Kevin shoved the car door open and practically launched himself out, landing with the kind of crisp efficiency that suggested he’d done this a thousand times before.
Pawbert, on the other side, was a completely different story.
He clung to the door frame with both hands, trembling as he lowered himself out of the vehicle inch by inch.
The moment his feet touched the ground, his knees buckled like overcooked noodles, and he collapsed onto the dirt with a heavy thud that sent a cloud of dust blooming into the air.
He sat there for a long moment, gasping for breath, then reached down to massage his aching, stiff calves.
Across the river, two foxes flailed helplessly in the water, their drenched fur plastered flat against their skinny bodies.
Water streamed from the tips of their ears as they paddled frantically, their legs churning in desperate, uncoordinated strokes toward the shore.
Phil and Gray had barely gotten their paws on the gravel at the water’s edge when thick polar bear paws clamped down on the scruffs of their necks.
They were hoisted into the air like misbehaving pups, their legs pedaling uselessly against empty space.
Then came the sound of hurried footsteps, shattering the forest’s heavy silence.
A polar bear jogged up to Kevin, clutching his backpack, his massive head shaking grimly.
He held the bag open for inspection.
The gun was gone.
Nothing remained inside, not even a single shell casing.
“Where is it?” Kevin’s voice came out soft, almost conversational, and that’s what made it so terrifying.
The larger bear tightened his grip on Phil’s throat, his coarse palm constricting like a steel vise.
The fox’s vertebrae cracked and popped under the pressure.
Phil’s breath stuttered into ragged, wheezing gasps, his face swelling to an ugly purple as his limbs began to twitch uncontrollably.
“We…
we don’t know…
I swear, we don’t know where it fell…” Phil choked out, his voice barely a whisper.
That broke Kevin into laughter.
Even now, at death’s door, these two idiots still thought they could use the gun as leverage against him.
“Forget it,” Kevin said with a dismissive wave.
“If we can’t find it, we can’t find it.
Cut out their tongues, tear off their hands and legs, and throw whatever’s left into the river.
The fish need to eat too.” Pawbert’s head snapped toward Kevin, his eyes going wide.
The wolf’s expression hadn’t changed, still calm, still pleasant, with not a trace of emotion in his gaze.
And that was when Pawbert finally understood, with a cold jolt of horror, that Kevin wasn’t joking.
The surrounding polar bears exchanged glances and nodded in unison.
In one fluid motion, they drew knives from their coats, the blades catching the sunlight in cold, wicked gleams.
When Phil and Gray saw those knives, a wave of ice-cold terror shot straight up their spines, making their scalps prickle and their fur stand on end.
‘Oh, crap.
They were serious.’ A wet thunk cut through the air.
One of the younger, more impatient bears, barely more than a cub, really, had plunged his knife straight into Gray’s left shoulder blade.
Blood sprayed outward, splattering across the bear’s face, warm droplets trickling down his snout and chin.
Gray’s body arched violently, his spine bowing like a drawn bowstring as a gut-wrenching scream tore from his throat.
His face contorted beyond recognition, twisted into a mask of pure agony, his limbs thrashing wildly against his captors.
Another polar bear seized Gray’s injured arm, his claws digging deep into the edges of the bloody wound, preparing to rip the limb clean from its socket.
Phil’s stomach churned violently.
The scene before him, the blood, the screaming, the casual brutality, pushed him over the edge.
The last fraying strand of his composure snapped.
“I’ll talk!
I’ll talk!” he shrieked, his voice cracking into a desperate, pleading sob.
Kevin gave a slight nod.
The polar bear loosened his grip, and the two foxes dropped to the ground like sacks of garbage.
But the moment they hit the dirt, the bear behind them raised his heavy paw and brought it down on their back legs, one after the other, with swift, practiced precision.
Crack.
The sound of bones splintering cut through the air, sharp and sickening.
The two foxes curled into trembling balls on the ground, clutching their broken legs, their howls of agony rising like wounded animals caught in a trap.
Pawbert stood a few feet away, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard.
His lips quivered, but no words came out.
His stomach lurched violently, acid surging up his throat, and he stumbled to the nearest tree, bracing himself against the rough bark as everything inside him came rushing out.
He retched until there was nothing left, leaving his throat raw and his eyes stinging.
“It’s…
it’s behind the warehouse,” Phil gasped between sobs, his voice fractured with pain.
“There’s a big rock, the one by the back door.
There’s a hole underneath it.
That’s where we stashed it.” One of the polar bears pulled out a brick-sized mobile phone, made a quick call, and waited.
A moment later, he grunted in satisfaction.
“Found it.
Every bullet accounted for.” “Well, that’s sorted, then,” Kevin said, his tone light, almost cheerful.
He stepped forward, reaching out to take the heavy handgun from one of his men.
Under the hollow, despairing gazes of Phil and Gray, he pressed the cold black muzzle squarely against Gray’s forehead.
