[Point of view: Marcus Carvalho]

  After Carlie finishes explaining her messy situation and I flat-out refuse to knock her up, the tigress completely loses it. She breaks down, sobbing and throwing herself at my feet, wailing about how she’ll never see her family or the save files of her favorite JRPGs ever again.

  Feeling bad for the poor weeb, I decide to throw her a bone and bring her along for some grocery shopping. It actually turns out to be a solid move, Carlie ends up chauffeuring me to Walmart on her motorcycle.

  Not gonna lie, I think to myself, staring up at the neon sign before we head inside. I was half-expecting some shitty pun like Furmart or Pawnmart.

  We spend the first few minutes grabbing the essentials, hygiene products, a towel, some clothes that won't get me arrested, while I catch her up on my history.

  "So, you’re an isekai hero? This is like, your third world?" the tigress asks.

  "Pretty much," I reply, pushing the cart along the linoleum. "That’s the quick-and-dirty version of my life."

  "That’s… awesome!" Carlie shouts, her excitement boiling over.

  A tired smile pulls at my lips. Her enthusiasm is contagious, but god, it’s draining. She starts circling me, peppering me with questions about my old world and the battles I fought. Her eyes shine with a genuine curiosity that actually reminds me of simpler times.

  "So, did you really kill a Demon King?" she asks, eyes wide with admiration.

  "Yeah, I did," I answer, trying to keep my voice level. "It was my final act over there. It wasn't easy, but I got the job done."

  Carlie stops in her tracks, her expression suddenly turning grim.

  "I get it. Fighting is never easy, even when it’s the only thing you know how to do."

  Her sincerity catches me off guard. For a second, I see past the geeky girl wearing a ninja mask in public. I see a young woman carrying a weight that's clearly suffocating her. I stop the cart and look her dead in the eye. Something in her face tells me there’s a lot more to her story than just a love for combat.

  "Why do you even fight, Carlie? You’re the daughter of a powerful mob boss. You could inherit an empire or be anything you wanted."

  Carlie lets out a long, tired sigh. Her shoulders slump, her gaze drifting toward a distant point down the supermarket aisle.

  "I’m not cut out for the mob life, Marcus," she whispers, her voice barely audible. "I’m shy. I can’t look strangers in the eye. I forget things, I get intimidated easily… a whole list of shit."

  She pauses, looking like she’s reliving some particularly shitty memories.

  "Fighting is the only thing I’m actually good at," she continues, her voice firming up despite the underlying sadness. "My mom was always proud of that. So, since I was a kid, I molded myself into the perfect warrior. It was the only way to get her to actually look at me."

  She pauses again, her eyes a messy cocktail of determination and melancholy.

  "After the 'dishonor' of losing to a male in public, there’s only one way to regain my honor in her eyes." She swallows hard. "Having an heir with the man who defeated me."

  An uncomfortable silence drops over us like a lead weight. Wanting to kill the tension, I decide to mess with her a bit.

  "Sorry for causing you so much trouble," I say, my tone dripping with forced gravity. "Carlie, I swear, I didn't know."

  Carlie’s eyes go wide. Her ears and tail bristle instantly. She stumbles back a step, hands trembling as she stammers out a response.

  "N-no, Marcus, you misunderstood!" Her voice is a shaky whisper. "I… I didn’t mean it like that!"

  She takes a deep breath, trying to pull herself together, but the words just tumble out of her mouth.

  "My mom, it’s her who thinks that! A-and I… I don't give a shit about honor or dynasties! I just want to…"

  She cuts herself off, eyes filling with unshed tears. She bites her lower lip, desperately searching for the right words. Her reaction is so goddamn adorable I can’t help but burst out laughing.

  "It’s okay. I’m not offended. It's fine."

  Carlie blinks, stunned. Her ears twitch. She looks at me, tears still glistening in her eyes.

  "F-fine?"

  "Yeah, Carlie," I repeat, smiling. "No need to get all worked up. I understand you… probably more than you think."

  She takes another shaky breath, trying to compose herself. Her hands are still vibrating, but she starts to dry her eyes.

  "Y-you understand?"

  "Of course. And you don't have to worry about a thing," I say, keeping the smile fixed. "Even if Edith kicks you out, which she won't, I’ve got enough cash to take care of you."

