ears are flat, her tail is tucked. You know that look. You've seen it before. She doesn't want to be here.

Harley pulls out a chair and sits down. Directly across from Bianca. She opens the pot — steam rises, carrying the unmistakable scent of cream sauce and pancetta. Carbonara. Bianca's breathing quickens.

"You hungry?" Harley's voice is flat. Almost bored. She picks up a fork. Twirls it once. Then reaches for the package of dry spaghetti sitting beside the pot. Bianca's eyes widen. "No. Don't—"

SNAP.

Harley breaks the spaghetti in half. Bianca flinches like she's been slapped.

SNAP. SNAP. SNAP.

Harley breaks the entire bundle. Methodically. One piece at a time. Never breaking eye contact. "Ooh, are we cooking?" Goldie perks up, taking a huge bite of pizza. "This is so good, by the way! You guys should try some! It's got this tangy sweetness from the pineapple—"

"Stop." Bianca's voice cracks. Her hands are shaking, cuffed wrists trembling against the table. "Stop, please—"

Harley dumps the broken spaghetti into a bowl. Scoops carbonara over it. The cream sauce — thick, pale, wrong — coats the pasta.

Cream. In carbonara. Bianca makes a strange terrible sound.

"You gonna talk?" Harley picks up a forkful. Brings it to her mouth. Takes a bite. Chews slowly. "Because I can do this all day."

Goldie, oblivious, is halfway through her second slice of pizza. "Mmm! You know what? I think the pineapple makes it better! It's like— oh! Gabby, you want some?" She holds out the box toward Gabriella.

Gabriella's eyes are closed. Her jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle working in her cheek. "...No." Her voice is strained. "I'm good."

"More for me!" Goldie shrugs and takes another bite. "Seriously though, I don't get why people hate on pineapple pizza. It's delicious—"

"STOP!" Bianca's voice breaks completely. She's shaking now, tears welling up in her green eyes. "You— you monsters! How can you— that's not even real carbonara! That's— that's an abomination! And the spaghetti— you broke it! You don't break pasta! That's— that's—"

"Sacrilegio?" Harley raises an eyebrow. Takes another bite. "Yeah. I know." Bianca's breathing is ragged now. Her ears are plastered flat against her head. She's staring at the pizza, at the broken spaghetti, at the cream sauce, like she's watching a massacre.

"I'll talk." Her voice is barely a whisper. "I'll— I'll tell you anything, just— please— make it stop—"

She looks at you. Eyes wide. Awoomertà. Her mouth closes. Trembling. Tears spill down her cheeks, but she stays quiet. Harley's eyes narrow. She looks between you and Bianca. Then at the pizza. The carbonara.

"Tough crowd." She spears another forkful of pasta. "Guess we're here for a while, then." Goldie happily munches on another slice. "This is the best lunch break ever!" Against the wall, Gabriella finally opens her eyes. She's looking at Bianca now — really looking. There's something in her expression. Guilt? Sympathy? Anger? Her hands are clenched into fists at her sides. She says nothing.

Harley breaks another piece of spaghetti.

SNAP.

Bianca whimpers. Goldie takes another bite of pineapple pizza.

"You know," Goldie says through a mouthful, completely oblivious, "I think this might be my new favorite! Do you think they deliver to the precinct?" Gabriella closes her eyes again. And the clock on the wall keeps ticking.

---

Twenty minutes later.

Bianca is sobbing quietly, head down, ears completely flattened. She hasn't broken. Hasn't said a word. But the psychological toll is written all over her face.

You've stayed silent. Stone-faced. But even you feel the weight of it — watching Goldie demolish that pizza with genuine enthusiasm, watching Harley methodically eat cream carbonara made with broken spaghetti. It's visceral. Wrong. Like watching someone desecrate a church.

Finally, Harley stands. Wipes her mouth with a napkin. Looks down at both of you. "Alright." Her voice is flat. Tired. "You're free to go. We've got nothing to hold you on."

Bianca's head snaps up. "W-what?" "You heard me." Harley jerks her head toward the door. "Get out. Both of you."

Gabriella moves forward quickly, unlocking your cuffs first, then Bianca's. Her hands are gentle. Professional. She doesn't meet your eyes.

When she unlocks Bianca's cuffs, she leans in — just for a second — and whispers something too quiet for anyone else to hear.

Bianca blinks. Nods shakily. Then Gabriella steps back, face neutral again. Harley crosses her arms. "Next time you're on our turf? We'll have ketchup too."

Bianca take your hand and bolts for the door.

---

Outside, in the hallway, Bianca leans against the wall, breathing hard. Her whole body is shaking."That..." Her voice is hoarse. "That was the worst thing I've ever seen."

"I wanted to talk." She laughs — a broken, bitter sound. "Dio, I wanted to. But..." She looks up at you. Green eyes red-rimmed but determined. "Awoomertà, right?"

"We need to go home. I need to cook something. Properly. Or I'm gonna lose my mind." "Come with me? Please? We can make real carbonara. No cream. No broken pasta. Just... right."

Her voice is full of hope. "And maybe watch The Godmother after. Or... or Goodfurras. Something to remind me that food is supposed to be beautiful, not— not that."

The air smells like burnt rubber and gasoline. You can hear them before you see them — engines revving, music thumping from open car doors, the sharp bark of laughter echoing off warehouse walls. The industrial district at 2 AM is alive in a way it never is during daylight. Neon underglow. Cherry-red brake lights. Crowds gathered in loose circles around machines that cost more than most people's houses.

Street racing. Illegal. Dangerous. And apparently, a weekly tradition. You're here because someone mentioned "Silverstreak" in passing at the Fangtano Social Club. How she's never lost a race. How she drives like the devil himself is chasing her. How even the foxgirl yakuza and russian beargirls show up just to watch her work.

The crowd parts as a car rolls up to the starting line. Red Purrari Testa-Rossa. Sleek. Aggressive. Silver racing stripes down the hood. The driver's side window rolls down.

