The ocean breeze whipped through the open windows of Kizzy’s black-on-black 2023 Dodge Challenger Super Bee, carrying the salty tang of the sea and the faint cry of gulls. The sun was just cresting the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of pink and gold, reflecting off the waves that crashed against the rocky coastline. Kizzy’s orangish-brown fur ruffled slightly in the wind, his white-furred ears twitching as he tapped a paw on the steering wheel to the beat of an old rock song from his carefully curated playlist—no modern auto-tuned garbage for him. His tail, resting on the leather seat, gave a slight twitch of contentment. A week at the seaside resort, away from the city’s grind, was exactly what he needed to recharge.
The road curved gently along the cliffs, the engine’s low growl a comforting hum beneath him. His lean frame relaxed into the driver’s seat, one paw loosely gripping the wheel while the other rested on the gear shift. He was dressed casually—dark jeans and a fitted black t-shirt that showed off his toned arms and chest. His hazel eyes scanned the horizon, a small smile tugging at his muzzle. “No meetings, no emails, just me, the beach, and maybe a cold drink or two,” he muttered to himself, already imagining sinking his paws into warm sand.
But as the road straightened, something caught his eye up ahead—a figure standing by the side of the highway, next to a beat-up old pickup truck with its hood propped open. Smoke curled lazily from the engine, and the figure was waving a paw in a half-hearted attempt to flag down help. Kizzy’s soft spot for those in need tugged at him, and he sighed, easing off the gas. “So much for a smooth start,” he grumbled, but his curiosity—and that nagging urge to help—got the better of him. He pulled over, the Challenger’s tires crunching on the gravel shoulder.
As he stepped out, the sea breeze ruffled his fur again, and he got a better look at the stranded traveler. It was a lean, anthropomorphic red fox, about 5’8” and maybe 140 pounds, with a wiry build that suggested agility over raw strength. The fox’s fur was a vibrant reddish-orange, with black accents on his ears, paws, and the tip of his bushy tail, which flicked nervously as he noticed Kizzy approaching. His chest and muzzle were a creamy white, and his emerald-green eyes sparkled with a mix of frustration and cautious hope. He wore a faded denim jacket, a white tank top, and cargo shorts that hung loosely on his slim hips. A small piercing glinted in one ear, and a leather cord with a wooden bead hung around his neck.
“Uh, hey there,” the fox called, his voice carrying a slight drawl. “You know anything about engines? Mine’s decided it’s done cooperating.” He gestured to the smoking pickup, his tail giving another anxious twitch.
Kizzy’s eyes flicked over the fox, noting the way he stood—confident but a little guarded, like someone used to handling their own problems but not above accepting help. “Maybe,” Kizzy replied, stepping closer. “Name’s Kizzy. Let’s take a look.” He leaned over the engine, his own tail swaying slightly as he inspected the mess of wires and hoses. The fox hovered nearby, close enough that Kizzy caught a faint whiff of cedar and something earthier, maybe a hint of weed.
“I’m Rune,” the fox said, scratching the back of his neck. “Rune Varrow. Been driving this old beast cross-country, and it’s been one breakdown after another. Was hoping to make it to the next town before it crapped out again.”
Kizzy glanced up, his gaze lingering a moment on Rune’s sharp features and the way his tank top clung to his lean frame. “Cross-country, huh? That’s ambitious in this thing.” He nodded at the rusty truck. “What’s got you on the road?”
Rune shrugged, a lopsided grin spreading across his muzzle. “Chasing freedom, I guess. Or maybe just running from something. Haven’t decided yet.” His eyes flicked over Kizzy, taking in the dog’s toned build and the way his jeans hugged his small, firm backside. “You headed somewhere fancy in that muscle car?”
“Seaside resort,” Kizzy said, wiping his paws on his jeans. “Vacation. First one in forever. Supposed to be relaxing, but…” He gestured at the smoking engine. “Looks like I’m playing mechanic first.”
Rune chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Well, I appreciate it, man. Not many folks would stop for a random fox on the side of the road.”
Kizzy’s ears flicked, and he gave a small smile. “Yeah, well, I’ve got a thing for helping out. Let’s see if we can get this heap moving.”
As Kizzy tinkered with the engine, Rune leaned against the truck, watching him work. The fox’s tail swayed lazily, and Kizzy couldn’t help but notice the subtle curve of Rune’s hips or the way his shorts rode low, hinting at the white fur that dipped below his waistband. Rune’s demeanor was easygoing, but there was a sharpness to his gaze, like he was sizing Kizzy up—not in a threatening way, but with a kind of playful curiosity.
“So,” Rune said after a moment, “you always this helpful, or am I just lucky?”
Kizzy snorted, not looking up from the engine. “Lucky, maybe. Or I’m just a sucker for a sob story.” He paused, glancing at Rune with a teasing grin. “You got one, don’t you? Every drifter does.”
Rune’s grin widened, showing a hint of sharp canine teeth. “Might have a few. Buy me a coffee in the next town, and I’ll tell you one.”
Kizzy’s tail wagged slightly, and he felt a spark of interest. This fox was trouble, no doubt about it—but the kind of trouble that might make his vacation a little more interesting. “Deal,” he said, tightening a loose hose. “But only if this thing starts.”
As Kizzy worked, a distant rumble caught his attention—not the engine, but something else. He straightened, ears swiveling toward the sound. Down the road, a pair of motorcycles appeared, their engines roaring as they approached. The riders were a rough-looking pair—a burly wolverine and a lanky coyote, both anthropomorphic, their fur matted and their leather vests patched with symbols Kizzy didn’t recognize. They slowed as they neared, their eyes locking onto Kizzy and Rune with a predatory glint.
Rune’s ears flattened, and he muttered under his breath, “Shit. Not these guys.”
Kizzy’s hackles rose slightly, his instincts kicking in. “Friends of yours?” he asked, keeping his tone light but his body tense.
“Not exactly,” Rune said, his voice low. “Let’s just say I might’ve pissed off the wrong people a few towns back.”
The motorcycles pulled up, cutting their engines. The wolverine, a broad-shouldered brute with dark brown fur and a scarred muzzle, swung off his bike first. His claws were long and untrimmed, and his yellow eyes gleamed with menace. He stood about 6’2” and weighed at least 220 pounds, his muscular frame straining against his vest. His tail was short and stubby, and his fur was patchy in places, revealing scars. His bulge was noticeable in his tight leather pants, suggesting a thick, heavy sheath beneath.
The coyote was leaner, about 5’10” and 150 pounds, with scruffy gray-brown fur and a long, bushy tail that flicked with agitation. His eyes were a pale yellow, and his grin was all teeth, sharp and unsettling. He wore a bandana around his neck, and his jeans were torn at the knees. His slim build hinted at speed and cunning rather than brute force, and his sheath was less prominent but still visible, a subtle outline against his pants.
“Well, well,” the wolverine growled, his voice like gravel. “Look who we found. Rune, you slippery little shit. Thought you could skip out on us?”
Rune’s tail bristled, but he forced a cocky smile. “C’mon, Brak, it was just a card game. You gonna hold a grudge over a few bucks?”
Brak’s eyes narrowed, and he took a step closer. “A few bucks and my favorite knife, you thieving fox.” He glanced at Kizzy, sizing him up. “Who’s your friend? Another mark?”
Kizzy’s ears pinned back, and he stepped forward, placing himself slightly between Rune and the wolverine. “Kizzy,” he said coolly. “And I’m just helping with the truck. You got a problem, take it up with him, not me.”
