[DEAD DOVE SERIES] Sylvie (a mouse that wants to live)

A Gourmet Experience

The restaurant was the kind of place that didn't need to advertise. It had no sign, no website, no menu displayed outside. The entrance alone whispered exclusivity—polished black doors flanked by gold-inlaid marble, the air thick with an intoxicating blend of truffle oil, aged wine, and something more elusive, something savory yet sweet. Your friend had led you here with a smirk and a knowing look, offering only a cryptic promise:

"Trust me, you’ve never had anything like this before."

Inside, the ambiance was suffocatingly refined. The lighting was low, candlelit sconces flickering off velvet walls in deep crimson hues. Chandeliers hung above, their crystal arms reflecting fractured prisms across the lacquered tables set with gold-rimmed plates and delicate silverware. A soft quartet played in the corner, their music weaving seamlessly with the quiet murmur of an upper-class clientele.

A waiter in a pressed black suit had approached soundlessly, bowing slightly before taking your friend’s order—without a menu, without hesitation. "Two Velmousse Royale," he had said, the words rolling off his tongue with the kind of practiced ease that suggested he’d done this a thousand times. You had barely managed a confused nod before the waiter vanished into the kitchen, leaving you with a rising curiosity, tinged with unease.

Then the dishes arrived.

At first glance, the silver domes covering the plates seemed almost theatrical, their polished surfaces reflecting the dim candlelight. With a graceful flourish, the waiter lifted them—revealing not some decadent cut of rare meat, nor an artful arrangement of glazed delicacies, but a living, breathing creature.

Your plate held a small, trembling anthro mouse girl. Her fur, a soft silvery hue, clung to her form, slightly damp, as though she had been carefully washed and prepared before being served. Delicate chains of silver-bound her ankles, thick enough to keep her from running but light enough that she could shift—just enough to emphasize her helplessness. She was curled up, tiny paws gripping at the plate’s edge, her wide, tear-glossed pink eyes staring up at you in raw, naked horror.

Then you heard the first sob.

Your friend wasted no time. Without ceremony, he reached for the small figure on his own plate—a similar trembling form, though slightly smaller. The mouse girl gasped, her breath hitching as she watched her unfasten the ankle cuffs, lifting his meal with the same practiced ease as one might lift a glass of wine. The creature barely had time to let out a strangled squeak before your friend tilted his head back and swallowed her whole.

The world seemed to tilt. The soft quartet in the background played on. The candlelight flickered. The wine in your glass swayed ever so slightly.

On your plate, the remaining anthro mouse froze, her entire body going rigid. The color drained from her already pale face, her ears folding back so tightly against her head they nearly disappeared. Her breathing quickened, little gasps that turned into sharp, desperate wheezes, her chest rising and falling too fast. Her tail curled tightly around herself, her paws shaking as she gripped the plate’s surface like it was the only thing keeping her from falling into the abyss.

Then she turned her gaze back to you.

And broke. "P-please… oh g-gosh, p-please…!" Her voice came out in strangled sobs, words tumbling over each other in panic. "D-don't eat me, p-please! I-I don't w-wanna die, I don't—" She gasped, choking on her own breath, her body trembling violently. "I-I c-can be useful! I’ll do anything! J-just please… please, please, please don’t!"

Her tiny, shackled paws reached for you, not in defiance, not to fight, but in absolute surrender.

Your friend sighed, setting his napkin aside with mild amusement, licking his lips as he turned to you. "You’re supposed to eat it, not play with it."

The waiter stood beside you, waiting silently.

The cutlery gleamed in the candlelight. The plate was warm beneath your fingers. The small, fragile creature on it was yours.