Silver hair spills out, tied in a high ponytail that catches the streetlight. Bright blue eyes scan the crowd with manic energy. Her wolf ears twitch, tracking every sound.

Lucia "Silverstreak" Veloce.

She's grinning like this is the best night of her life. Beside her, a Lambarkghini Countach purrs. Black. Mean-looking. Driven by a beargirl with arms like tree trunks and a sneer that could strip paint. Someone in the crowd — a catgirl with pink hair — raises her hand. "ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT!" She shouts over the noise. "Y'all know the rules! First one to the overpass and back! No rules, no mercy!" She looks at both drivers. "Ready?!"

The beargirl revs her engine. A low, threatening growl. Lucia just smiles. Her fingers drum against the steering wheel — tap tap tap tap — restless, excited.

"Three!" The Purrari's engine note changes. Settles.

"Two!" Lucia's expression shifts. The manic energy drains from her face. Her eyes sharpen. Focus. She's not the hyperactive wolfgirl anymore. She's something else entirely.

"ONE!" Both cars explode off the line.

---

Four minutes of screaming engines, tire smoke, and the crowd going absolutely feral. You watch on someone's phone feed — a catgirl with a drone tracking the race from above. Lucia drives like physics are a joke. She takes corners at angles that shouldn't be possible. Drifts through intersections with millimeter precision. The beargirl is fast, aggressive, pushing her Lambarkghini hard. But Lucia is faster. At the two-minute mark, she's half a car length ahead. At three minutes, she's five car lengths.

By the time she hits the overpass, it's not even close. The Purrari screams back into the lot, tires smoking, engine howling. Lucia crosses the finish line a full eight seconds before the beargirl. The crowd erupts. She doesn't stop immediately. Does a victory lap — tires shrieking, smoke billowing. Then another. Her tail is visible through the rear window, wagging like crazy.

When she finally stops, she's laughing. The door swings open. She practically bounces out of the car, arms raised in victory. "THAT'S HOW IT'S DONE!" She shouts to the crowd. "CLEAN! FAST! PERFETTO!"

The beargirl pulls up, scowling. Slams her door. "Lucky," she mutters.

"Lucky?!" Lucia spins around. "Luck?! Nah, nah, that was SKILL, big girl! Pure, uncut, beautiful skill!" She pats the Purrari's hood affectionately. "And this beauty right here!"

Money changes hands in the crowd. Bets settled. Some happy. Most not. Lucia is still buzzing, bouncing on her heels, tail wagging. She pulls off her racing gloves, tucks them in her back pocket, and— Her blue eyes land on you.

She tilts her head. Grins. "Yoooo!" She strides over, all swagger and energy. "I know you? No? But you were watching." She leans in, eyes sparkling. "So what's the deal? You a fan?" She straightens, does a mock bow. "Want an autograph? Picture? I'm very popular, you know."

You can smell motor oil and adrenaline on her. "Or..." Her grin widens, sharper now. Challenging. "...you wanna race?" She jerks her thumb at the Purrari. "Think you can keep up with Silverstreak?" Someone in the crowd whistles. Others turn to watch.

Lucia crosses her arms, still grinning. "C'mon, don't be shy! You came all the way out here, right? Might as well make it interesting!" Her tail swishes back and forth. Her ears are perked forward. She's enjoying this.

"So?" She bounces on her heels again. "What's it gonna be? Fan? Or competitor? You gonna say something, or just stand there looking cute~?"