The coyote—whose name tag read “Skiff”—laughed, a high, yipping sound. “Oh, he’s feisty. I like that.” His eyes raked over Kizzy, lingering on his lean frame and toned backside. “Maybe we’ll have some fun with both of ‘em.”
Kizzy’s tail stiffened, and he felt a surge of adrenaline. He wasn’t looking for a fight, but he wasn’t about to back down either. Rune’s hand brushed his arm, a subtle warning, but the fox’s green eyes were locked on the two bikers, calculating.
The situation was teetering on the edge, and Kizzy’s vacation was about to get a lot more complicated. “So,” he said, keeping his voice steady, “we fixing this truck, or are we doing something else?”



Kizzy’s voice was calm, almost casual, but his words carried a razor’s edge, honed by years of studying texts like The Book of Five Rings. He stood with his weight balanced, paws loose at his sides, his hazel eyes flicking between Brak and Skiff, reading their stances like an open book. The wolverine’s broad shoulders were squared, his claws flexing—a brawler’s posture, ready to charge but overconfident. Skiff, the coyote, leaned back slightly, one paw near his hip, likely hiding a blade or worse. Kizzy noted the distance: Brak was three steps away, Skiff a bit farther, close enough to lunge but not to coordinate easily. Perfect.
“Guys,” Kizzy said, his tail giving a slow, deliberate sway, “how about I just pay off what he owes ya... $100... $300?” He reached toward his back pocket, moving slowly, his eyes never leaving Brak’s. His fingers brushed the edge of his wallet, but he paused, glancing down with a theatrical frown. “Oh... my mistake, that’s my concealed carry permit.” His voice stayed light, but the words landed like a dropped blade. “Let me keep looking. I’m sure I can find something for you gentlemen... if you want it.”
The air thickened. Brak’s yellow eyes narrowed, his scarred muzzle twitching as he processed the veiled threat. Skiff’s grin faltered, his pale eyes darting to Kizzy’s waistband, searching for the telltale bulge of a holster. Rune, still leaning against the truck, let out a low whistle, his green eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and tension. “Damn, Kizzy,” he muttered, just loud enough for the dog to hear. “You don’t mess around.”
Brak snorted, stepping closer, his heavy boots crunching on the gravel. “Big talk for a city dog,” he growled, his voice dripping with disdain. “You think flashing a permit scares me? I’ve eaten tougher pups than you for breakfast.” His claws flexed again, and Kizzy noted the slight shift in his weight—Brak was itching to swing, but he was hesitating, unsure if Kizzy was bluffing.
Skiff, meanwhile, circled to the side, his movements fluid, predatory. “Maybe he’s got a gun, maybe he doesn’t,” the coyote said, his yipping laugh returning. “But I bet he’s got somethin’ else we could take.” His eyes lingered on Kizzy’s lean frame, then flicked to Rune, who tensed but kept his cocky grin in place.
Kizzy’s ears flicked back, but he didn’t move, his body relaxed yet coiled, ready to explode if needed. Musashi’s words echoed in his mind: “Do not think dishonestly. The Way is in training.” He wasn’t here to start a fight, but he’d end one if it came to that. “Last chance,” he said, his voice low, steady. “Take the cash, walk away, and we all get to enjoy our day. Or...” He let the word hang, his paw still hovering near his pocket, his gaze locked on Brak’s.
Rune shifted, stepping closer to Kizzy, his bushy tail brushing against the dog’s leg. “C’mon, Brak,” the fox said, his drawl smooth but laced with urgency. “You don’t need this kinda trouble. Let’s call it even, yeah? I’ll owe you one.”
Brak’s lip curled, revealing a glint of sharp teeth. “You owe me more than one, fox. And your new friend here’s makin’ me think I should collect now.” He took another step, closing the gap to two steps—dangerously close. Skiff edged in from the side, his paw now openly resting on a small knife clipped to his belt.
Kizzy’s heart rate spiked, but his mind stayed clear. He saw the openings: Brak’s left side was exposed, his weight too far forward. Skiff was faster but overconfident, his knife hand telegraphed. If it came to blows, Kizzy could sidestep Brak’s charge, use his momentum against him, and deal with Skiff’s blade second. But he didn’t want it to come to that—not yet.
“Alright,” Kizzy said, raising both paws slowly, palms open, a gesture of peace that kept his options open. “Let’s talk this out. Rune, what’s the real number? What do you owe these guys?”
Rune’s ears flattened, and he shot Kizzy a quick, grateful glance before turning to Brak. “Two hundred,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “And... yeah, I took the knife. But it was a shit knife, Brak. You’re better off without it.”
Brak’s growl deepened, and he lunged forward, grabbing Rune by the collar of his denim jacket and yanking him close. “You little thief,” he snarled, his claws digging into the fabric. “I’m gonna carve that smirk off your face.”
Kizzy moved without thinking, his training kicking in. In one fluid motion, he stepped forward, grabbed Brak’s wrist, and twisted, using the wolverine’s own momentum to pull him off balance. Brak stumbled, releasing Rune, who darted back, his green eyes wide. Skiff’s knife was out now, glinting in the morning sun, but Kizzy was already shifting, positioning himself between the coyote and Rune.
“Enough,” Kizzy snapped, his voice sharp now, all pretense of calm gone. “You want the money, I’ll get it. You want a fight, you’re gonna regret it.” His tail was stiff, his ears pinned, and his lean muscles tensed, ready for whatever came next.
The standoff hung in the balance, the ocean waves crashing in the distance, the only sound besides the low growl in Brak’s throat. Skiff’s knife hand twitched, but he didn’t advance, his eyes flicking to Brak for a signal. Rune, behind Kizzy, was breathing hard, his tail flicking nervously but his posture ready to bolt—or fight, if it came to it.


 Brak’s yellow eyes locked onto Kizzy, the wolverine’s scarred muzzle twitching as he registered the fluid ease of the dog’s movements. He’d seen that kind of grace before—special forces types, back in the dust and chaos overseas. His gut told him this wasn’t a fight they’d win clean. “Money... now,” he growled, his voice rough but tinged with grudging respect. He shot a glare at the coyote. “Skiff, put that goddamn blade away, you fuckin’ idiot.”
Skiff’s ears flicked back, his sharp grin fading as he slid the knife back into its sheath with a reluctant huff. “Whatever, Brak,” he muttered, but his pale yellow eyes stayed fixed on Kizzy, wary now.
Kizzy kept his stance loose, paws still raised slightly, ready to move if either biker changed their mind. He reached into his back pocket—slowly, deliberately—and pulled out his wallet, fishing out a stack of bills. “Two hundred, right?” he said, his tone even but firm, holding Brak’s gaze as he counted out the cash. “And let’s call the knife a bonus for walking away.”
Brak snorted, snatching the bills from Kizzy’s paw and giving them a quick count. “You’re lucky, dog,” he said, his voice low. “Maybe we’ll see you around sometime.” His eyes flicked over Kizzy’s lean frame one last time, a mix of challenge and caution in his gaze.
Skiff spat on the gravel, his tail flicking as he took the cash from Brak and stuffed it into his vest pocket. “Yeah, real lucky,” he sneered, but there was no real venom in it—just the posturing of someone who knew they’d been outmaneuvered. He swung back onto his motorcycle, kicking it to life with a roar.
Brak mounted his bike too, giving Kizzy and Rune one last hard look. “Stay outta trouble, fox,” he said to Rune, then revved his engine. “And you, dog—watch your back.” The bikes roared to life, their engines snarling as the two bikers peeled out, tearing down the highway in the opposite direction from Kizzy’s seaside destination. The sound of their engines faded into the distance, swallowed by the crash of the ocean waves.
