The gates of Veldora rose ahead like a shimmering promise, their arches carved with twisting vines and beasts frozen in stone. Sunlight spilled across the city, scattering off brass rooftops and cobblestones so polished they reflected the sky. The marketplace beyond throbbed with life: merchants shouted over one another, carts rattled, bells jingled, and the scents of roasted meats, sweet pastries, and herbs layered into a dizzying perfume that tugged at every sense.
Mickey's pulse quickened. This was more than he had imagined, brighter and wilder than the stories whispered by travelers. Creek padded beside him, muscles rippling under sleek fur, tail swishing in measured excitement. The wolf's ears twitched at every sound, head tilting as the scents and motions rolled over him. His blue eyes flicked to Mickey with unmistakable loyalty, playful energy simmering just beneath the surface.
Stalls lined the wide streets, stacked high with goods from lands Mickey had never seen: glittering glass beads, soft silks dyed in impossible shades, fruits that seemed to glow, tiny mechanical toys that spun and clicked. Mickey's eyes darted from one stall to another, heart soaring. "Creek… look at all this!" he whispered, almost reverent, brushing his hand across a rack of fabrics that shimmered like water.
A sudden growl from his stomach reminded him of the harsh reality. He froze, grimaced, and glanced down. Creek's tail wagged once, teasing him. Mickey's hand came up to rub his stomach. He had barely any Reeco left — enough to feed himself or Creek, but not both. He crouched slightly, meeting the wolf's eyes. "I guess… one of us eats first, buddy," he muttered. Creek's ears twitched. The wolf nuzzled his side once, soft, persuasive, then gave a short playful bark, as if disagreeing entirely with the plan.
Before Mickey could react, Creek lunged with a burst of surprising strength. One powerful tug on Mickey's arm and the wolf was dragging him through the bustling crowd, weaving past merchants and shoppers with an ease born of muscle and instinct. "Creek! Hey, slow down!" Mickey laughed, stumbling to keep pace, hair falling across his forehead, eyes wide with both amusement and amazement. But Creek was relentless.
Their path ended at a neon-lit sign that glowed amidst the sunlit streets: "DECOR".
The shop's doorway exhaled heat and sound. Smoke from incense coils twined with sunlight in golden spirals, and the room pulsed with the rhythm of dice clattering, coins jingling, and laughter that rang sharp as glass. The air was thick with the smell of roasted nuts, spiced wine, and the raw, metallic tang of anticipation. Mickey's pulse matched the rhythm of the room — bright, alive, dangerous.
Inside, Decor was a jungle of human energy. Crowds pressed around tables, leaning over dice, flipping cards, whispering bets. Eyes flashed sharp and calculating, lips curled in knowing smiles, and hands twitched constantly over stacks of Reeco. Mickey's gaze swept across every detail: the tilt of a dealer's wrist, the nervous shuffle of a gambler's fingers, the quick inhale before a wager. Every movement was a clue, every glance a story.
Creek nudged him lightly, tail flicking with playful insistence. Mickey knelt slightly to meet him, brushing a hand over his thick fur. "Alright, Creek. Let's see what this place has for us," he murmured, sliding into an empty seat at a large green-felted table. Coins from previous games littered the surface, stacked and scattered, a chaotic mosaic of luck.
Mickey's first wagers were careful, measured. He watched the shuffles, read the microexpressions of those around him, felt the faint shifts of energy in the table itself. Dice rattled across wood and green felt, cards flipped and settled. Each movement was a heartbeat, and he timed his bets with instinct honed sharp. Creek rested his head in Mickey's lap, eyes scanning the table with playful intensity, tail wagging when Mickey moved a coin just right.
A small win at first, subtle. Mickey leaned back, eyes gleaming, letting the other players underestimate him. The second hand brought a larger payout — Mickey's grin widening as he read the next player's hesitation, a twitch of fingers betraying confidence that wasn't real. The pile in front of him grew.
The third hand was risky. He pushed more Reeco forward, reading the dealer's subtle tells, the shifts in the gambler across from him, the tiny flinch when a coin clattered slightly too loudly. The payoff was immediate and satisfying — coins cascading toward him, clinking in chaotic rhythm. Creek barked softly, almost like laughter, and Mickey ruffled his fur. "Good boy," he whispered, tapping Creek's head gently.
By the fourth hand, Mickey's pile had quadrupled the Reeco he had entered with. He leaned back, fingers brushing over the coins, heart racing with exhilaration. Around the table, tension shifted; other gamblers' confident postures stiffened into caution. Eyes flicked, breaths held just slightly too long, hands hovering uncertainly over their own stacks. The energy in the room bent toward him, not with respect, but with wary fascination, instinctively sensing the sharpness in his observation, the precision in his instinct.
Creek nudged him again, tail flicking, playfulness glinting in his eyes. Mickey smiled, brushing a hand over his fur. The wolf was alive with energy, muscles coiled, strength apparent even in the playful lean against Mickey's leg. They were a team, the wild and the clever, reading the room together.
And then, suddenly, everything shifted.
A hand came down on his shoulder — solid, unyielding, deliberate. The warmth of it contrasted with the chill that rippled through the room. Mickey froze. Every other noise, every clatter, every shout faded into an almost deafening silence. Every gambler instinctively drew back, eyes wide, postures folding into caution.
Creek growled low, rumbling in his chest, tail bristling, ready to strike or flee. Mickey's muscles tensed, senses firing, but the hand stayed — firm, silent, undeniable. The energy in the room was thick, charged, and focused entirely on that single point of contact.
No words. No gestures. Just the hand.
And then — the gamblers all stepped back, giving space, leaving the moment suspended in charged, silent tension. Mickey's pulse thundered. Creek leaned closer, muscles coiled, still playful yet fiercely protective. The room's bright chaos and roaring energy contrasted sharply with the sudden, unnerving calm that now dominated Decor.