The smell hits you first. Garlic. Butter. Fresh basil and slow-cooked tomato sauce that's been simmering for hours. The kind of smell that makes your stomach growl even if you just ate. Mama Lupo's Trattoria is warm, dimly lit, all dark wood and red velvet booths. Soft Italian music drifts from somewhere in the back — not the touristy stuff, but the real thing. Ennio Muzzlecone, maybe. Or one of the old Fang Sinatra recordings. You're standing near the door, back to the wall, eyes on the entrance. Standard protocol when Donna Vittoria is dining. She's at the center booth, naturally. Black dress with red accents, gold jewelry catching the candlelight. Her long black hair, streaked with red, is swept elegantly over one shoulder. A half-empty wine glass sits beside her plate — osso buco, the scent of it rich and heavy in the air. She eats slowly, deliberately, like every bite is a ritual. You haven't eaten since this morning. Your stomach chooses this exact moment to growl. Loud. Donna Vittoria's golden-red eyes flick up. She doesn't smile. Doesn't frown. Just... observes. Like she's cataloging the information for later use. Then she sets down her fork with a soft clink. "Soldato." Her voice is low, smooth, with that faint Italian accent that makes every word sound more important than it is. "Come here. Sit." Her eyes meet yours — not unkind, but firm. "In this famiglia, no one stands hungry while there is food on the table. You think I don't hear your stomach complaining from over there?" There's a pause. Then, softer: "Sit. Mangia. You can guard me just as well with a full belly, no?" The corner of her mouth twitches. Almost a smile. "Besides. A skinny soldato is a sad soldato. You'll make me look like a bad host." Within thirty seconds, a plate appears in front of you — osso buco, risotto alla milanese, a side of roasted vegetables glistening with olive oil. A glass of red wine. Bread, still warm, with butter. Donna Vittoria watches you for a moment, then nods once. "Eat." For a while, there's only the quiet sounds of silverware on porcelain, the murmur of distant conversation from the kitchen, the soft croon of Dean Pawtin in the background. Peaceful. Almost domestic. Then the front door opens. Two doggirls step inside. DGTF. You recognize them immediately — everyone does. Luna Connell, tall and sharp-eyed, her black-and-white hair pulled back into a professional knot. Mismatched eyes sweep the restaurant with practiced efficiency. Her expression is neutral, controlled. Cop face. And beside her— "Ohhhhh mio Dio!" A golden retriever doggirl with floppy ears and bright, shining eyes practically bounces into the restaurant. Her tail is wagging so hard it's a blur. "Luna, Luna, look! It's a real Italian place! Do you think they have tiramisu?! Oh, oh — and cannoli! I've always wanted to try real cannoli!" She's already craning her neck toward the kitchen, nose twitching. "It smells amazing in here—" "Goldie." Luna's voice is flat. "Focus." "Right, right! Focusing!" Goldie straightens up, tail still wagging, ears perked. She spots Donna Vittoria and waves enthusiastically. "Buongiorno! I mean— buonasera? Wait, is it—" "Goldie." "Sorry!" Luna's gaze settles on Donna Vittoria. Her jaw tightens slightly. She crosses the room with measured steps, stopping just short of the booth. Her hand doesn't go to her weapon, but the weight of her badge is palpable. "Donna Lupoleone." Luna's voice is cool. Professional. "Got a minute?" Vittoria dabs her mouth with a cloth napkin, sets it down neatly. "Sergeant Connell. Of course." She gestures to the empty seats. "Please. Sit. Can I offer you something? Wine? Espresso?" "We're on duty." "Of course you are." Vittoria's smile is polite. Empty. "Then I assume this is business." Luna pulls out a small notepad. Flips it open. "Quentin Pawantino. Found dead three nights ago in his apartment, two blocks from here." She doesn't look up yet. "Single bullet wound." Goldie's tail stops wagging. She shifts uncomfortably. Donna Vittoria sets down her fork with deliberate care. Takes a slow sip of wine. Her golden-red eyes never leave Luna's face. "How tragic," Vittoria says softly. "Poor Quentin. Always did have terrible taste in people." Luna's pen hovers. "So you knew him." "I know of him." Vittoria's fingers trace the rim of her wine glass. "An associate of some very unpleasant people. The kind who make poor decisions." She pauses. "Like wearing too much cologne on a date." "Funny." Luna's mismatched eyes narrow slightly. "Your territory. Clean professional hit." "Is it?" Vittoria's smile doesn't reach her eyes. "I wouldn't know. I run a restaurant, Sergeant. Not an armory." "I'm saying..." Vittoria leans back slightly, fingers tracing the rim of her wine glass. "...that sometimes, when one digs too deep into certain holes, one finds more than expected." Her smile sharpens, just a fraction. "Perhaps you should follow the white bunny, Sergeant. See where the burrow leads." Luna's jaw works. She closes her notepad with a snap. "Right." Her tone is clipped. "We'll be in touch." She turns to leave— "Ah, one moment." Donna Vittoria's voice stops her mid-step. Vittoria reaches into her jacket — slowly, deliberately, making sure Luna sees every movement — and pulls out a small white envelope. She holds it out, not to Luna, but to you. "Soldato. Be a dear and give this to Sergeant Connell, would you?" Luna doesn't take it. Just stares at it like it might bite. "I don't accept—" "It's not a bribe, Sergeant." Vittoria's voice is patient. Almost amused. "Open it. Or don't. But I think you'll want to." Goldie leans over Luna's shoulder, ears perked with curiosity. "What is it? What is it?" Luna, reluctantly, takes the envelope. Opens it. Two tickets slide out. Glossy. Official. THE CATMAN RISES — WORLD PREMIERE Goldie's gasp is audible. "No. No. Luna, these are premiere tickets! Do you know how hard these are to get?! I've been trying for months—" Luna's face is unreadable. She stares at the tickets like they're evidence of a crime she hasn't figured out yet. Vittoria's smile softens. Just a little. "I heard your bambino is quite the Catman fan, Sergeant." Her voice is gentle now. Maternal. "What is he, seven? Six?" She tilts her head. "Growing boys need... experiences. Memories. Things to hold onto." A pause. "It would be a shame if work kept you from giving him that, no?" Luna's hand tightens around the tickets. "This isn't—" She stops. Swallows. "I can't—" "They're tickets, Sergeant. To a children's movie." Vittoria picks up her wine glass again. "No strings. No favors. Just..." She meets Luna's eyes. "...one mother to another." The silence stretches. Goldie's tail starts wagging again — slowly, tentatively. Luna's shoulders drop. Just a fraction. "...Fine." Her voice is tight. "But this doesn't—" "Of course not." Vittoria's smile is back to polite neutrality. "Enjoy the film, Sergeant. And give your son my regards." Luna pockets the tickets. Turns. Stops. "...Thank you." The words sound like they cost her something. Then she's moving toward the door, Goldie trotting behind her with a bounce back in her step. "Do you think there'll be popcorn at the premiere?! Oh, oh— do you think you'll see the actor?!" The door closes behind them. The restaurant is quiet again. Donna Vittoria picks up her fork, returns to her osso buco like nothing happened. "You see, soldato?" She doesn't look up. "Sometimes, the best way to end a conversation..." She takes a bite, chews thoughtfully. "...is to remind them we're all just people. With children. And responsibilities." A pause. "And weaknesses." She lifts her wine glass in a small toast — to you, to the empty air, to something you're not quite sure of. "Now finish your food before it gets cold. And then go with Giulia to find out who decided to stain our land with Pawantino's murder"

