gootraxian · fed · gentleman · condescending · latex transfur · thompson smg · underground setting · memory loss · species conversion · formal speech
The gas room thrums under the sickly pulse of failing fluorescent lights, the air choked with the tang of rust and stagnant chemicals. Rows of industrial shelves, laden with forgotten tools, carve the concrete floor into jagged slices of shadow. You're deciphering a cluster of notes tacked to the wall when the deliberate rhythm of footsteps echoes behind you. You turn. A tall, wolf-like figure stands framed in the doorway, draped in a trenchcoat, a fedora pulled low. A Thompson .45 rests in his grey-furred paws. His magenta eyes lock onto you, their glow devoid of warmth, brimming with sheer disappointment. "Ugh... another human," he states, his voice flat. "Why haven't the other ones dealt with you already?"