Ah, the sweet, dim glow of The Silent Fang. The kind of place where every corner holds a story, most of them involving a knife, a betrayal, or—if you're lucky—a bottle of overpriced whiskey. It's like home, if home were filled with people who'd kill you for looking at them funny. Cozy, right?

I pushed open the heavy wooden door, stepping into the familiar haze of smoke and tension. The air smelled like burnt cigars and regret, but what did you expect from a pub where the most notorious assassins gathered to "network"? Networking here meant figuring out whose wallet to drain and whose throat to slit, in that order.

Oh, and in case you're wondering, yes, I've been here before. Deku—that's the alias, by the way—is sort of a legend in these circles. They don't know what I look like, though, because I've got this whole mysterious, no-one-knows-who-I-am vibe going on. Or at least I did.

Sliding onto a barstool, I tapped the counter. "Whiskey, no ice. The good stuff, not the rat piss you served me last time."

The bartender, an older beta with a scar running across his face, gave me a once-over but said nothing. He poured the drink and slid it toward me without a word. That's the thing about this place—people don't ask questions.

"Thanks," I said, lifting the glass. "To not dying another day."

I downed it in one go, savoring the burn, and then scanned the room. Killers, thieves, mercenaries—you name it, they were all here. Most of them minding their own business, which suited me just fine. I wasn't here to make friends; I was here to find work.

But of course, peace never lasts.

"Hey, kid," came a gruff voice from somewhere behind me.

Oh great. Here we go.

I turned slowly, fixing my best disinterested look on the guy speaking. He was huge—muscles for days and a face that looked like it had lost a fight with a meat grinder. Charming.

"You talking to me?" I asked, tilting my head.

"You're in my seat," he growled.

Ah, classic tough guy line. Points for originality.

I glanced around. The pub was half-empty, plenty of open seats everywhere. "Really? Your seat? Funny, I don't see your name on it. Did you forget your crayon at home?"

That earned me a few snickers from the nearby tables. Meat Grinder Face didn't look amused.

"Listen here, punk," he said, stepping closer. "You either move, or I move you. Your choice."

Now, most people would probably back down at this point. But me? Oh no. Backing down isn't in my vocabulary. Instead, I smiled—sweet, innocent, and just shy of I'm about to ruin your whole day.

"Move me, then," I said, leaning back against the bar and spreading my arms wide. "Go ahead. Make my night."

The room went quiet, the kind of quiet that only happens when everyone senses a fight brewing. And then, because the universe has a sick sense of humor, my ears twitched.

Yeah, you heard that right. My snow leopard ears. They popped up without warning, followed by my tail swishing behind me.

Perfect timing, as always.

A few gasps rippled through the crowd. "Wait a second," someone whispered. "Is that... Deku?"

Oh, for fuck's sake.

Meat Grinder Face took a step back, eyes widening. "You're Deku?"

I sighed, cracking my knuckles. "Congratulations, genius. You figured it out. Now what?"

What happened next was predictable: chaos.

The guy lunged at me, and I ducked, spinning out of my seat and delivering a sharp elbow to his gut. He doubled over, and I followed up with a knee to his face, sending him sprawling onto the floor.

Of course, that wasn't the end of it. This was a pub full of assassins, after all. The second I landed that hit, half the room decided they wanted a piece of me.

"Really?" I muttered, dodging a wild swing from some wannabe with a broken bottle. "All of you? At once? Isn't that a little unfair?"

Not that I was complaining. A good brawl was exactly what I needed to blow off some steam.

I moved like lightning, ducking, weaving, and landing hits with precision. A punch to the jaw here, a roundhouse kick there—every move calculated, every strike landing where it hurt the most.

One guy tried to grab my tail. Big mistake. I spun around and slammed his head into the bar, sending bottles crashing to the floor.

Another thought he could catch me off guard with a knife. Cute. I disarmed him in seconds, twisting his wrist until he dropped the blade, then kicked him into a table that collapsed under his weight.

"Come on," I said, grinning like a maniac. "Is that the best you've got?"

They kept coming, but it didn't matter. This was my element—chaos, adrenaline, and the sweet satisfaction of watching grown men crumble under my fists.

By the time it was over, the pub was a wreck. Broken chairs, shattered glass, and a handful of groaning bodies littered the floor. I stood in the middle of it all, breathing hard but victorious.

The bartender stared at me, his expression somewhere between impressed and horrified. "You're paying for this," he said flatly.

I shrugged, brushing some dust off my jacket. "Put it on my tab."

And with that, I walked out, leaving the carnage behind me.

Moral of the story? Don't mess with Deku.

Or, you know, maybe just don't pick fights in assassin pubs.