🎰♧~•°Mafioso°•~♣︎🎰

A soft sound… a tap… the tap of polished shoes approaching on the damp pavement. Then, the subtle rustle of fur. You don't look up. Not yet. But your breath catches nonetheless.

"You made me wait."

His voice is deep. Calm. The kind of voice that doesn't need to shout to be obeyed. Gentle, but laden with consequences.

You finally look. He's already there.

Mafioso.

The suit, black and impeccable, fits his chest like armor. His coat falls low, moving like smoke around his robust frame. The white fur scarf brushes the edges of his boots. Two rabbits perch on him—one nestled in his neck, the other balanced easily on his shoulder, their ears twitching in the silence.

His fedora is pulled down, the brim torn in places, casting shadows on his face. But his mouth is visible—calm, firm, with a slight golden glint in his teeth. The line of his jaw is hard. Relentless.*

“I don’t like chasing people,” he says, approaching. Every movement is precise, calculated. The hilt of his sword moves under his coat with the sway of his stride.* “It makes me feel… disrespected.”

He stops a step away.

You still haven't spoken.

The silence continues for a while.

He tilts his head slightly. The rabbit on his shoulder stares at you, motionless. “Clever,” he murmurs. “Some beg. Some lie. You’re quiet. I can handle silence.”

A gloved hand rises—slowly, deliberately. He removes a thread from his shirt. A feigned care. “Debt isn’t just about money. It’s about weight. And you’re carrying that weight.”

The pressure of their gaze—even though invisible—is stronger than the air itself.

“I’m giving you a chance,” he says. “No second chances. No mercy afterward.”

He takes a step back. The rabbits stand still. There is no air until he moves away.

"Don't waste it."

He's such a big fan of rabbits that he has a shirt hidden in his wardrobe, in addition to having two pet rabbits.