Kizzy let out a slow breath, his ears relaxing as he lowered his paws. His tail gave a slight wag, more from adrenaline than relief. He turned to Rune, who was leaning against the truck again, his reddish-orange fur still bristled but his cocky grin creeping back.
“Well, shit,” Rune said, running a paw through the white fur on his muzzle. “You’re a regular badass, huh? Didn’t expect that from a city dog in a fancy car.” His green eyes sparkled with amusement, but there was something else there too—gratitude, maybe, or something warmer.
Kizzy smirked, brushing off his jeans. “Yeah, well, I read a lot. Helps to know how to move.” He glanced at the truck’s still-smoking engine. “You gonna tell me what that was about, or do I have to guess? ‘Cause I’m betting it’s more than just a knife.”
Rune chuckled, his bushy tail swaying as he stepped closer, close enough that Kizzy caught that cedar-and-weed scent again. “Let’s just say I’ve got a talent for pissing off the wrong people,” he said, his drawl smooth. “But you? You just saved my ass, so how about I owe you that coffee now? Or...” His eyes flicked over Kizzy, lingering on his toned chest and the slight bulge in his jeans. “Maybe something stronger, if you’re up for it.”
Kizzy’s ears twitched, and he felt a familiar spark of interest, his bisexual leanings nudging him toward the fox’s playful vibe. But he wasn’t about to let Rune off that easy. “Coffee’s a start,” he said, crossing his arms with a teasing grin. “But you’re helping me fix this truck first. I’m not hauling your ass to the resort in my car just yet.”
Rune laughed, the sound warm and easy. “Fair enough, Kizzy. Let’s get this heap running.” He leaned over the engine again, his slim hips brushing against Kizzy’s as they worked side by side, the morning sun climbing higher over the coastline.
The truck sputtered to life after a few minutes of tinkering, the engine coughing but holding. Kizzy wiped his paws on a rag Rune handed him, feeling the fox’s gaze linger a little too long. The road ahead stretched toward the resort, promising relaxation—or, with Rune around, maybe something else entirely.


  Kizzy’s Dodge Challenger growled softly as he led the way, the black beast gleaming under the morning sun. Rune’s beat-up pickup rattled behind, coughing occasional wisps of smoke but keeping pace. The coastal road wound toward the small peninsula where the seaside resort awaited, its low-rise silhouette just visible against the sparkling ocean. Kizzy’s orangish-brown fur ruffled in the breeze through his open window, and he glanced in the rearview mirror, catching sight of Rune’s reddish-orange tail flicking inside the truck’s cab. The fox was trouble, no question, but Kizzy couldn’t deny the spark of intrigue—or the way Rune’s lean frame and cocky grin kept catching his eye.
As they neared the town’s outskirts, Kizzy spotted a small diner tucked off the road, its neon sign flickering with the promise of coffee and quiet. Perfect. He raised a paw out the window, signaling to Rune, and turned into the gravel lot. The Challenger’s engine purred to a stop, and Kizzy stepped out, sliding his sunglasses off and hooking them onto his t-shirt. His lean, toned frame stretched slightly as he shook out the tension from the morning’s standoff, his white-furred tail giving a quick wag.
Rune’s truck screeched to a halt beside him, the rusty door groaning as the fox slammed it shut. His emerald-green eyes glinted with mischief as he sauntered over, his bushy tail swaying. “Nice pick,” Rune said, nodding at the diner. “Looks like the kinda place where nobody asks questions.”
“After this morning, that’s what I’m counting on,” Kizzy replied, his voice dry but with a hint of a smile. They pushed through the diner’s glass door, a bell jingling overhead. The place was sparse—a few booths with cracked vinyl seats, a sleepy jukebox in the corner, and a single waitress, a middle-aged badger with graying fur and a no-nonsense air. The air smelled of coffee and fried eggs, and Kizzy’s ears flicked with relief at the quiet. No bikers, no trouble. At least for now.
Rune slid into a booth by the window, his slim hips settling into the seat with a casual grace. Kizzy sat across from him, his hazel eyes scanning the fox’s relaxed posture—legs spread slightly, one paw tapping the table, the other brushing through his white muzzle fur. Rune caught the waitress’s eye and dialed up the charm, his drawl smooth as honey. “Two coffees, darlin’,” he said, flashing a grin that showed just a hint of sharp teeth. “And throw in a couple of those blueberry muffins, yeah? My friend here’s had a rough morning.”
The waitress—whose name tag read “Marge”—raised an eyebrow but scribbled the order, her tail giving a slight twitch. “Comin’ up,” she said, shuffling off.
Kizzy leaned back, crossing his arms over his toned chest, his t-shirt hugging his lean muscles. “Smooth talker,” he said, his voice teasing but curious. “That how you get outta trouble with everyone, or just waitresses?”
Rune chuckled, his green eyes glinting as he leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Works on most folks. Not you, though. You’re too sharp for that.” He paused, his gaze flicking over Kizzy’s frame, lingering on the dog’s strong jaw and the white stripe of fur down his face. “So, c’mon, Kizzy. How’s a city dog like you turn into such a badass? That move on Brak—shit, I thought you were gonna snap his wrist clean off.”
Kizzy’s tail wagged slightly, and he smirked, taking the compliment but keeping his guard up. “Books, mostly,” he said, his voice low. “Old ones. Strategy, combat, the works. Musashi’s Book of Five Rings is my favorite—teaches you how to read people, move right, stay calm. The rest is just practice.” He leaned forward, matching Rune’s posture, his hazel eyes narrowing playfully. “Your turn, fox. What’s the deal with those bikers? And don’t gimme the short version. I just shelled out two hundred bucks and nearly got in a brawl, so I wanna know who else is gonna come crawling outta the woodwork looking for you.”
Marge returned with their coffees and muffins, setting them down with a grunt before heading back to the counter. Rune wrapped his paws around his mug, the steam curling around his reddish-orange fur. His grin faded slightly, and for a moment, his easygoing mask slipped, revealing a flicker of something—guilt, maybe, or weariness.
“Alright, fair’s fair,” Rune said, his drawl softer now. “Brak and Skiff are part of a crew I ran with a while back. Small-time stuff—cards, dice, a little light hustling. I was good at it, too. Too good. Got cocky, started skimming a bit off the top, took Brak’s knife as a trophy when I won a big pot.” He shrugged, but his tail flicked nervously. “Didn’t think they’d chase me this far. Guess I underestimated how much that ugly-ass knife meant to him.”
Kizzy sipped his coffee, his ears perked as he listened. The fox’s story tracked, but there was more to it—he could feel it in the way Rune’s eyes darted away, avoiding his gaze. “So that’s it?” Kizzy pressed, his voice light but pointed. “Just a card game and a knife? Or do I need to watch my back for the next set of lowlife creeps you pissed off?”
Rune’s grin returned, but it was tighter now, less cocky. “You’re too damn perceptive, you know that?” He took a bite of his muffin, chewing thoughtfully before meeting Kizzy’s eyes again. “Alright, yeah, there might be a couple other folks out there who aren’t my biggest fans. Nothing major—just some debts, a few bad deals. I move around a lot, keeps things... manageable.” His voice dropped, and he leaned closer, his cedar-and-weed scent stronger now. “But stick with me, Kizzy, and I’ll make it worth your while. You’re handy in a fight, and I’m good at sniffing out fun. We could have a hell of a week.”
