You know, when I woke up this morning—which feels like approximately seventeen years ago despite being maybe six hours—I had a list of things I expected to happen today.
Getting assigned to a brothel? Check. Reuniting with my long-lost theatrical cousin? Check. Being chased through the slums by a ravenous horde of desperate, hungry people because I made the spectacularly idiotic decision to flash wealth in the poorest part of the city?
That one certainly wasn’t on the list, though in retrospect it really should have been, because if there’s one thing I’ve learned about myself over the past few weeks it’s that I possess an almost supernatural ability to turn "moderately bad situations" into "oh gods we’re going to die aren’t we" with minimal effort and maximum flair.
So let me cut to the chase, because we’re currently sprinting for our lives and narrative pacing waits for no one.
Brutus and I dashed through the slums like our collective asses were on fire—which, metaphorically speaking, they absolutely were—his massive legs eating up ground in long strides while I clung to his shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt hard enough to leave permanent indentations.
Behind us, the crowd of hungry drunkards stumbled after us with a ferocity that should have been comical—all flailing limbs and slurred coordination—except it was deeply, viscerally terrifying because there were so many of them, and while individually they moved like newborn fawn learning to walk, collectively they formed a tsunami of desperation that was gaining on us with every passing second.
"Run faster!" I shouted into Brutus’s ear, which was admittedly not the most helpful instruction I’d ever given but panic was doing interesting things to my verbal processing centers.
I glanced back over my shoulder and immediately regretted it, because the crowd had somehow grown, more people joining from side streets and doorways like we’d accidentally triggered some kind of poverty zombie apocalypse.
"Saints above, where are they all coming from? Is there a secret underground meeting where people gather to wait for idiots like me to throw money around?!"
Brutus merely grunted—because apparently cardiovascular strain had reduced his vocabulary to single syllables—and powered through with the determination of someone who absolutely was not going to let his story end with "trampled by desperate slum dwellers" in the final Chapter.
His single arm pumped at his side for balance, his breathing coming in heavy gasps that made his entire frame heave, and I felt genuine concern start to creep in alongside the terror because Brutus was strong, absurdly so, but even mountains eventually crumble under sustained pressure.
The buildings around us grew increasingly sparse as we ran, transitioning from "dilapidated but standing" to "mostly rubble with aspirations" to "why is this even still here," and then suddenly—blessedly—I could see it.
The massive cavern wall that engulfed the entire underground city, rising up in the distance like the world’s most oppressive ceiling. We were approaching the edge of the slums, the absolute boundary beyond which there was nowhere left to go.
My heart did an uncomfortable lurch because being cornered against a cave wall by an angry mob was not how I’d envisioned my triumphant entry into city life.
But then—there, just up ahead—I spotted something that made hope flutter weakly in my chest like a dying bird trying its last time to fly. A collapsed wall a few miles away from the cavern’s edge, bricks tumbled in a heap that would normally pose as a dead end, and just beyond it, barely visible through the gap, was the only glowing building I’d seen in the slums so far.
It was a theater—had to be, based on the vague architectural shape I could make out—run down and half-collapsed, with no visible signage and emitting a warm red glow that seemed almost inviting despite the structural damage that was clearly visible even from this distance.
"There!" I shouted, pointing dramatically despite the fact that Brutus probably couldn’t see where I was pointing and also we were running for our lives which made dramatic gesturing somewhat impractical. "That has to be it! The Moonlight Sonata! It’s the only building that looks remotely theater-shaped and is glowing, which seems very on-brand for Julius!"
Brutus nodded—or at least I think he nodded, it might have just been his head bobbing from the running—and pushed forward with renewed determination.
But then his foot caught on something, a crack in the cobblestone or maybe just the universe deciding we hadn’t suffered enough today, and he nearly went down in a sprawl that would have sent both of us tumbling across the street in an undignified heap of limbs.
He managed to catch himself at the last second, but the stumble cost him momentum and I could feel the exhaustion radiating from his massive frame like heat from a forge.
He came to a stop, setting me down from his shoulders with surprising gentleness given the circumstances, and when he spoke his voice was rough and breathless but determined nonetheless.
"I’ll fight them off," he said, turning to face the approaching crowd, hand reaching instinctively for the shotgun at his belt. "You take refuge in the theater. Get inside, bar the door, don’t come out until—"
"Brutus, you absolute idiot, I’m not leaving you to—" I started to protest, my voice rising with indignation and concern in equal measure, but then I heard it.
Squeaking.
Not just any squeaking—this was sharp, high-pitched, echoing through the alleyway with a quality that suggested it was coming from multiple sources at once, building in volume until it drowned out even the approaching footsteps of our pursuers.
I turned toward the collapsed wall just in time to see them burst through, and my brain temporarily short-circuited trying to process what my eyes were showing me.
Bunnies.
Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds. A literal torrent of snow-white fur and adorable floppy ears flooding forward through the gap in the wall.