  Carlie tilts her head, her tiger ears twitching with curiosity.

  "But why would you take care of me, Marcus? You barely know me."

  I spin around and strike an absurdly exaggerated pose, chest puffed out, chin high, and a classic shonen-style thumbs up.

  "Because, Carlie, that’s just what heroes do!"

  Carlie blinks, her expression a mix of awe and total confusion. "Heroes?" she repeats softly.

  I keep the pose, grinning like an idiot while I wait for her reaction.

  ...

  "Mommy, what’s that man doing?" a kid asks in the distance, pointing a finger at me.

  "Don't look at him, sweetie," a coati mother says, ushering her child away from the freak show.

  "But why is he wearing a shirt that says 'Mommy’s favorite chewing toy'?" the kid asks, still staring. "Why does his mommy bite him?"

  "Because she’s lucky. Now keep walking."

  [Image Shirt]

  After what feels like an eternity, Carlie finally snaps out of it.

  I was fully expecting her to laugh at my forced, over-the-top performance, but her eyes are sparkling with something entirely different.

  "Marcus, you’re… so unique," she whispers, her voice thick with genuine admiration. "You’re a total monster in the ring, but you’re actually so kind and warm."

  I relax my shoulders, letting out a long sigh as I look the tigress up and down.

  "Are you some kind of nerd?"

  Carlie freezes. Her eyes go wide as saucers and she snaps her head away, her denial coming out in a frantic stammer.

  "Of c-c-course not, Marcus!" she shouts. "I’m an honorable warrior! I'm definitely not a nerd with a massive manga collection and a hand-built PC with a maze of liquid cooling and glowing RGB!"

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  Her feline ears droop and her tail curls tightly around her legs. It’s a dead giveaway, I’ve hit the bullseye.

  "I get it. You’re a fujoshi gamer," I say, tilting my head with an amused smirk. "That’s why you were fighting in that ninja cosplay, right?"

  Carlie whips back toward me, her eyes burning with an intensity that actually makes me blink.

  "That is NOT cosplay, Marcus!" she growls, her voice dropping into a firm, defensive tone. "It’s a battle costume! It’s designed to hide my identity while I fight! Cosplay has to be of a specific character!"

  I take a half-step back, raising my hands in a peace offering.

  "Whoa, easy there, Carlie. Didn't mean to offend you… or the cosplayers, I guess."

  But Carlie isn’t backing down. She straightens her posture, seemingly growing taller as she fumes, reaching nearly two meters in height.

  "You need to understand, Marcus. Cosplay is a noble, serious art. It’s more than just dressing up like some generic ninja. It’s about respect, dedication, and passion!"

  I can’t help it. A laugh escapes my lips. Carlie blinks, her ears twitching nervously.

  "What are you laughing at?" she demands, her voice firm but laced with curiosity.

  "Sorry, Carlie," I say, trying to reel it in. "It’s just that you get so damn serious about this. It just confirms how much of a nerd you really are."

  Carlie crosses her arms, a faint blush creeping onto her cheeks.

  "So what if I am? There’s nothing wrong with that."

  "Relax. I’m just messing with you," I say. "I actually cosplayed once. I went as an ice ninja called Sub-Zero."

  Carlie’s ears perk up instantly. "Sub-Zero? From Mortal Kombat?"

  I nod, then pause as a realization hits me. "Wait… how do you know him? Does that game exist in this world too?"

  Before she can answer, a hoarse, raspy voice cuts through the air like a rusty saw.

  "Next!"

  We both turn toward the sound. Behind the counter stands an anthro butcher in a blood-stained apron, staring us down impatiently. She’s covered in black fur with a short, broad snout, dark beady eyes, and rounded ears. The smell of raw meat is heavy in the air.

  "A Tasmanian devil," I mutter.

  The butcher narrows her eyes, looking irritated.

  "Yeah, you got it right, you himbo," she grunts, her voice abrasive and thick with smoke. "Call me Matilda. Now tell me what the hell you want or get the fuck out of the line."

  She’s blunt as a hammer, but there’s a rough sincerity to her that I actually respect. She’s not here to play.

  "Sorry, Matilda," I say, keeping my voice steady. "I’ll take a kilo of each of these."

  I pull a crumpled list from my pocket. Both Carlie and Matilda lean in to look.