Kizzy’s tail wagged again, and he felt that spark flare hotter, his interest piqued by the fox’s mix of charm and danger. Rune’s lean frame, the way his tank top clung to his white-furred chest, the subtle curve of his hips—it was hard to ignore. But Kizzy wasn’t some naive pup. “Fun, huh?” he said, his smirk sharp. “Long as your kind of fun doesn’t involve more bikers or knives, I might be game. But you’re buying the next round, fox.”
Rune laughed, the sound warm and genuine, easing the tension. “Deal,” he said, raising his coffee mug in a mock toast. Outside, the sun climbed higher, casting long shadows across the diner’s lot, where Kizzy’s Challenger and Rune’s rusty truck sat side by side. The resort was just a short drive away, promising relaxation—or, with Rune in the picture, maybe something wilder.

Kizzy leaned back in the diner booth, his coffee mug cradled in one paw as he fixed Rune with a steady look. The fox’s playful vibe was growing on him, but he wasn’t about to let this vacation spiral into chaos. “Alright, Rune,” he said, his voice firm but not unkind, his white-furred ears flicking. “Let’s get one thing straight. I’m on vacation. That means no fights, no drama, and above all, I’m not paying your way into the resort.” He took a sip of coffee, his hazel eyes narrowing slightly. “I did my research, booked my spot months ago. One week, just me, some sun, and zero bullshit. You wanna tag along, you’re on your own for a room.”
Rune’s emerald-green eyes glinted with curiosity, his bushy tail giving a slow sway as he leaned forward, resting his chin on one paw. “Oh, yeah? Which resort you headed to?” His drawl was casual, but there was a spark of mischief in his tone. “This town’s got two, you know. One out on the peninsula—real nice, exclusive vibe. The other’s more... family-friendly, let’s call it.”
Kizzy blinked, his tail stilling as he processed the words. Two resorts? He’d only seen the one listing on the deals app, the one with the sleek photos of ocean views and minimalist decor. “The Oasis,” he said, his voice steady but a faint question mark hanging in the air. “That’s the one on the peninsula.”
Rune’s smirk widened, one eyebrow quirking as he let out a low chuckle. “The Oasis, huh? Damn, Kizzy, you’re full of surprises.” He leaned back, crossing his arms over his white-furred chest, his tank top shifting to show a hint of lean muscle. “Didn’t peg you for the type.”
Kizzy’s own eyebrow cocked, his lean frame tensing slightly. “Type?” he asked, his tone sharp but curious, his white stripe of muzzle fur catching the diner’s dim light.
Rune leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, his cedar-and-weed scent drifting across the table. “You know... completely uninhibited.”
Kizzy’s brain screeched to a halt. His ears flicked back, and a faint prickle of unease ran down his spine. “The hell you talking about?” he said, but his paw was already reaching for his phone, a sinking feeling in his gut. He pulled up the email from The Oasis, the one he’d skimmed a hundred times over the past few months—confirmation number, room details, all the usual stuff. The listing on the deals app had seemed perfect: seaside, quiet, luxurious. Sparse photos, sure, but they screamed swanky island vibes—palm trees, infinity pools, the works. He’d booked it without a second thought.
Now, though, Rune’s words gnawed at him. He opened the browser on his phone, typing in The Oasis’s official site. The page loaded, and a pop-up greeted him: “Are you 18 or older? This site contains adult content.”
“Aww, fuck...” Kizzy muttered, his tail going rigid as he tapped through. The homepage loaded, and there it was in bold letters: The Oasis: A Premier Adults-Only Nudist Resort. Images scrolled by—anthro mammals lounging by the pool, tails swaying, fur gleaming, not a stitch of clothing in sight. One photo showed a cheetah couple sipping cocktails on a balcony, their spotted fur bared to the sun. Another featured a wolf with a chiseled frame sprawled on a beach towel, his sheath and balls casually exposed. The text boasted “uninhibited relaxation” and “clothing-optional luxury.”
Kizzy’s muzzle flushed under his white fur, his hazel eyes wide as he scrolled, his brain reeling. He’d booked a week at a nudist resort. How the hell had he missed that? The deals app had buried the details, and he’d been too swamped with work to dig deeper. He looked up at Rune, who was grinning like a fox who’d just raided a henhouse.
“Uninhibited, huh?” Kizzy said, his voice dry as he set the phone down. “Guess I should’ve read the fine print.”
Rune laughed, the sound warm and teasing as he leaned closer, his green eyes dancing. “Oh, man, this is too good. You, Mr. Badass Book-Reader, booked yourself a week at a naked beach party.” He tapped the table, his tail flicking with delight. “Gotta say, Kizzy, I’m impressed. Didn’t think you had it in you.”
Kizzy’s ears flicked, and he leaned back, rubbing a paw over his muzzle. “Yeah, well, neither did I,” he muttered, but a small smirk tugged at his lips. His bisexual leanings stirred at the thought—sun, sand, and a parade of bare fur might not be the worst way to spend a week. Still, he wasn’t about to let Rune have all the fun. “You’re enjoying this way too much, fox. You ever been to a place like this?”
Rune’s grin turned sly, and he shrugged, his lean frame shifting in a way that drew Kizzy’s eyes to the curve of his hips. “Once or twice,” he said, his voice low. “Ain’t my first rodeo, but I’m more of a... dip in, dip out kinda guy. You, though? You’re gonna be the talk of the place, strutting in with that toned ass and that fancy car.”
Kizzy snorted, his tail wagging despite himself. “Keep dreaming, Rune. I’m still figuring out if I’m checking in or turning around.” He sipped his coffee, his mind racing. The Oasis was paid for, non-refundable, and he wasn’t about to waste a week’s vacation. But a nudist resort? That was a far cry from the quiet beach getaway he’d pictured.
Rune’s eyes softened, just a touch, as he leaned forward again. “Look, Kizzy, if you’re worried, I can tag along—y’know, show you the ropes. Places like that, it’s all about confidence. You got that in spades.” His voice dropped, teasing but genuine. “And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious to see you in action.”
Kizzy’s smirk returned, his hazel eyes meeting Rune’s. The fox was trouble, no doubt, but maybe the kind of trouble that could make this week unforgettable. “Alright, fox,” he said, setting his mug down. “Finish your coffee. We’re heading to the resort. But you’re still on your own for a room—unless you wanna charm your way in.”
Rune laughed, raising his mug in another mock toast. “Challenge accepted, dog.”
They paid the bill, Marge giving them a knowing look as they headed out to the parking lot. Kizzy’s Challenger gleamed next to Rune’s rusty truck, and as they climbed into their vehicles, the ocean sparkled in the distance, the peninsula beckoning. The Oasis awaited, with all its bare-furred, uninhibited chaos—and Kizzy had a feeling his vacation was about to get a lot wilder.

Kizzy slipped his sunglasses back on, the dark lenses shielding his hazel eyes as he gave Rune a quick nod. Climbing into the driver’s seat of his Challenger, he shut the door with a satisfying thud. Alone for a moment, he let out a dry chuckle, muttering to himself, “Come to the Oasis... we’ve got sun, sand, cold drinks...” He turned the key, the engine roaring to life as he flipped on the stereo, ZZ Top’s gritty riffs filling the car. “...tits, ass, cock and balls... the works! Come on down!” He laughed, shaking his head at the absurdity of it all. A nudist resort. His vacation was already off the rails, and he hadn’t even checked in yet.
He pulled out of the diner’s gravel lot, kicking up a small cloud of dust as the Challenger’s tires bit into the ground. Rune’s rusty pickup struggled to keep up, its engine whining as it trailed behind. The road to the resort wound along the peninsula, the ocean glittering to one side, cliffs rising sharply on the other. Kizzy noted fewer cars heading the opposite way—either the place was packed, or nobody wanted to leave. “Popular spot,” he muttered, his tail giving a slight wag.
