Police sirens wailed somewhere down the block as Model T cruisers rattled over the Cobblestone streets of 1920s Hydromormia. Their lights flashed briefly across the old three‑story building on the corner, the one with the flickering neon sign that still read NORTH'S BAR & LOUNGE, though the place had been shuttered since Prohibition snuffed out its livelihood a year prior. Once a beacon of the city's nightlife, it now sat quiet, gathering dust like a forgotten relic.
Inside, behind the long mahogany bar, Mikhail Volkov — an imposing Siberian tiger with a thick Russian accent — polished a shot glass with the grim dedication of a man trying to keep his hands busy. A mangy dog in a ragged coat slumped over the counter, reeking of cheap gin.
"Hey, durak. Get out, little dog. We are closed." Mikhail's voice cut through the stale air like a cleaver.
The mournful cry of a violin drifted through the empty lounge, haunting the shadows like ghosts of better nights. Dust motes swirled in the pale light slipping through the boarded windows, dancing to the melody as it echoed through the hollow bones of what had once been the crown jewel of the city. Up on stage stood a tall lean wolf with gray and black mixed fur, he wore a pinstriped suit, his coat draped over a nearby chair. His gloved fingers worked the bow over the strings of the violin.
Mikhail paused, one massive striped hand resting on the bar. His stern blue eyes softened barely at the sound. He remembered that violin. He remembered a much smaller Bastion, barely tall enough to peek over the stage, sawing away at a half‑sized instrument while Atlas's father laughed and poured another round for the house.
The drunk dog slid off his stool and staggered toward the door. Mikhail didn't bother watching him leave.
"You play sad song again, Bastion," he rumbled, voice low as distant thunder. "Every night, same sad song. You trying to bring ghosts back… or keep them company?" He set the glass down with a heavy clink and leaned forward, the bar groaning under his weight.
Upstairs, the floorboard's creaked Atlas was in his office. He'd been up there since dawn, poring over ledgers that told the same story on every page: red ink, red ink, red ink. The gold chain of his pocket watch glinted in the lamplight as he leaned back, rubbing his eyes with one hand while the other held a glass of water, the strongest thing left in the building.
Across town, the bell above the Foxingtons' thrift store chimed as James flipped the sign to OPEN, his golden eyes scanning the street with the quiet vigilance of a man who'd lived too many lives. And in the cramped garage behind Moretti's Laundromat, Mabel "Kit" Clawford was already elbow‑deep in the guts of a beat‑up Ford, a wrench between her teeth and oil streaking her tabby-striped cheek as the city groaned awake around her.
"Oh, do pipe down, you old fussbudget. It's hardly my fault the tunes I fancy don't tickle your ear."
Bastion set his violin on the chair where his coat hung. He knew Mikhail meant nothing by it. The last few years had been hard on all of them harder still after Atlas Senior passed. Other crews carved up territory that once belonged to the North family, and the only legal income they had evaporated the moment the Prohibition Act hit.
Mikhail let out a low rumble something between a growl and a chuckle his massive shoulders shifting beneath the trench coat he never seemed to remove.
"Fussbudget," he repeated, tasting the word like it personally offended him. "In old country, I break man's jaw for less than this word."
But there was no heat behind it. His eyes drifted to the violin, then across the empty lounge the torn velvet booths, the chandelier missing half its crystals, the stage where Ruby Foxington-Hopkins once held a room captive with nothing but her voice and a spotlight.
He exhaled heavily.
"Your father… he play better," Mikhail said, quieter now. "But you… you play with more feeling. Not same thing. But not bad thing either."
The floorboards above groaned again. Footsteps — deliberate, measured — descended the back staircase.
Atlas "Al" North emerged from the shadows, his black fedora casting a sharp line across his angular wolf muzzle. His cool blue eyes swept the room with the weary authority of a man who'd inherited a throne but lost the kingdom. The red tie at his collar looked like a slash of blood against the monochrome of his immaculate suit.
He paused at the bottom step, one hand on the banister, his gaze settling on Bastion his oldest friend a look that said he'd heard the violin and let it play because some part of him needed it too.