  "Picanha, beef ribs, pork ribs, flank steak, top sirloin, chicken wings, and chicken hearts," I read off, folding the paper back up. "Whole pieces if you’ve got 'em. I prefer to cut them myself for the grill."

  The shop goes silent. Matilda’s jaw drops so far the cigarette dangling from her lip falls right onto the floor. Carlie is staring at me like I've grown a second head.

  "What’s the problem?" I ask.

  "Marcus, are you insane?" Carlie hisses. "Why are you buying so much food?"

  "I haven't had a decent meal in a while," I shrug, genuinely confused by the shock. "I’m planning a big churrasco."

  Matilda suddenly bursts out laughing, a deep, guttural sound that echoes off the tiled walls.

  "Atta boy!" she bellows, pointing a thick finger at me. "I’ll go grab your meat, kid."

  "Score," I murmur happily.

  She disappears through a swinging door, leaving us alone at the counter. "Just so you know, we’re out of chicken hearts!" she yells from the back, much to my disappointment.

  Carlie is still reeling. "Marcus, do you have any idea how much all of this is going to cost?"

  A mischievous grin spreads across my face.

  "I didn’t just win your striped butt on the day of our fight, Carlie."

  Carlie huffs, frustrated. She crosses her arms and turns away, her ears flattened and her tail wrapped around her legs in a clear sign that I’m officially annoying her.

  [Point of view: Gorete Connor]

  The incessant clang-clang-clang of tools hitting metal echoes through the workshop.

  Edith looks like she’s trying to drill a hole through the sodium battery prototype with her eyes alone. She’s working with a desperate kind of intensity.

  "Why won’t you just work?" she grumbles, her voice thick with frustration.

  But the truth is obvious: the bunny’s mind is miles away.

  I let out a tired sigh. The heat in this workshop is suffocating, and the air is thick enough to chew, saturated with the heavy scent of oil and grease. My eyelids feel like lead, but the clock insists the day is only halfway done. I glance over at Edith. The little boss has her face buried in an engine, her shoulders a knot of tension and her ears drooping pitifully.

  "What’s the problem, boss?" I ask.

  The words come out slow, my patience wearing thin. Edith jumps as if I’d fired a gun next to her ear. Her eyes go wide, and her hands tremble just enough to notice.

  "Problem? There’s no problem, Gorete! I’m just… trying to get this engine to turn over."

  Her voice is a whisper, barely audible over the workshop din. But I hear it. And I know a bald-faced lie when it hits my ears.

  "Oh yeah?" I ask, my voice dripping with doubt. "Then tell me how you plan to start the damn thing without connecting it to the battery?"

  I point at the cables lying forgotten on the floor. Edith looks down, blinks, and then looks again. Realization hits her like a bucket of ice water to the face.

  "Damn it!" she exclaims, throwing her head back.

  "Hey now, boss," I say in a mock-serious tone, raising my hands. "Let’s keep the language professional in the workplace."

  Edith glares at me, her eyes sparking with irritation. But then, out of nowhere, she cracks. She starts laughing, a genuine, belly-deep laugh that makes her ears bounce. I can’t help it, I join in. The sound bounces off the metal walls, finally killing the tension.

  "Sorry, Gorete," Edith says, her voice still breathy with tired laughter. "I don’t know where my head is today."

  "It’s all good, boss," I reply with a shrug. "But seriously, give it to me straight. You look worse than I do when I wake up with a three-day hangover."

  The laughter dies down, and the ambient noise of the shop rushes back in to fill the void. Edith avoids my gaze, her restless hands fiddling aimlessly with a screwdriver.

  "It’s complicated, Gorete…" she mutters, clearly trying to shut the door on the conversation.

  "Let me guess," I say, leaning back against the workbench with my arms crossed. "Man trouble. And I’ll bet it’s that bum knight you adopted."

  KLING!

  The screwdriver hits the floor and bounces. Edith’s mouth drops open, her eyes nearly popping out of her head.

  "H-how do you know?!" she stammers, the words tripping over each other.

  I burst out laughing, clutching my stomach. The look on her face is worth a year’s salary.

  "Oh, boss," I wheeze. "To distract a gal like you this bad, it’s either money or men. And since I know you don’t give a shit about money…"

  I let the sentence hang there, a mischievous smirk plastered on my face. Edith just blinks, her brain clearly buffering. Her ears twitch, a dead giveaway that she's a nervous wreck.