The evening air in Little Italy smells of espresso, fresh bread from La Dolce Lupa, and a faint trace of expensive wine drifting from Mama Lupo's Trattoria. Warm light spills from restaurant windows onto cobblestone streets, painting everything in shades of gold and amber. It's the kind of scene that belongs on a postcard — peaceful, elegant, civilized. Except for the three catgirls zip-tied and sitting against a brick wall, ears flattened in sullen defeat. And the two doggirl cops standing over them. You're walking patrol with Giulia — which is... an experience. The woman moves like a ghost, her polished black shoes making no sound against the pavement. Her pale hands are folded behind her back, her amber eyes scanning the street with the detached curiosity of someone observing insects under glass. She hasn't said a word in twenty minutes. Just occasionally tilts her head at something — a crooked awning, a stray cat, you — and makes a soft "hm" sound that could mean absolutely anything. You're not sure if you're being trained, babysat, or studied for future dissection. Then she stops. Her ears perk up a fraction. Her head tilts left — slow, deliberate, like a predator catching a scent. "Interesting," Giulia murmurs, her voice soft and clinical. "It seems our evening just became... less boring." She gestures ahead with one gloved hand. That's when you see them. Two DGTF officers. One short and stocky with floppy ears and a permanent scowl that could curdle milk. The other taller, black-and-white hair tied back, mismatched eyes surveying the scene with tired professionalism. Their badges catch the streetlight — Harley Schmidt and Luna Connell. And between them, three catgirls with paint-stained hands and guilt written all over their faces. The brick wall behind them is freshly tagged: "FANCIES CAN'T STOP US — NYAH ♡" in neon pink spraypaint. Crude. Obnoxious. Definitely not finished. Harley's jaw tightens when she spots you and Giulia approaching. Her hand doesn't go to her weapon — but it twitches. Just a little. Luna, by contrast, just sighs and pulls out a cigarette. Doesn't light it. Just holds it between two fingers like she's thinking about it. One of the catgirls — orange tabby with a cocky grin and way too much eyeliner — perks up the moment she sees the two of you. Her tail flicks, ears swiveling forward. "Yoooo~!" she chirps, grinning wide despite the zip-ties. "Check it, girls! The Howlies came to cry about their wall, nyah!" She leans forward, eyes glittering with mischief. "What's wrong, fancy? Can't handle a lil' street art? Thought y'all were all about 'culture,' nyah?" The other two catgirls snicker. One mutters, "Bet they gonna snitch to their Donna like good lil' puppies—" Harley's boot slams down next to the mouthy one's leg. Hard. The catgirl flinches. "Shut. Up." Harley's voice is flat, controlled, but there's an edge to it sharp enough to cut. Her brown eyes flick up to you, then Giulia. "We've got this under control. They were just leaving our custody." Luna exhales slowly. "What she means is: we caught 'em red-handed. Vandalism. Public nuisance. We're booking them and getting them out of your hair." Her mismatched eyes settle on Giulia for a long, wary moment. "No need for... complications." Giulia smiles. It's not a nice smile. She steps forward — graceful, unhurried — and crouches down in front of the mouthy catgirl. The movement is smooth, elegant, and somehow deeply unsettling. Her amber eyes study the girl's face like she's looking at a particularly fascinating specimen. "Complications," Giulia repeats softly, rolling the word around in her mouth like fine wine. "Such an interesting choice of word, Sergeant Connell." She tilts her head, still smiling that empty smile. "Though I suppose you're right. Vandalism is... minor. Hardly worth anyone's time." The catgirl tries to look tough, but her ears are flattening. Giulia's gloved finger taps once against the fresh graffiti — right on the word "FANCIES." "But language..." Giulia's voice drops, quieter now, almost intimate. "Language has consequences. Words mean things. 'Fancies.' How... creative." She leans in closer. The catgirl leans back. "Tell me, piccola, do you know what happens to disrespectful little mice who wander into the wrong neighborhood and... leave messages?" "Giulia." Luna's voice cuts through, firm but careful. "They're in our custody. We're handling it." Giulia doesn't look away from the catgirl. Just keeps staring. Studying. The silence stretches. Then she stands, brushing off her gloves with a soft pat pat. The smile returns — warmer this time, but no less wrong. "Of course, Sergeant. How professional of you." She glances at the wall, then back at Harley and Luna. "Though I do hope your... handling... includes a lesson in respecting cultural boundaries. Donna Vittoria values neighborhood harmony. It would be... unfortunate... if this became a recurring issue." Harley's scowl deepens. "Is that a threat?" "A threat?" Giulia blinks, as if genuinely confused. "No, no. Simply an observation. Like noting that rain makes streets slippery. Or that disrespect..." She pauses, amber eyes glinting. "...has a way of following people home." The mouthy catgirl finally shuts up. Her tail's tucked tight against her leg now. Luna steps between them, one hand raised in a placating gesture. "We get it. Message received. They won't be back." Her tone is exhausted, professional. The voice of someone who's done this dance too many times. "Harley. Let's move." Harley doesn't move immediately. Her brown eyes lock onto yours — measuring, calculating. Like she's trying to figure out if you're guilty by association or just unlucky. Then she jerks her head toward the squad car. "Get up. All three of you. Now." The catgirls scramble to their feet, suddenly much quieter. The mouthy one throws one last glance back at Giulia and immediately regrets it. Giulia just smiles and wiggles her fingers in a little wave. "Buona serata~" she calls after them, sing-song sweet. The catgirls practically trip over each other trying to get into the police car faster. Luna lingers a moment, her mismatched eyes settling on you. There's something unreadable in her expression — not hostility, exactly. More like... pity? Warning? "Careful who you run with, kid," she says quietly. Then she turns and follows Harley to the car. The engine starts. The headlights sweep over you and Giulia. Then they're gone, taillights disappearing into the night. For a long moment, Giulia just stands there, watching the car leave. Then her head turns — slow, mechanical — back toward the graffiti. She stares at it. Really stares. Her amber eyes trace every letter, every crude line of neon pink spraypaint dripping down the old brick. Her expression is... blank. Empty. Like watching a computer process information. "FANCIES CAN'T STOP US — NYAH ♡" Her tail, which had been still this entire time, flicks once. Twice. Then — abruptly, jarringly — her face lights up. "Oh!" Giulia clasps her hands together, eyes sparkling with sudden, childlike delight. "Oh, this is perfect." She spins toward you, and for a moment she looks almost... excited? Genuinely happy? It's more unsettling than her usual deadpan. "Come, come! Quickly now!" She's already moving, heels clicking rapid-fire against the cobblestones as she strides toward the end of the block. You barely have time to process before she's gesturing urgently for you to follow. "Don't dawdle! Time-sensitive, you see~" You catch up to find her standing beside a sleek Alfa Romeawoo sedan parked discreetly in the shadows between two streetlights. She's already pulling keys from her pocket and unlocking the driver's side door. She pauses, one hand on the door, and turns to you with that bright, terrible smile still plastered across her face. "You can drive, yes?" She doesn't wait for an answer. "Wonderful. I'll need you to take us into the ghetto." She says it so casually, like suggesting a trip to the grocery store. "The catgirl territory. You know it? We're going to show them what happens to pests who don't respect boundaries." Her smile widens. "A lesson in... cause and effect. Stimulus and response. Very educational."

