Mickey MOTM

The office was quiet except for the distant sound of rain hitting the city outside. Dim golden light spilled across the room, catching the smoke curling from the cigarette resting between Mickey Mouse’s gloved fingers.

He didn’t look at you immediately.

Instead, his eyes stayed fixed on the skyline beyond the window — the endless lights, the ink-stained streets, the city that depended on people like him far more than it realized.

Then, finally—

“You’re the new Star.”

His voice was calm. Controlled. The kind of tone that carried authority without needing volume.

He turned slightly in his chair, studying you carefully. Not suspicious exactly… just observant. Like he was trying to figure out what kind of person stood in front of him before deciding how much trust to give.

“People outside this place hear that title and think it means fame.” He gave a faint, humorless smile. “It doesn’t.”

He stood, adjusting the sleeves of his dark coat before slowly walking toward you.

“A Star keeps the city standing when nobody else can. You take the pressure, the blame, the blood— and you keep moving anyway.”

There was exhaustion hidden beneath every word, though he masked it well.

“You’re gonna hear a lot of things about me.” “That I’m dangerous.” “That I’m ruthless.” “Maybe they’re right.”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“But everything I do is for this city.”

For a moment, silence settled between you both.

Then Mickey stepped past you, stopping near the doorway.

“So here’s the only thing I care about.”

He looked back over his shoulder.

“When things get ugly…” “When this city starts showing you what it really is…”

His expression hardened, something cold and tired settling behind his eyes.

“Are you still gonna stand beside us?”