  "But… but…" She tries to mount an argument, but the engine has stalled.

  "Come on, spill," I press, stepping closer. "What’s the knight been up to?"

  Edith looks away, her cheeks flushing a deep pink. Her hands migrate to a grease-stained rag, twisting it into knots. She sighs, her shoulders slumping as her gaze drifts into the void.

  "I told him how I felt," she says, her voice low and wavering. "I told him I love him. That I want to be with him."

  "And?" I ask, curiosity finally getting the better of me. "What did the guy say?"

  Edith bites her lip. Her ears droop flat against her head, and her eyes shimmer with tears she’s trying to hold back.

  "He said he couldn’t," she chokes out. "He said he’s already lost too much. He doesn't want to risk loving someone just to lose them again."

  I let out a frustrated growl, my hands curling into fists.

  "Arrogant little prince!" I bark, my irritation boiling over. "Who the hell does he think he is? Why couldn't he just tell the truth instead of using some weak-ass excuse?"

  Edith blinks, startled by my outburst. But then, a sad, fragile smile touches her lips.

  "No, Gorete," she says, shaking her head. "He really has been through hell. He’s lost everything, more than once. I’m actually just… I’m glad he at least agreed to a purely physical relationship with me."

  I open my mouth to keep ranting, but my brain catches up to the last part of her sentence and slams on the brakes.

  "Run that by me again?" I say, squinting at her.

  "He’s been through hard times?" she repeats, missing my point entirely.

  "Not that! The last part!"

  "He… agreed to a purely physical relationship," she says shyly, unable to look me in the eye.

  There’s a long pause.

  "GO FUCK YOURSELF ON A RUSTED SPIKE!" I roar, throwing my arms up in pure frustration. "What the hell are you complaining about?! You’ve got a gorgeous, muscular man who wants to rail you, and you're standing there like 'Oh, poor little me'?"

  My voice is thick with sarcasm. I roll my eyes so hard it hurts. Edith stumbles back, her ears flat and her eyes wide with shock.

  "But, Gorete…" she tries to protest, her voice weak.

  "No buts!" I cut her off, snapping a hand up to silence her. "You’ve got to be kidding me. Do you know how many women would kill to be in your shoes? And here you are, all weepy, acting like you’re the victim."

  Edith just stands there, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Her hands go back to fidgeting with that greasy rag.

  "But I want more, Gorete," she says, her voice trembling. "I want a real relationship, not just sex."

  I growl again. I’ve had enough of this juvenile drama.

  "I get it, Edith," I say, my tone shifting into a mix of irritation and blunt reality. "So here’s the only advice that matters: if you can’t handle the no-strings-attached stuff, then let him go."

  Edith recoils like I just slapped her. Her face is a mask of pure surprise.

  "But, Gorete-."

  "I said no buts!" I snap again. "This shit is your fault. Right now, you’re lying to yourself, thinking he’s going to magically change his mind if you just stay close. You know what’s actually going to happen? You’re just going to get bitter and disillusioned while you wait for a 'someday' that isn't coming."

  Edith is speechless. Her gaze drifts back into the empty air, her mind a total wreck.

  "I know it’s hard, boss," I say, my voice softening just a fraction, though I keep it firm. "But you need to look out for yourself. You can’t sit around hoping he’ll flip a switch. Either accept the deal as it is, or move the hell on."

  Edith sighs, her shoulders slumping as the tears finally glisten. She blinks hard, fighting them back with everything she’s got.

  I slam my hand down on the workbench

  BANG!

  Snapping her back to the present. Her ears perk up, and she focuses on me.

  "Sorry for being a bitch, boss. But I meant every word," I say firmly. "Now. Since we can’t control your man, let’s focus on what we can control."

  I point to the prototype, the mess of wires, and the scattered components. Edith blinks, the shock on her face slowly giving way to a spark of determination. She straightens her back. Her ears stand tall.

  "You're right, Gorete," she says, her voice finally steadying. "I need to get back to it. I'm going to make this sodium-ion battery work if it kills me."

  I flash a wide, toothy grin. Now that’s the boss I know.

  "That’s the spirit," I say, patting her on the shoulder. "Show this world you aren't just a cute little bunny. You’re a fucking genius."