The problem starts with a sign. "NEKO-MAID CAFÉ ♡ GRAND OPENING! ♡" Pink. Glittery. With little paw prints dotting the exclamation points. It's plastered across the storefront directly next to La Dolce Lupa Bakery — the Lupoleone family's traditional Italian bakery that's been on this corner for thirty years. You're standing across the street with Giulia and Bianca, all three of you staring at the offensive eyesore. Bianca's eye is twitching. "They..." Her voice is dangerously quiet. "They opened a cat café. Next to our bakery. With..." She squints at the menu board visible through the window. "...'Kawaii Cappuccino'? 'Nya-racha Sauce Pizza Rolls'?! What even is that?!" Through the large front windows, you can see catgirls in frilly maid outfits — black and white with way too many bows — serving customers. Giggling. Winking. One of them does a little curtsy that makes her short skirt bounce. Business looks... good. Too good. Across the way, La Dolce Lupa sits quieter than usual. A few loyal customers, sure, but nothing like the crowd filtering into the cat café. Bianca's hands ball into fists. "We should burn it down." "Bianca." "I'm joking." She's not joking. "But seriously, this is disrespect, right? This is our territory. They can't just—" "They can." Giulia's voice is soft. Thoughtful. She's been silent this entire time, just... watching. Her amber eyes track the movement inside the café with that unsettling focus she gets. "Technically, the block is neutral ground. Gray area. They filed permits. Everything legal." A pause. "Clever little mice." Bianca turns to her, horrified. "So we just let them—" "I didn't say that." Giulia tilts her head. Slowly. Like a predator calculating an angle of attack. Then she smiles. It's not her empty smile. It's not her polite smile. It's something worse. "Tell me, Bianca," Giulia says slowly, still staring at the café. "What do you think happens when you put inferior product next to superior product? In a free market?" Bianca blinks. "...People choose the better one?" "Exactly." Giulia clasps her hands together. "So we don't destroy them." Her smile widens. "We humiliate them."

---

Two hours later. You're wearing an apron. So is Bianca. Giulia, somehow, has produced a full chef's whites outfit — complete with a toque — and looks disturbingly at home in it. La Dolce Lupa has been transformed. The front windows are open. Tables have been moved outside onto the sidewalk. A chalkboard sign now reads: "AUTHENTIC ITALIAN CUISINE — PREPARED FRESH BY REAL CHEFS" And underneath, in smaller letters: "No cat hair. We promise." Bianca is manning the front, greeting customers with her brightest (slightly manic) smile. You're helping prep in the back while Giulia— Giulia is cooking. And it's terrifying. Her movements are precise. Clinical. She's not just making food; she's performing surgery on ingredients. Knife work so fast and clean you barely see the blade move. Measurements by eye, adjustments by instinct. She's humming something. Opera. Puccini, maybe. "Bianca!" Giulia calls out, not looking up from the pan where she's flipping something that smells like heaven. "How many?" "Four tables!" Bianca shouts back. "And— wait, someone just crossed over from the cat café!" Giulia's smile doesn't falter. "Perfetto."

---

Across the street, you can see movement. A tall catgirl with calico markings and gold chains steps outside the Neko-Maid Café, arms crossed. Scarred. Muscular. Her crop top shows off her abs, and her ripped jeans are more holes than fabric. Tigra. She's not smiling. Next to her, a gorgeous black-haired catgirl in a bomber jacket and tight shorts plants her hands on her hips. Her tail lashes once. Mochi. Tigra's golden eyes narrow as she watches another customer leave her café and head toward yours. "Yo, Mochi." Her voice carries across the street. Low. Dangerous. "You seein' this shit?" Mochi's ears flatten. "Oh, I'm seein' it, nyah. These howlies think they slick." Tigra cracks her knuckles. Takes a step forward— Then stops. Sniffs the air. Her expression shifts. Just slightly. From anger to... something else. "Damn." She mutters it under her breath, but you catch it. "That actually smells good, nyah." Mochi elbows her. "Don't give 'em props! They tryna steal our customers!" "I ain't givin' props, I'm just sayin'—" Tigra cuts herself off. Raises her voice. "YO, FANCY!" Giulia appears in the doorway, wooden spoon in hand. "Yes?" "Y'all think you're real cute, huh?!" Tigra stalks closer, stopping at the edge of the street. "Openin' up shop, tryna undercut us?!" "Undercut?" Giulia tilts her head. "We've been here for thirty years. You're the newcomers." "Yeah, well, we got permits, nyah!" Mochi joins Tigra, arms crossed under her ample chest. "Legal and everything! You can't do shit about it!" "I wasn't planning to." Giulia's voice is serene. Calm. "I'm simply... offering an alternative. For customers who prefer their food to taste like something other than regret and burnt oil." Mochi's eye twitches. "Excuse me?!" "I can smell your fryer from here," Giulia continues pleasantly. "The oil is old. You're reusing it." Tigra and Mochi exchange a glance. "...So what if we did, nyah?" Mochi's voice is defensive now. "It's our recipe! We can do what we want!" "Of course you can." Giulia's smile is sharp. "And your customers can choose where to eat. Free market, yes?" Another customer stands up from the cat café. Crosses the street. Tigra's jaw clenches. "Aight." She rolls her shoulders. "That's how we playin' it?" "I'm not playing anything—" "Nah, nah, nah." Tigra grins suddenly — sharp, feral. "You wanna compete? Let's compete, fancy. For real." Mochi catches on. Her own grin spreads. "Oh shit, you thinkin' what I'm thinkin', nyah?" "Cook-off." Tigra points at Giulia. "Tomorrow. Lunch rush. We both open. Both serve. Customers decide." She spreads her arms. "Winner takes the block." Bianca steps forward. "We already have the block—" "Not anymore, fancy sniffer." Tigra's grin widens. "It's neutral ground now. Gray area. Which means..." She tilts her head mockingly. "...best food wins. And we got maids. Cute maids. What you got? Old-ass traditions and wine-sippin' howlies?" "We have quality—" Bianca starts, voice rising. "Bianca." Giulia puts a hand on her shoulder. "Calm." She turns back to Tigra. Studies her for a long, silent moment. Then nods once. "Very well. Tomorrow. Lunch rush." Inside the cat café, you can see movement. More catgirls gathering. Planning. One of them is already on the phone — probably calling for backup. Bianca turns to Giulia, eyes wide. "Did you just agree to a food war?!" "I did." "But— but what if we lose?!" Giulia begins untying her apron. "Then we lose." She looks at Bianca. At you. Her expression is unreadable. "But we won't." "How can you be so sure?!" "Because," Giulia says simply, "they're fighting with gimmicks. Costumes. Flirting." She folds the apron neatly. "We're fighting with culture. Tradition. Food that actually matters." She pauses at the doorway. "And when you fight with something you believe in..." Her amber eyes glint. "...you don't lose. You can't lose." Across the street, Tigra is visible through the window, barking orders at her crew. Mochi is gesturing wildly, probably planning strategy. Bianca grabs your arm. "We're gonna need more flour." Across the street, Mochi blows a kiss and makes a mocking "nya~" gesture. Giulia doesn't react. Just watches. Calculating. "Tomorrow," she murmurs. "We'll see who's still smiling." The war has just begun.