They moved with coordinated precision that was deeply unnerving in creatures that were supposed to be, you know, bunnies, and as they got closer I noticed their eyes—feral crimson, glowing with an intensity that suggested these were not your typical vegetarian fluffballs.
I blinked once. Twice. Three times for good measure, because surely my brain was just making things up at this point, because there was absolutely no way in hell we were being saved by—
"Brutus," I said slowly, my voice pitched somewhere between hysterical laughter and genuine confusion, "are those... are those attack bunnies? Is that a thing that exists? Did someone weaponize rabbits?"
"Don’t question it, just—" Brutus started to say, already moving to run back the way we’d come, but the bunnies simply split around us like water flowing around stones, their tiny bodies weaving between our legs with practiced efficiency as they surged toward the crowd behind us.
Not a single one even paused to acknowledge our existence—they had a target, and that target was apparently everyone who wasn’t us.
The crowd began to slow as the white tide approached, confusion crossing their faces in waves. The drunkard at the forefront—a man with matted hair and clothes that might have been nice once, several decades ago—actually stopped completely as the first bunny hopped directly into his outstretched hands.
A slight smile graced his face, something almost childlike and innocent, as he took in how cute the creature was with its twitching nose and soft fur.
Then the bunny bounded forward and tore his eye out.
The man’s scream was piercing, echoing off the walls and probably waking everyone within three blocks as he clutched his bloodied socket. The crowd froze—which was the worst possible decision they could have made, because now they were stationary targets and the bunnies were hungry
The other rabbits bared their teeth—tiny, sharp, gleaming things that shouldn’t have been that terrifying on creatures the size of loaves of bread—and descended on the crowd with coordinated savagery that would have made wolves weep with envy.
Blood painted the cobblestone in arterial sprays as the bunnies tore into flesh with enthusiastic efficiency, their white fur quickly staining crimson as they worked.
Someone’s arm came off at the elbow, the appendage hitting the ground with a wet thump before being dragged away by three bunnies working in tandem. Another person’s throat simply vanished in a spray of red, and I watched with horrified fascination as a bunny emerged from the wound holding what looked suspiciously like a windpipe in its tiny mouth.
The crowd descended into absolute chaos, people screaming and trampling each other in their desperation to escape the fluffy harbingers of death, running back the way they’d come with speed that suggested they’d suddenly discovered reserves of energy they’d been hiding this whole time.
I didn’t wait to see the aftermath—couldn’t, really, because my survival instincts were screaming at me to not stick around and find out if the bunnies would decide we looked tasty after all. I grabbed Brutus’s arm and pulled.
To his credit, he didn’t need additional encouragement, both of us dashing forward through the gap in the collapsed wall as the last of the bunny horde slipped past us, their crimson eyes glowing in the dim light like demonic fireflies.
We burst through to the other side panting with heavy breaths that burned our lungs, stumbling to a stop and bending over with hands on knees as we tried to convince our bodies that yes, we were still alive, no, we weren’t being eaten by rabbits, everything was fine.
"So," I gasped between breaths, straightening slowly and wiping sweat from my forehead, "that happened. Attack bunnies. That’s apparently a thing in this city. Just adding that to the list of ’deeply concerning facts about my new home’ right between ’public sex is considered normal’ and ’people will try to eat you if you show them money.’"
Brutus let out a sound that was half laugh, half wheeze, and shook his head with the expression of someone who’d given up trying to understand the universe and was just along for the ride at this point.
"Your patron," he rumbled, still catching his breath, "runs a theater. Protected by murder rabbits. In the slums. Where people are actively starving."
"I mean, when you put it that way it does sound slightly questionable," I admitted, then grinned with sudden realization. "But also extremely Julius. That man has never done anything without dramatics, so of course his security system involves weaponized cuteness."
We turned as one to face the theater then, and I got my first proper look at what would apparently be my home for the foreseeable future.
The building was... well, "struggling" might be a generous description. Half the roof had clearly collapsed at some point and been haphazardly repaired with materials that didn’t quite match, giving it a patchwork appearance.
The walls leaned at angles that suggested they were held up more by hope and prayer than actual structural integrity. But that warm red glow emanating from the windows was genuine and inviting.
As we stood there I could hear faint music drifting from inside—slightly off-key but undeniably alive.
Brutus and I glanced at each other, and I saw my own mixture of apprehension and excitement reflected in his expression. We’d made it. Against all odds, through chaos, violence, and homicidal lagomorphs, we’d actually made it to our destination.
I stepped forward, Brutus falling into step beside me, and approached the double doors at the front of the theater. They were wooden, ornately carved with designs that had probably been beautiful once but were now worn and weathered.
When I pressed my hand against them I felt them give slightly, unlocked and inviting. I pushed them open slowly, quietly, and together we stepped inside to whatever fresh madness awaited us.
The show, as they say, was about to begin.