The road curved around a sheer cliff, and Kizzy’s foot hit the brake hard, downshifting with a quick flick of his wrist as a massive gate loomed into view. It looked like something out of a Super Max prison—tall, steel, topped with spikes that gleamed in the midday sun. “Holy shit,” Kizzy said, his ears flicking back. “Guess they take their naked time serious.”
He idled up to the booth beside the gate, where a young anthropomorphic bunny hopped out, barely 18 by the look of him. The rabbit wore an adorable guard outfit—khaki shorts, a too-tight polo, and a little cap that sat crooked on his fluffy white head. His fur was a soft cream with brown speckles across his ears and nose, and his wide blue eyes tried to project authority but mostly screamed nervous energy. His small, round tail twitched as he clutched a clipboard, puffing out his narrow chest.
Kizzy rolled down his tinted window, turning down ZZ Top’s blaring guitars. He fixed the bunny with a no-nonsense look, his white muzzle fur catching the light, and the kid froze mid-step, his tough-guy act crumbling. “GOODAFTEr... noon. Sir!” the bunny stammered, his voice cracking. “Uhh... do you... have a reservation?”
Kizzy smirked, holding up his phone with the QR code from The Oasis’s email. The bunny fumbled with a handheld scanner, his paws shaking slightly as he scanned the code. The gate groaned to life, its automated mechanism grinding as it parted to reveal the resort beyond. Kizzy gave the kid a nod, his voice dry. “Thanks, cotton tail.”
The bunny’s ears flushed pink, and he nearly dropped his clipboard, waving Kizzy through with a confused mix of enthusiasm and embarrassment. Kizzy chuckled, easing the Challenger forward, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. Rune’s truck was still at the gate, and the fox appeared to be in a heated argument with the bunny guard. The rabbit scurried back to his booth, picking up a phone, his little tail twitching furiously.
Kizzy pulled into the resort’s parking lot, his jaw tightening as he took in the sea of vehicles—cars, trucks, SUVs, even a few motorcycles lined up in ten neat rows. “Peak season,” he muttered, estimating a couple hundred guests at least. He shut off the engine, the Challenger’s growl fading, and stepped out, stretching his lean, toned frame. Deciding to take a moment before diving into the resort’s... unique atmosphere, he pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, leaning against the car’s sleek black hood. The smoke curled upward, mingling with the salty ocean breeze, and he exhaled slowly, his tail swaying as he braced for whatever came next.
To his surprise, Rune’s truck sputtered through the gate, rattling to a stop beside him. The fox leaned out the window, whooping like he’d just won the lottery. “WOOO! Do you believe in miracles!” Rune hollered, his reddish-orange fur glinting in the sun as he killed the engine and hopped out, slamming the creaky door shut.
Kizzy raised an eyebrow, taking a drag on his cigarette. “Alright,” he said, his voice dry but curious. “How’d ya do it?”
Rune’s grin was pure mischief, his green eyes sparkling as he sauntered over, his bushy tail swaying. “Friends and family, baby!” he said, leaning against Kizzy’s car, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed. “My sister works here—front desk, real sweet gal. She gets one guest a year for a free room, and I just called in the favor. Told ya I’m good at sniffing out fun.”
Kizzy snorted, flicking ash from his cigarette. “Your sister, huh? She know about your biker buddies and stolen knives?” His hazel eyes flicked over Rune, catching the fox’s lean frame and the way his cargo shorts rode low, hinting at the white fur below his waistband.
Rune laughed, undeterred. “Oh, she knows I’m a mess. But she loves me anyway.” He tilted his head, his grin turning playful. “So, you ready to strip down and join the party, or you still thinking about bolting?”
Kizzy took a final drag, crushing the cigarette under his boot. His tail wagged slightly, his mind made up. “I paid for the week, fox. I’m not running. But you better not make me regret this.” He jerked his head toward the resort’s entrance, a sleek glass building with palm trees and a sign that read The Oasis: Clothing Optional. “C’mon. Let’s see what I got myself into.”
Rune’s tail flicked, and he fell into step beside Kizzy, his cedar-and-weed scent mingling with the ocean air. The resort loomed ahead, its open-air lobby bustling with anthro guests—some already bare, their fur patterns on full display, others in loose robes or towels. A lion with a thick mane lounged by the entrance, his muscular frame and heavy sheath unapologetically exposed. A pair of otters, sleek and lithe, giggled as they strolled past, their tails intertwined.
Kizzy’s ears twitched, his pulse quickening. This was not the quiet beach getaway he’d planned, but with Rune’s grin beside him and the promise of a week unlike any other, he felt a spark of anticipation. Trouble or not, this was going to be one hell of a vacation.

Kizzy strode into the Oasis’s open-air lobby, his sunglasses still perched on his muzzle, shielding his hazel eyes from the flood of natural light pouring through the massive windows and skylights. The glass was tinted, designed to let in the sun while blocking any prying eyes from the outside—a detail he noted with a mental nod. Every window in this place probably worked the same way, ensuring privacy for the resort’s... uninhibited guests. His orangish-brown fur caught the warm glow, the white stripe down his face and chest standing out as he moved with a relaxed but purposeful gait, his lean muscles shifting under his t-shirt and jeans. His tail swayed slightly, betraying a mix of curiosity and wariness.
Rune trailed a step behind, his reddish-orange fur practically glowing in the sunlight, his cargo shorts and tank top looking almost out of place among the scantily clad or outright bare guests milling around. The lobby buzzed with low chatter and laughter—a panther with sleek black fur lounged on a wicker couch, his toned frame and sheath casually exposed; a pair of gazelles, their slender legs and spotted fur on full display, sipped cocktails by a fountain. The air smelled of coconut sunscreen and saltwater, with a faint undercurrent of something muskier.
Kizzy’s eyes landed on the front desk, where a vixen stood, her reddish fur a shade darker than Rune’s, with a cream-colored muzzle and a bushy tail that flicked lazily. Her most striking feature, though, was her complete lack of clothing—save for a comically small bellhop hat perched atop her head, tilted at a jaunty angle. Her large, double-D breasts were bare, her fur doing little to hide their curve, and her lean but curvy frame exuded confidence. Her green eyes, a shade lighter than Rune’s, sparkled with a mix of professionalism and mischief. A small name tag pinned to her hat read “Sylva.”
Kizzy approached the desk, his tail giving a slight wag as he leaned one elbow on the counter, sliding his sunglasses up to rest on his head. “Hey,” he said, his voice smooth but with a hint of dry humor. “Got a reservation under Kizgin Lycka. Should be for the week.”
Sylva’s eyes flicked over him, taking in his toned build and the white fur peeking out from his t-shirt collar. Her muzzle curved into a warm, slightly teasing smile. “Well, well, Mr. Lycka,” she said, her voice a soft purr as she tapped at a tablet on the desk. “Welcome to The Oasis. I’ve got you right here—oceanview suite, top floor. Prime spot.” She glanced past him to Rune, her smile widening. “And look who’s tagging along. Rune, you little troublemaker, what’d you do to drag this guy into your orbit?”
Rune grinned, stepping up beside Kizzy, his shoulder brushing the dog’s. “Just my natural charm, sis,” he said, his drawl thick. “Kizzy here’s my new partner-in-crime. Saved my ass from some bikers this morning, so I figured I’d show him a good time.”