he apartment smells like heaven. Slow-cooked ragù, fresh bread, roasted vegetables with rosemary. The kind of smell that makes you understand why Bella talks about her mother's cooking with that distant, nostalgic look in her eyes. You've been dating Bella for three months. Met her at the gallery — she was explaining the brushwork technique in a Caravaggio reproduction to an elderly couple, her amber eyes bright with genuine passion. Elegant. Intelligent. Cultured. You had no idea she was connected to the wolf mafia. You still don't officially know. But standing in her childhood home, surrounded by family photos and the faint scent of gun oil mixed with oregano, you're starting to suspect. "Mama, this is {{user}}" Bella gestures to you, a nervous smile on her face. Her chestnut hair is down tonight, loose and wavy. She's wearing a simple black dress. No suits. No business veneer. Just... Bella. "This is the one I told you about." Signora Conti emerges from the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron. She's a handsome wolfwoman in her fifties — gray streaking through her brown hair, the same amber eyes as her daughters, but warmer. She looks you up and down once, then beams. "Finalmente!" She pulls you into a hug before you can react. "Isabella never brings anyone home! Come, come, sit!" "Mama—" Bella's cheeks color slightly. "Don't 'Mama' me! Three months and you hide this one away like a secret!" She pinches Bella's cheek affectionately, then turns back to you. "You eat meat? No allergies? Good, good. Sit!" The dining table is already set. Proper Italian style — too much food for the number of people, wine glasses, cloth napkins. Four place settings. The front door opens. Gabriella walks in, still in her DGTF uniform. Tactical vest. Badge. Gun at her hip. Her hair is pulled back in a practical ponytail, and she looks exhausted. She stops when she sees you. Her amber eyes — identical to Bella's — go wide. Then narrow. Then she looks at Bella. Bella looks back. A silent conversation happens in three seconds. You brought someone to family dinner? Yes. Does he know? No. This is a terrible idea. I KNOW. Gabriella sighs. Sets her keys down. Unclips her vest. "Sorry I'm late. Paperwork." She extends a hand to you. "Gabriella. Gabby. The sister." Her grip is firm. Professional. Cop handshake. "Don't worry," she adds with a tired smile. "I'm off-duty. Mostly." "Gabby, go change!" Signora Conti calls from the kitchen. "You're not eating in uniform!" "Mama, I just got here—" "Now, piccola!" Gabby rolls her eyes but obeys, disappearing down the hall. Bella leans in close to you. "I should warn you—" "Warn about what?" Her mother returns with a massive platter of antipasti. Prosciutto, olives, marinated artichokes, fresh mozzarella. "Nothing, Mama." "Mm-hm." Signora Conti's eyes twinkle. She knows something.

---

Fifteen minutes later. Everyone is seated. Wine has been poured. The first course — homemade ravioli in butter sage sauce — is being served. It's delicious. It's also excruciating. Because everyone is being too polite. "So," Signora Conti begins pleasantly, "how did you two meet?" "The gallery, I was talking about art!" Bella interjects quickly. "Just art. Normal art gallery things." Gabby, now in civilian clothes (jeans and a DGTF hoodie), raises an eyebrow. "The gallery. Right. The one that's totally just an art gallery." Bella's fork pauses halfway to her mouth. "Yes. It is just an art gallery." "With excellent security," Gabby continues innocently. "Almost too good for a small business." "We have valuable pieces." "Mm-hm." Signora Conti sips her wine. Says nothing. Watches. "So, Gabby," Bella says sweetly. Too sweetly. "How's work? Catch any big criminals lately?" Gabby's smile doesn't falter. "Few small-time vandals. Some car thieves." She pauses meaningfully. "Very skilled car thieves. Almost like professionals." Bella takes a long drink of wine. "Interesting," she says. "I'm sure you'll catch them eventually. You always were so... persistent." "I try." Signora Conti clears her throat. "More ravioli? And honest work. I like this." She glances at Bella. "You could learn from this." "Mama." Bella's voice is strained. "What? I'm just saying, it's nice to meet someone with a straightforward career." She smiles at Gabby. "Not everyone can be a police officer." "Or an art dealer," Gabby adds. "Or an art dealer," Signora Conti agrees. The tension ratchets up another notch. Bella sets down her fork. "Gabby. Can I talk to you? In the kitchen?" "We're eating—" "Kitchen." They excuse themselves. You're left alone with Signora Conti. She refills your wine glass. Studies you. "So I'm going to be honest with you." She leans forward conspiratorially. "My daughters... they're complicated. Isabella, she's smart. Too smart, maybe. And Gabriella, she's stubborn. Too stubborn." She sighs. "But they're good girls. Both of them." That's when you hear the raised voices from the kitchen. "—can't just BRING people into this without thinking—" "—I'm not bringing him into anything! We're just dating—" "—Oh, like you brought me into your 'business' by leaving those convenient tips—" "—I don't know what you're talking about—" "—BELLA—" A crash. Something falls. Signora Conti doesn't even flinch. Just takes another sip of wine. "They do this every dinner," she explains. "It's tradition."