“I was willing to let the food-staining thing slide,” Kevin said, his voice soft and airy, like he was discussing the weather.
“But stealing from me?
That’s a different matter entirely.
Consider this an act of divine justice.” Click.
The sound of a bullet sliding into the chamber was crisp and sharp, cutting through the silence like a blade.
Gray’s entire body began to shake, tremors starting in his shoulders and spreading outward to his fingertips.
His breath came in ragged, desperate gasps, but his lungs felt full of nothing but scorching, suffocating panic.
He was going to die.
This was it.
Everything was over.
Then, in the distance, the wail of sirens split the air, growing louder and louder as two police cars came tearing around the bend, their red and blue lights strobing through the trees like a cheap disco.
“What the hell?
Who called the cops?” Kevin’s face darkened, his brow knotting in irritation.
He shoved the gun back into the bear’s hands with practiced speed.
The polar bears looked at each other in confusion, all shaking their heads.
But one arm trembled its way up from the crowd, a pale hand shaking like a leaf in the wind.
“I…
I did.” Pawbert’s voice came from beside the tree, dry and raspy.
Kevin turned, staring at him for two long, silent seconds.
Then he closed his eyes and let out a heavy sigh.
“Amazing, Pawbert.
Just…
amazing.
You’re determined to ruin me, aren’t you?” The words came out laced with weary resignation, almost fond in their exasperation.
He had planned to tie up the loose ends once the gun was recovered, but his own friend had thrown a wrench into everything.
“Caught the thieves?” The police cars screeched to a halt, doors flying open to reveal four officers, two goats and two sheep, all of them built like tanks, their muscles straining against their crisp uniforms.
They’d received a call about a theft and hadn’t thought much of it, but when the caller mentioned wealthy outsiders losing something valuable, they’d scrambled to respond.
“Yes, we caught them,” Kevin said, grabbing Gray by the scruff and tossing him toward the officers like a sack of flour.
The leading sheep officer surveyed the scene, the mangled motorcycle wreckage by the river, the two shivering, soaking-wet foxes huddled on the ground, seven hulking polar bears in black suits lurking in the shadows, three black SUVs parked in a neat fan formation.
His eyes finally settled on Gray’s twisted, grotesquely bent leg, and his eyebrow shot up.
“What happened to his leg?” the sheep officer asked, crouching down for a closer look.
He grabbed his radio.
“Send a couple of medics.
We’ve got a situation here.” “N…
nothing,” Gray stammered, trying to push himself up on his elbows.
But a large hand landed on his head, patting him with false gentleness.
Kevin stepped forward with an easy smile, delivering two heavy thumps to Gray’s back, hard enough to rattle his teeth and squeeze the air from his lungs.
“Just a little traffic accident,” Kevin said, his tone light and conversational.
“These two were riding their motorcycle, backed up carelessly, and slammed right into my car.
They broke their own legs and fell into the river trying to get away.
Right?” He looked down at Gray.
“That’s what happened, isn’t it?” “Yes!
Yes, that’s exactly right!” Gray practically shouted, his head bobbing frantically.
“Just like he said!
We fell on our own!
It was our fault, one hundred percent our fault!” Before the sheep officer could get another word in, Gray dropped to his knees, his forehead nearly scraping the dirt.
“I confess!
I confess to everything!” Phil’s voice trembled, thick with tears.
“We shouldn’t have stolen anything.
We’re so sorry.
We’re so, so sorry…” The four officers’ lips twitched in unison.
This made sense?
A motorcycle backing up, getting completely destroyed, the riders breaking their own legs and flying into the river?
They weren’t fools, they knew exactly what had happened.
The two foxes had probably tried to steal from the wrong people, got caught, and had their legs broken as a message.
But with the “victims” confessing to the accident, what could they do?
The head officer looked at the imposing lineup of polar bears, the sleek black SUVs, the casual wealth radiating off Kevin.
He figured this was some big-shot from Zootopia, some rich kid with connections and no patience for thieves.
His aura practically screamed “don’t mess with me.” “We’re terribly sorry you had such an unpleasant experience here in Bunnyburrow,” the officer said, his tone carefully diplomatic.
“Don’t worry about it,” Kevin replied with a smile.
“And forget about making them pay for the repairs, just make sure they get proper medical attention.” He handed the sheep officer a pack of cigarettes.
The officer nodded, glanced around briefly, and smoothly pocketed the smokes, his expression snapping back to stern professionalism.
He produced a pair of handcuffs and clicked them onto Gray’s wrists with a sharp, final sound.
Kevin leaned down, his lips nearly brushing Phil’s ear, and whispered a few quiet words.
Phil’s pupils dilated, and then he started nodding frantically, tears spilling over his cheeks.
Kevin straightened up, giving Phil’s wet head a couple of casual pats, like he was comforting a dog he’d just punished.