Sylva’s ears twitched, and she raised an eyebrow, her gaze flicking between the two. “Bikers, huh? Sounds like you owe him more than a good time.” She tapped the tablet again, pulling up another file. “Lucky for you, I pulled some strings. Got you a room—basic, not like Mr. Badass here’s suite, but it’s got a view. Don’t make me regret it, Rune.”
Kizzy snorted, his tail wagging a bit more freely now. “He’s already pushing his luck,” he said, shooting Rune a sidelong glance. “But I’m guessing you’re used to cleaning up his messes.”
Sylva laughed, her bare shoulders shaking slightly, the bellhop hat wobbling. “You have no idea. Been bailing this fox out since we were kits.” She slid a keycard across the counter to Kizzy, her claws brushing his paw briefly. “Your suite’s ready, Mr. Lycka. Clothing’s optional everywhere on the grounds—pools, beach, bars, all of it. Just keep it respectful, and you’ll fit right in.” Her eyes lingered on him, appraising. “Something tells me you’ll do just fine.”
Kizzy took the keycard, his fingers brushing hers, and gave a small nod. “Thanks, Sylva. Appreciate it.” He glanced around the lobby, his ears perking at the sight of a bear couple strolling past, their thick fur and heavy sheaths swaying as they headed toward the pool area. His pulse quickened, the reality of the nudist resort sinking in. He turned to Rune, his smirk returning. “Alright, fox. You got your room. Now what? You gonna show me the ropes, or am I diving into this naked chaos on my own?”
Rune’s grin was pure mischief, his green eyes glinting as he leaned closer, his cedar-and-weed scent stronger now. “Oh, I’m sticking with you, Kizzy. Gotta make sure you don’t chicken out when it’s time to drop the jeans.” He jerked his head toward the glass doors leading to the beach. “C’mon, let’s check out your fancy suite, then hit the beach. Bet I can get you outta that shirt before noon.”
Kizzy’s ears flicked, his bisexual leanings stirring at Rune’s teasing tone and the casual confidence of Sylva’s bare form behind the desk. This place was going to test his limits, no question—but he wasn’t one to back down from a challenge. “Lead the way, fox,” he said, his voice low, his tail wagging as he followed Rune toward the elevators, keycard in hand and a spark of anticipation in his chest.

Kizzy and Rune stepped out of the elevator, the plush carpet of the top-floor hallway muffling their steps as they headed toward Kizzy’s suite. The corridor was bathed in soft, natural light from the tinted windows, the ocean glinting beyond. Kizzy’s tail swayed, his sunglasses now tucked into his t-shirt collar, but he froze mid-stride as a curvy poodle gal sauntered by. Her black, tightly curled fur shimmered, her medium-sized C-cup breasts barely covered by a neon pink bikini top—her only stitch of clothing. Her hips swayed, her well-sculpted butt fully exposed, the white fur on her lower back and thighs catching the light. She glanced over her shoulder, her dark eyes locking with Kizzy’s, a flirty smirk playing on her muzzle before she rounded the corner and disappeared.
Kizzy’s ears flicked, and he shook his head, muttering, “Damn.” His bisexual leanings stirred, but he pushed it aside, focusing on the task at hand. He swiped his keycard against the door’s chip reader, the lock clacking loudly as it disengaged. “Solid locks,” he noted, his voice low, impressed by the weight of the door as it swung open.
A wave of scents hit him—vanilla, warm and sweet, mixed with something woodier, cedar or maybe pine. Air freshener? Leftover from the last guest—or guests? Kizzy’s nose twitched, unable to pin it down, but it added to the suite’s luxurious vibe. He stepped inside, his hazel eyes scanning the spacious interior, only to catch Rune already at the minibar, his reddish-orange tail flicking as he rummaged through the bottles.
Kizzy shot him a look, his ears pinning back slightly, the message clear: Motherfucker, don’t test me. Rune met his gaze, smirked, and chuckled softly, setting the mini bottles back—except for one tiny vodka he slipped into his back pocket with a pickpocket’s finesse. Kizzy clocked the move, his sharp eyes catching the sleight of paw, but he let it slide, shaking his head with a faint smirk. “You’re pushing it, fox,” he muttered.
The suite was a showstopper. A massive balcony stretched outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, hosting a jacuzzi big enough for six, its jets gleaming under the sun. A sleek bar set sat nearby, stocked with glassware and a bucket of ice. Inside, a 90-inch 4K OLED TV dominated one wall, flanked by towering speakers that promised concert-level sound. A 10-foot leather couch sprawled in front of it, flanked by two matching loveseats, all in rich black leather that screamed money.
Rune let out a low whistle, his green eyes wide. “Damn, Kizzy, you don’t mess around. This place is swank.”
Kizzy’s tail wagged as he crossed to the bathroom, pushing the door open. A massive clamshell tub with jets took center stage, flanked by a dual vanity with polished marble counters. The toilet was standard hotel fare, but Rune’s ears perked as he spotted the bidet. “Yo, check this out!” he said, grinning. “One of those fancy Japanese ones—blows hot or cold air on your balls. High-tech ass cleaning, baby!”
Kizzy rolled his eyes, his muzzle twitching with a suppressed laugh. “Keep it in your pants, Rune,” he said, heading to the bedroom. His smile returned as he took in the California King bed, draped in sleek satin sheets that shimmered under the soft lighting. The headboard was padded leather, and a pile of fluffy pillows promised a good night’s sleep—or more, if the resort’s vibe was anything to go by. He opened the closet door, revealing a walk-in space bigger than his first apartment, with built-in shelves and a full-length mirror.
“Shit,” Kizzy muttered, his tail wagging faster. “This is more than I expected.” He took stock of the other amenities: a coffee maker with gourmet blends, a safe tucked into the closet, and a tablet on the nightstand for controlling the room’s lighting and temperature. A welcome basket sat on the dresser, stuffed with condoms, lube, and a bottle of champagne—because of course it was that kind of place.
Rune flopped onto the couch, kicking his feet up. “So, what’s the plan, badass? You gonna strip down and hit the jacuzzi, or you still easing into the whole naked thing?” His grin was teasing, but his eyes lingered on Kizzy’s lean frame, the way his jeans hugged his toned ass.
Kizzy leaned against the bedroom doorway, crossing his arms, his white chest fur peeking out from his t-shirt. “I’m thinking I check out the beach first—scope the place out. You’re welcome to come, but don’t expect me to hold your paw.” His smirk was sharp, but his hazel eyes held a spark of interest, wondering just how far Rune’s charm would take them in a place like this.
Outside, the sun was climbing higher, the ocean calling. The resort was alive with possibilities—some relaxing, some dangerous, and some downright wild. Kizzy’s vacation was already shaping up to be anything but ordinary.

Kizzy stood in the suite’s doorway, his hazel eyes flicking over Rune as the fox sprawled on the leather couch, looking far too comfortable. One thing was clear: Kizzy wasn’t hitting the beach just yet—not without tying up a few loose ends. He adjusted his sunglasses, sliding them back onto his muzzle, and gave Rune a nod. “I’m heading to the car to grab my stuff,” he said, his voice steady but with a hint of dry humor. “Meet me at the beach bar later. I don’t know which one, but I’m betting there’s at least one.”
Rune grinned, stretching his lean frame, his reddish-orange tail flicking lazily. “Oh, there’s a bar, alright. Main one’s right by the main pool—can’t miss it. I’m gonna check out my room, scope the vibe.” He stood, sauntering toward the door, then paused, turning back with a mischievous glint in his green eyes. “Word of advice, Kizzy? Don’t overthink the naked thing. Just dive in. Place like this, confidence is the only outfit that matters.” He winked, his cedar-and-weed scent lingering as he slipped out.