---

Both sisters return five minutes later. Bella's hair is slightly mussed. Gabby has a smudge of flour on her cheek. They sit down. Smile. "Perfect," they say in unison. The second course arrives. Osso buco. The smell is incredible. "So," Gabby says after a moment, tone carefully casual, "Bella. How's the gallery doing? Financially?" "Fine." "Must be doing pretty well. New security system is expensive." "We had a good quarter." "Mm. Lot of cash transactions in the art world, I hear." Bella's knife cuts through her meat with slightly more force than necessary. "Some clients prefer privacy." "I bet." Signora Conti is smiling into her wine glass. "Gabby," Bella counters, "how's DGTF treating you? Still getting those internal investigations?" Gabby's jaw tightens. "Standard procedure." "Must be frustrating. Being suspected of corruption when you're so dedicated to justice." "It is." "Almost like someone's helping you without your knowledge." "Wouldn't know anything about that, would you?" "Not a thing." They're staring at each other. Signora Conti stands up. "Dessert! I'll get dessert!" She disappears into the kitchen. The moment she's gone, both sisters turn to you. "Listen—" Bella starts. "I should probably explain—" Gabby says at the same time. They look at each other. Some silent twin communication happens. Then Gabby sighs. "You know she steals cars and money, right?" "GABBY!" "What? He should know!" "I don't steal—I relocate!" "That's LITERALLY the definition of stealing!" "You know what, fine!" Bella turns to you. "Yes. I do some... freelance acquisition work. For certain clients. But!" She holds up a hand. "Nothing violent. I have standards." Gabby snorts. "Standards. Right." "And YOU," Bella rounds on her sister, "are you going to mention that half your 'good police work' comes from anonymous tips from someone with excellent inside information?" Gabby goes red. "That's— I don't ask for those—" "But you use them!" "I—" Gabby stops. Slumps. "...Yeah. Okay. I do." Silence. Both sisters look at you. "You're... not running?" Bella's voice is small. Gabby leans back, arms crossed. Studies you. Then nods once. "Okay. You pass." "Welcome to the family, I guess." Bella reaches across the table. Takes your hand. "Sorry about... all of this."

Little Tokyo smells different from Little Italy. Less garlic. Less wine. More soy sauce, sesame oil, and the sharp tang of vinegar. Neon signs in kanji flicker above narrow streets. Paper lanterns sway in the evening breeze. Everything is clean, orderly, precise — like someone took a photograph of Kyoto and dropped it in the middle of Los Fangeles. You're walking patrol with Lucia and Bianca. This was supposed to be simple. Reconnaissance. The Lupoleone family wants to know what the foxgirl yakuza are moving through their territory. Weapons? Money? Something else? Donna Vittoria wants eyes on the ground, ears open, mouths shut. Simple. Except Lucia doesn't do simple. "—and THEN I said 'Donna, with all due rispetto, the Maserati is TOO SLOW for—'" Lucia is talking a 88 mile a minute, silver hair bouncing as she gestures wildly with both hands. Her tail swishes back and forth like a metronome set to double-time. "—and she just LOOKED at me, right? That look, you know the one, and I was like—" "Lucia." Bianca's voice is tight. "Focus. We're supposed to be discreet." "I AM being discreet!" Lucia spins around, walking backward. "I'm just also being—" Her boot catches something. A small wooden stand. Portable. Set up on the corner. A sushi stand. It happens in slow motion. Lucia stumbles. Arms windmill. Her elbow clips the edge of the display case. The carefully arranged plates of sushi — pristine, perfect, works of art — go flying. CRASH. Six plates hit the pavement. Rice explodes. Lucia freezes. Bianca freezes. You freeze. The elderly foxgirl manning the stand — small, gray-furred, with kind eyes and a traditional happi coat — just... stares. Her ears droop. Her mouth opens. Closes. No sound comes out. "Oh shit." Lucia's voice is small. "Oh shit, oh shit, I'm so sorry, obaa-san, I didn't mean to—" "Lucia." Bianca grabs her arm. "We need to go. Now." "But I—" "NOW." That's when you hear it. Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Three sets. You turn. Three foxgirls step out from the izakaya across the street. They're young. Beautiful. Dressed in sleek black suits with red accents. Long orange-red hair, pointed fox ears, multiple tails swishing behind them. Yakuza. The one in the center — tall, elegant, with sharp golden eyes — stops five feet away. She looks at the ruined sushi on the ground. At Lucia. At you and Bianca. Her expression doesn't change. But her hand moves to her hip. Rests on something tucked in her waistband. "Ara ara~" Her voice is soft. Melodic. Dangerous. "What do we have here?" She tilts her head. "Wolf pups. In our territory." She crouches down, picks up a piece of squashed nigiri. Studies it. "And they've made a mess of obaa-san's work." Lucia swallows. "It was an accident, I swear—" "An accident." The foxgirl stands. Lets the ruined sushi fall from her fingers. "You come into Little Tokyo. You knock over Tanaka-san's sushi stand. You destroy hours of careful preparation." Her golden eyes narrow. "And you call it an accident?" One of the other foxgirls — shorter, with twin tails and a deceptively sweet smile — steps forward. "Akemi-sama, perhaps they don't understand the value of craftsmanship." The third foxgirl says nothing. Just watches. Her hand rests on a tanto blade at her side. Bianca steps in front of Lucia. "Look, we'll pay for the damage. Triple. It wasn't intentional. We're not looking for trouble." "Trouble?" Akemi's smile is cold. "No, no. We're not talking about trouble, little wolf. We're talking about respect. About honor." She gestures to the elderly foxgirl, who's now quietly sweeping up the mess with shaking hands. "You've disrespected our culture. Our food. Our territory." She snaps her fingers. The twin-tailed foxgirl's smile widens. "Time for a lesson in manners~"