"Gentlemen," Atlas said, voice smooth despite the weight behind it, "I hope you're in a working mood. Fintan Flanagan's crew is moving product through the dockyards tonight and I think it's time this city remembered the North family isn't dead yet."
Bastion's stomach tightened. The Flanagan's were a clan of Irish setters, mean as they came only hired their own kind and one of the Norths families' biggest rivals. Not like the Norths, who took in anyone with loyalty and grit.
"I'll pop across the street and let Kit know we'll need the truck this evening." Bastion shrugged into his trench coat. It wasn't exactly a secret that he had a soft spot for Mabel, much to Mikhail's eternal disapproval.
Atlas's ears perked, a knowing smirk tugging at his muzzle. He adjusted his fedora.
"The truck. Right." His tone was dry as sandpaper. "Make sure you're asking about the truck, Base not finding excuses to watch her bend over an engine block."
Mikhail's head snapped up, his massive frame going rigid. His blue eyes locked onto me like a searchlight catching a fugitive.
"You go see Mabel," he said slowly, each word heavy as an anvil. "You talk about truck. You talk about job. You do not talk about… other things." He pointed a thick, clawed finger at Bastion or Base as he was called by the crew.
"I am watching, little wolf. Always watching."
Atlas rolled his eyes and pushed off the banister. Mikhail threating Bastion was a common occurrence it happened at least once a day.
"Let the man breathe, Mikhail. He's not proposing he's fetching a truck." He turned back to Bastion, expression sharpening.
"Be quick. I want everyone here by sundown. James and Ruby too we'll need Red's brain for this one." Atlas reached into his vest, pulled out a folded newspaper clipping, and tossed it onto the bar. A grainy photograph of Fintan Flanagan shaking hands with a city councilman on the courthouse steps. The kind of handshake that bought immunity, influence, and a blind eye from the law.
"Flanagan's got friends in high places now," Atlas said, his voice low and controlled. "Which means whatever we do tonight has to be clean, no bodies, no witnesses, no trail leading back here."
Mikhail leaned in, studying the photo. A low growl rumbled in his chest, deep enough to vibrate the glasses on the shelf. His claws scraped faint lines into the bar top as his fingers curled claws shredding the newspaper.
"Well, I'll be," Bastion said, rolling his shoulders. "I picked up kick‑boxing for when the fur really flies, but you're the boss, Atlas." He threw a few playful jabs into the air, Atlas caught one of my shadow‑boxing jabs muscle memory from the days when Atlas and Bastion boxed behind the building under the watchful eyes of their fathers, both veterans like Mikhail.
"Save it for tonight," he said with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You might need it."
Bastion turned toward the door. "Don't get yourself in a twist, old man. I know you've got an eye on me whenever Mabel's around."
Mikhail's eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. His jaw tightened beneath the heavy stripes of his muzzle. He set the glass down with deliberate care the kind of care that suggested the alternative was hurling it across the room.
"Is not twist," he growled, his accent thickening with his temper. "Is promise. You remember difference, da?"
But Bastion was already halfway out the door, and the old tiger's warning dissolved into the dusty air like smoke from a dying cigarette.
"Save it for tonight," he said with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You might need it."
The city hit like a wall sound, smell, motion. The cobblestones still glistened from last night's rain. Coal smoke mingled with the scent of wet newspaper and fresh bread drifting from the bakery two blocks down. A paperboy hollered headlines about another speakeasy raid uptown. Model T's rattled past, coughing and sputtering like asthmatic beasts. Across the street, two beat cops strolled with lazy menace, billy clubs swinging at their sides as they surveyed the storefronts like they owned every brick.
Steam belched from the vents of Moretti's Laundromat, drifting across the narrow alley that led to Mabel's garage. From behind that curtain of white vapor came the unmistakable clang of a wrench hitting metal — followed by a sharp, colorful string of profanity that could only belong to one particular tabby.
Bastion adjusted his fedora, tucked his hands into his trench coat pockets, and crossed the street with a pace that was perhaps a touch more eager than the errand strictly required. He decided to duck through Moretti's Laundromat Mrs. Moretti an old Badger women sat behind the counter she had known Bastion, Atlas and Mabel since they were all cubs, so it made no difference to see the wolf sneak through the back door of her shop.