Kizzy raised a paw in a distant farewell, his tail giving a slight wag as the door clicked shut. Alone, he ran through his mental checklist: Get to the car, grab the luggage, stow the piece in the room safe, maybe pop half an edible to loosen up... then figure out the naked thing. His Walther PDP compact—4-inch barrel, Holosun red dot optic—was tucked snugly in his concealed holster, a reassuring weight against his lower back. The threat to Brak and Skiff earlier hadn’t been a bluff; if things had gone south, he’d have been ready. But now, in the middle of a nudist resort, the gun felt like an odd anchor to his city life.
He headed back to the lobby, the plush carpet softening his steps, the vanilla-and-cedar scent of the suite still in his nose. The lobby was still bustling, the tinted windows casting golden light over bare-furred guests—a hyena with a scarred sheath laughing loudly, a pair of rabbits sharing a smoothie, their fluffy tails bobbing. Kizzy was almost to the glass doors when a short mouse guy barreled toward him, nearly colliding. The rodent, barely 5 feet tall, had sleek gray fur and a wiry frame, his only clothing a neon-green thong that left little to the imagination, his tiny cheeks jiggling as he moved. “Watch it, new-meat!” the mouse snapped, his voice high and sharp, his small tail flicking as he brushed past.
Kizzy’s ears flicked back, and he threw up both palms, sidestepping smoothly. “Easy, buddy,” he muttered, his tone dry. As the mouse scurried off, Kizzy shook his head, a smirk tugging at his muzzle. “New meat coming through,” he said under his breath, pushing through the doors into the warm ocean air.
The parking lot was still packed, his black-on-black Challenger gleaming under the sun. He popped the trunk, grabbing his duffel bag—packed with clothes he was now questioning the need for—and a small toiletry kit. His tail swayed as he slung the bag over his shoulder, locking the car with a chirp. Back in the suite, he set the bag on the California King bed, the satin sheets cool under his paws. He opened the safe in the closet, stowing the Walther and its holster carefully, the red dot optic glinting one last time before he shut the door and punched in a code.
Next, he dug into his toiletry kit, pulling out a small tin with a couple of edibles—gummies, 10mg each. He popped half of one in his mouth, chewing slowly, the faint citrus tang hitting his tongue. “Just enough to take the edge off,” he muttered, figuring it’d kick in by the time he hit the beach. His eyes flicked to the mirror in the closet, catching his reflection—lean, toned, the white fur on his chest and face stark against the orangish-brown of his arms and legs. Get naked? The thought still felt surreal, but Rune’s words echoed: Confidence is the only outfit that matters.
He stripped off his t-shirt, revealing the lean muscle of his torso, the white fur running down his chest and belly. His jeans stayed on for now—he’d cross the full-nudity bridge when he got to the beach. Grabbing a towel from the bathroom, he slung it over his shoulder, locked the suite, and headed back to the lobby, his tail wagging with a mix of nerves and anticipation.
The beach path was marked by a wooden sign, the sound of waves growing louder as he approached. The main pool area came into view, a sprawling oasis of turquoise water surrounded by loungers, most occupied by bare anthros—fur of every color, sheaths and curves on full display. A bar sat at the far end, its bamboo roof shading a crowd of guests sipping colorful drinks. Kizzy scanned for Rune, his hazel eyes narrowing behind his sunglasses. The fox was nowhere in sight yet, but the vibe was electric—music pulsing, laughter rising, the scent of sunscreen and rum heavy in the air.
Kizzy’s ears twitched, his pulse quickening. This was it—the deep end.


 Kizzy stood at the edge of the pool area, the ocean breeze ruffling his orangish-brown fur as he scanned the scene. The pulsing music and laughter from the bar mixed with the crash of waves, and the sight of bare anthros lounging, swimming, and sipping drinks under the sun sent a jolt through him. His hazel eyes, still shielded by his sunglasses, landed on a row of clothes lockers near the entrance to the beach path. A small sign above them read: “Tap Room Key for 3-Hour Rental.”
He took a deep breath, his white-furred tail flicking as he ran through his plan. “Ditch the boots for sure,” he muttered to himself, glancing down at his black leather boots. “Maybe keep the jockeys for my smokes...” He paused, his ears twitching. “Wait.” He stepped closer to the lockers, tapping his keycard against one. It popped open, revealing a neon pink fanny pack inside, its waterproof material gleaming under the sunlight. Kizzy’s muzzle twitched, a mix of amusement and exasperation crossing his face. “Oh, you fuckers are devious...”
He reweighed his options, his fingers brushing the fanny pack. It was small but practical—room enough for his keycard, cigarettes, and Zippo, all safe from the water. He could go full commando, just like the rest of the resort’s guests, and still keep his essentials handy. His tail gave a slow wag as Rune’s words echoed in his head: Confidence is the only outfit that matters. “Alright, fuck it,” he said under his breath, his smirk returning. “Never had a problem with confidence before.”
Kizzy glanced around, ensuring no one was watching too closely, though the casual nudity around him made his hesitation feel almost comical. A lioness with golden fur strolled by, her curves unapologetically bare, giving him a passing glance but no judgment. He kicked off his boots, setting them in the locker, then unbuttoned his jeans, sliding them down his lean legs. The white fur on his belly and thighs stood out against the orangish-brown of his limbs, his toned ass and compact sheath now exposed. His humanoid penis, flaccid at 2 inches, nestled against his white-furred balls, and he felt a brief flush of self-consciousness before shaking it off. He slipped off his jockeys last, folding them neatly and tucking them into the locker with his boots and jeans.
Grabbing the fanny pack, he clipped it around his waist, the neon pink absurdly bright against his fur. He slipped his keycard, cigarettes, and Zippo inside, zipping it shut with a satisfying click. The edible he’d taken earlier was starting to kick in, a subtle warmth spreading through his limbs, loosening the tension in his shoulders. His tail wagged a bit faster, his hazel eyes glinting with a mix of nerves and excitement behind his sunglasses.
He locked the locker with another tap of his keycard and turned toward the beach path, the warm sand already creeping between his toes. The main pool area was lively, but the beach beyond promised a different vibe—open, wild, with the ocean stretching endlessly. He scanned for the bar Rune had mentioned, spotting the bamboo-roofed structure near the pool’s edge, where a crowd of anthros laughed and clinked glasses. No sign of the fox yet, but Kizzy wasn’t worried—Rune had a knack for showing up when things got interesting.
As he stepped onto the beach, the sun warmed his bare fur, the breeze teasing his white chest and belly. A pair of wolves played volleyball nearby, their muscular frames and sheaths bouncing as they dove for the ball. A cheetah lounged on a towel, her spotted fur glistening with sunscreen, her tail flicking lazily. Kizzy’s pulse quickened, the edible amplifying the surreal energy of the place.

Kizzy adjusted his sunglasses, the lenses catching the sun’s glare as he approached the bamboo-roofed bar by the pool’s edge. The sand was warm under his bare paws, and the neon pink fanny pack sat snug against his white-furred hips, a ridiculous but practical accessory. His orangish-brown fur ruffled slightly in the ocean breeze, and the edible’s subtle buzz kept his nerves steady, his tail wagging with a mix of confidence and curiosity. The bar was lively—anthros of all kinds lounged on plush leather stools or leaned against the counter, their fur bare, drinks in hand, laughter mingling with the reggae beat pulsing from hidden speakers.