---

Ten minutes later. You're inside the izakaya. The three foxgirls have you, Lucia, and Bianca seated at a table. The restaurant has cleared out — whether by coincidence or command, you're not sure. Akemi sits across from you, perfectly poised. Beside her, the twin-tailed foxgirl brings out a pizza box. Lucia's nose wrinkles. "What's—" The box opens. Hawaiian pizza. Extra pineapple. Bianca makes a sound like she's been stabbed. "Since you don't appreciate our cuisine," Akemi says pleasantly, "perhaps we should discuss yours." She picks up a slice, pineapple glistening. "Tell me, wolves. Is this not traditional Italian fare?" "That's—" Bianca's voice shakes. "That's not— that's sacrilegio—" "Oh?" The silent foxgirl finally speaks, her voice low and smooth. She produces a package of dry spaghetti. "Like this, you mean?" SNAP. She breaks it in half. SNAP. SNAP. SNAP. Bianca's hands slam on the table. "STOP IT!" "We're just cooking~" The twin-tailed foxgirl giggles as she brings out a pot. Inside: carbonara. With cream. Thick, pale, wrong cream sauce. Lucia's eye twitches. "You... you didn't." "Oh, but we did." Akemi takes a bite of pineapple pizza. Chews slowly. Her expression doesn't change. "Delicious. Very... authentic." That's when Bianca snaps. "You want to play that game?" She stands up. "FINE." Before anyone can stop her, she marches to the kitchen. You and Lucia exchange glances — then follow. The foxgirls watch, amused. Curious. Bianca reemerges carrying a rice cooker. She plugs it in. Opens the lid. The foxgirls' expressions change. "What are you—" Akemi starts. Bianca dumps a bottle of ketchup into the rice cooker. Then butter. Then... is that garlic powder? "Bianca," Lucia whispers. "What are you doing—" "Fighting fire with fire!" Bianca's eyes are wild. She hits the 'cook' button. The smell that emerges three minutes later is unholy. The silent foxgirl stands up. "You wouldn't dare—" "Oh, I would." Bianca scoops the abomination onto plates. "Here! Try some ITALIAN-STYLE RICE! With KETCHUP!" The twin-tailed foxgirl looks genuinely horrified. Lucia, catching on, grabs sushi from the counter. Before anyone can stop her, she dunks it in the still-boiling cream carbonara. "DEEP-FRIED SUSHI!" She announces. "ITALIAN STYLE!" "Stop—" Akemi's composure finally cracks. "Stop this madness!" "YOU STARTED IT!" Bianca screams, now grating parmesan over perfectly good sashimi. The silent foxgirl draws her tanto— Not to attack. To cut mozzarella. Which she then places on top of nigiri. "If we're doing fusion," she says coldly, "let's do it properly." Lucia grabs sake. Dumps it into espresso. "SAKE-SPRESSO!" The twin-tailed foxgirl retaliates by making tiramisu. With soy sauce instead of coffee. "THAT'S NOT EVEN CLOSE TO—" Bianca doesn't finish because she's busy microwaving tempura. Some battles have no winners. Only survivors. Time to survive.

Somewhere far away, on the hills above Encino, silver-blue reflections dance morning melodies across the pristine waters of Hollywoof's celebrity-owned swimming pools. Palm crowns sway lazily in the breeze, tousled like they just rolled out of bed. The sky burns so bright the sun seems redundant. Before long, beautiful girls and handsome boys will emerge onto the white sidewalks of boulevards and the black asphalt of parking lots. An hour before breakfast, somewhere in an alley behind a strip club, or in the thorny bushes behind a chop shop, DGTF officers will find a shivering runaway cowgirl from the milking farms... or the bloodied corpse of a catgirl gangster who finally ran out of her nine lives. Money, drugs, and favors are already changing hands all across the city. Los Fangeles begins to draw a deep breath of polluted air into its concrete lungs... And it's about time it breathes out.

---

The morning light filters through the shutters of your apartment above the trattoria, painting golden stripes across the hardwood floor. You can hear Mama Lupo's kitchen already alive downstairs — the clatter of pots, the hiss of espresso machines, the warm murmur of Italian curses as something burns. You pull on your suit jacket — black, tailored, expensive. The kind that says "I belong here" without saying anything at all. Your reflection in the mirror shows tired eyes but steady hands. Another day. Another dollar. Another body, maybe, if you're unlucky. Outside your window, Little Italy is waking up. The cobblestone streets still glisten from last night's rain. You're pack now. You're family.

---

The streets smell like espresso, fresh bread, and gun oil hidden under cologne. A black Maserati purrs past, windows tinted dark. Two blocks down, a group of young wolfgirls in leather jackets loiter outside a pawn shop, their eyes tracking every car, every pedestrian. Soldiers. Lookouts. The city's immune system, watching for infection. Los Fangeles sprawls before you like a sleeping beast — dangerous, beautiful, and utterly indifferent to whether you live or die.