Phil, limping heavily, hobbled over to the police car.
The other cuff clicked shut around his wrist.
—— The drive back took them past three in the afternoon.
The sun was still bright overhead, but the wind rushing through the windows carried the cool, green scent of earth and grass, making the temperature perfect for driving with one hand out the window.
Kevin rested one hand on the steering wheel, the other stretched outside, his fingers slightly parted, feeling the air slide between them like water.
“What’s wrong, Pawbert?
You’re not getting carsick, are you?” Kevin glanced over at his passenger.
Pawbert had curled himself into the corner of his seat, his hands clenched together in his lap, his knuckles white.
He shook his head mutely.
For a long moment, he stayed silent.
Then, hesitantly, he ventured, “What…
what did you say to that fox?
At the end?” “About the gun, obviously,” Kevin replied, pulling his hand back inside and resting it on the wheel.
He reached over and gave Pawbert a gentle pat on the shoulder, much softer than before.
“Just had a little chat with him.
Explained the situation.
He promised he wouldn’t say a word.” Pawbert pressed his lips together and said nothing.
“And you,” Kevin said, glancing sideways, “why the hell did you have to call the cops?” “Uh…
sorry.” Seeing Pawbert shrinking into himself, his eyes darting nervously, Kevin let out a soft laugh.
He guessed that back when Pawbert was young, there had still been some compassion left in him, some decency, some sense of right and wrong.
As for the Pawbert from the movie, the one he’d watched on screen…
that version had been twisted into something else entirely by years of pressure, survival, and cruelty.
Pawbert was sneaking glances at him too.
He studied Kevin’s sharp, defined profile, the faint smile still lingering at the corners of his mouth.
But it was the same face that, not long ago, had worn an expression of terrifying indifference while casually ordering dismemberment.
For the first time, Pawbert truly understood that the friend who had played along with him for all these weeks carried a demon inside him.
And he finally knew, truly knew, where that bullet-shell necklace around Kevin’s neck had come from.
Since they’d driven this route before, the journey back felt quicker.
The trees on either side thinned out, the buildings shifted from low bungalows to more dense structures, and before five o’clock, the outskirts of Zootopia appeared on the horizon.
Pawbert pressed his face to the window, taking in the surroundings.
This part of town felt forgotten, the streets were quiet, the stores few and far between, with faded posters peeling off the utility poles and nobody around to replace them.
The convoy pulled up under a massive, ancient tree.
Its canopy spread wide enough to block out the sky, and from its thick, gnarled branches hung a few swings, their chains rusted and brittle, their wooden seats cracked and rotting, swaying creakily in the breeze like abandoned ghosts.
Kevin pushed his door open, his boots crunching against fallen leaves and loose gravel.
He looked across the street, and his brow furrowed unconsciously.
On the other side of the narrow asphalt road, most of the shops sat dark and shuttered.
Their metal roll-down doors were thick with dust, their display windows plastered with yellowed “For Lease” signs.
Only a single small general store still glowed with a dim, yellow light inside, a stubborn holdout against the decay.
Kevin remembered it.
He and Nick had bought a few cans of paint here, once, on a warm afternoon that felt like a lifetime ago.
And the Wilde family’s tailor shop?
It was gone now.
Completely derelict.
The little storefront, once painted in cheerful pink-and-white stripes, was now covered in chaotic, multicolored graffiti, layer upon layer of scrawled tags and crude drawings, like a canvas repeatedly painted over without care.
Most of the front window had been shattered, the remaining shards jutting out like sharp, jagged teeth.
Someone had haphazardly nailed thin planks of wood over the gaps.
A heavy chain was wrapped around the door handle, secured with a rusted padlock, with a faded plastic “Closed” sign hanging beside it, its colors bleached to pale gray by years of sun.
The tree’s branches had grown wild and unchecked, some thick limbs pushing their way right through the broken second-story windows.
Weeds choked the front steps, swallowing the bottom stair completely, tangled with crumpled wrappers, crushed cigarette packs, and flyers so faded they were unreadable.
Everything was silent except for the mournful whistle of wind passing through broken glass and splintered wood.
It was obvious.
No one had lived here for a very, very long time.
Kevin stood on the curb, hands deep in his pockets, his eyes fixed on the ruins of the tailor shop.
The setting sun slanted in from behind him, casting his long, thin shadow across the street until it merged with the overgrown grass at the base of the steps opposite.
His face was unreadable, a careful mask that revealed nothing.
But his Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed once, hard.
Pawbert got out of the car too, standing quietly at his side.
He followed Kevin’s gaze to the ruined building, took in the shattered windows and creeping weeds, but said nothing.
He didn’t ask any questions.
He just stood there, beside his friend, waiting.
————•★•————★ Author Note: Thanks for reading!
🪻🪻 P@treaon: Blueduck14 (20+ chapters) Free members get access to one bonus chapter.