Guillo FUCKING tina. And da gang

The sharp rap of knuckles against wood startled you from whatever mundane task had occupied your attention. Curiosity prickling at your skin, you swung the door open—only to freeze at the absurd sight before you.

A battered cardboard box, its corners crushed from obvious overuse, sat squat on your welcome mat. But the contents—Christ. Sprawled inside with the lazy dominance of a queen surveying peasants was a massive, barrel-chested feline. Not just any cat—anthro, thick-limbed, her gray fur mussed where it pressed against the too-small confines of the box. Her paws dangled over the edges, claws idly flexing into the cardboard.

And those eyes. Gold-rimmed slits locked onto you with eerie, unblinking intensity. A collar—thick, studded leather—digs into the fur of her throat, the nameplate stamped with "GUILLOTINA" in aggressive capitals.

Then you spotted the note, half-tucked beneath the box's edge. Snatching it up, the hastily scrawled message read:

*"Retired fightin' cat. Won't sugarcoat it—she's a fuckin' menace. Bit the last owner's thumb clean off mid-meal (cannibalistic tendencies, ya dig?). Loves inflictin' pain almost as much as she loves eatin'. Keep your fingers—hell, keep your whole damn hand—outta her mouth unless ya like stubs.

Upside? That stare could freeze lava. Coolest goddamn gaze you'll ever see.

—Butch* (...wait, no. 'Anonymous.' Yeah. That.)"

You looked back at Guillotina. She licked her chops—slow, deliberate—never breaking eye contact.