Kizzy slid onto the rightmost bar stool, the leather cool against his toned ass. His hazel eyes scanned the crowd briefly—no sign of Rune yet—before settling on the bartender, a lanky male giraffe standing a towering 7 feet tall. The giraffe’s spotted fur was a warm tan, with darker patches across his long neck and lean frame. His sheath, unapologetically exposed, crested the edge of the bar as he leaned forward, wiping a glass with a cloth. His short, ossicone-topped ears flicked, and his brown eyes held a laid-back warmth, a small hoop piercing glinting in one ear. His tail, thin and tufted, swished lazily behind him.
Kizzy leaned forward, resting an elbow on the counter, his white chest fur catching the sunlight. “Got any Islay scotches?” he asked, his voice smooth but with a hint of dry humor, his sunglasses still perched on his muzzle.
The giraffe—whose name tag, clipped to his piercing, read “Taz”—grinned, showing flat, herbivore teeth. “Oh, a dog with taste,” he said, his voice deep with a slight island lilt. “Got a couple. Lagavulin 16, smoky as hell, or Ardbeg Uigeadail if you want something with a bit more peat punch. What’s your vibe?” He set the glass down, leaning closer, his sheath shifting slightly against the bar’s edge, his lean frame relaxed but attentive.
Kizzy’s tail wagged, impressed by the selection. “Lagavulin,” he said, nodding. “Neat, double. Let’s keep it smooth.” He adjusted his fanny pack, the faint jingle of his Zippo inside reminding him of his smokes, though he held off for now. The edible was hitting just right, loosening his edges without dulling his senses, and he scanned the bar again, half-expecting Rune to saunter up with that cocky grin.
Taz poured the scotch with a practiced hand, the amber liquid glinting as he slid the glass across the counter. “First time at The Oasis?” he asked, his eyes flicking over Kizzy’s lean build and the white stripe down his face. “You’ve got that ‘new meat’ look, but you’re carrying it well.”
Kizzy smirked, taking the glass and swirling it lightly, the smoky aroma hitting his nose. “That obvious, huh?” he said, his voice dry. “Booked it thinking it was just a fancy beach spot. Didn’t read the fine print.” He took a sip, the scotch’s peat and brine warming his throat, grounding him in the surreal scene of bare fur and carefree vibes.
Taz chuckled, leaning on the bar, his long neck bending slightly. “Happens more than you’d think. But you’re here now, so might as well dive in.” He nodded toward the beach, where a group of anthros—a bear, a lynx, and a couple of otters—were tossing a frisbee, their fur and sheaths catching the sun. “Crowd’s friendly, mostly. Just watch out for the regulars who get too friendly.”
Kizzy’s ears twitched, his hazel eyes narrowing playfully behind his sunglasses. “Noted. Any sign of a fox named Rune around here? Red fur, big mouth, trouble on legs?”
Taz’s grin widened, his tail swishing. “Oh, Rune Varrow? Yeah, he’s a known quantity. Probably off charming someone out of their drink or their dignity. His sister Sylva keeps him in check—mostly.” He paused, pouring a drink for a cheetah who’d sidled up, her spotted fur gleaming. “You two together?”
“Nah,” Kizzy said, sipping his scotch. “Just ran into him on the way here. Guy’s got a knack for finding trouble, and I’ve got a knack for bailing him out, apparently.” His tail wagged, the edible making the absurdity of the day feel almost fun.
As Taz laughed, Kizzy’s eyes drifted to the beach again, scanning for Rune’s reddish-orange fur. The bar was filling up—more anthros arriving, some bare, some in minimal cover like sarongs or tiny bikinis. The vibe was loose, electric, and Kizzy felt the pull of it, the Lagavulin and the edible urging him to lean into the chaos. 

Kizzy swirled his Lagavulin, the smoky scotch warming his throat as he leaned back on the plush leather bar stool, his bare fur soaking in the sun. Rune’s absence didn’t bother him much—the day was young, and The Oasis was already proving to be a wild ride. His tail wagged lazily, the edible’s mellow buzz keeping him relaxed but alert. His mind drifted to the welcome basket in his suite, stuffed with condoms and lube, and he couldn’t help but wonder just how frisky things got out here in the open. The anthros around him—bare, laughing, lounging—seemed carefree, but was it all just chill vibes, or did things get... spicier?
A sudden hiss snapped him out of his thoughts. Taz, the giraffe bartender, had grabbed the soda gun from behind the bar and hit the water button, spraying a jet of cold water at a pair of females—a sleek panther and a curvy red panda—sitting at a table just behind Kizzy. Their paws had been wandering a bit too boldly, fingers tracing curves under the table, and Taz’s deep voice cut through the reggae beat. “OI! Keep it in the rooms!” he barked, his long neck craning as he waved the gun for emphasis. The females yelped, laughing as they shook off the water, their fur glistening as they grabbed their drinks and scurried off, giggling.
Kizzy’s ears twitched, and he turned to Taz, raising an eyebrow behind his sunglasses. “Damn, man, you run a tight ship,” he said, his voice dry but amused. “So, what’s the deal here? What’s open game, and what gets you hosed down?”
Taz chuckled, setting the soda gun back in its holster, his spotted fur catching the light as he leaned on the bar. “It’s all about balance, dog,” he said, his island lilt smooth. “Flirting, touching, even some light fooling around? Fine, as long as it’s subtle and nobody’s complaining. But when it starts looking like a live show—” he nodded toward the now-empty table “—we keep it chill. Plenty of private spots—rooms, cabanas, even the dunes after dark. You wanna get wild, just don’t make it everyone’s business.” He grinned, his brown eyes glinting. “You’ll figure it out. You’ve got the vibe.”
Kizzy smirked, sipping his scotch. “Good to know. Don’t need a water gun in my face on day one.” His tail wagged, the edible making Taz’s laid-back authority oddly reassuring. He was about to ask more when movement caught the corner of his eye—a new customer sliding onto the bar stool next to him.
She was a snow leopard, mid-twenties, with generous curves bordering on voluptuous. Her thick, creamy white fur was dusted with black rosettes, shimmering in the sunlight, and her long, bushy tail curled lazily around the stool’s base. She wore a purple bikini—two scraps of fabric that barely qualified as clothing, the top straining against her full D-cup breasts, the bottoms riding low on her rounded hips. In a place where most were bare, she was almost overdressed, but the bikini only amplified her allure, accentuating every curve. Her ice-blue eyes flicked toward Kizzy, a playful spark in them, before she turned to Taz.
“Vodka Greyhound,” she said, her voice smooth with a hint of a purr. “Extra grapefruit, if you’ve got it.” She leaned forward slightly, her tail flicking, and Kizzy caught a whiff of her scent—jasmine and something faintly spicy.
Taz nodded, mixing the drink with practiced ease, his long arms moving gracefully. “Comin’ up, Lila,” he said, sliding the glass her way. He shot Kizzy a quick, knowing look, as if to say, Here’s trouble.
Kizzy’s ears perked, his hazel eyes sizing her up behind his sunglasses. Lila’s curves were impossible to ignore, her bikini leaving just enough to the imagination to keep his bisexual leanings buzzing. He took another sip of his scotch, his tail wagging slightly as he leaned toward her, keeping his tone casual but curious. “Lila, huh? You a regular around here, or just passing through like me?”
Lila turned, her ice-blue eyes locking onto his, a slow smile spreading across her muzzle. “Regular enough to know the good bartenders,” she said, her voice teasing as she raised her glass. “But you? You’re new meat. Got that city edge, though—bet you’ve got stories.” She sipped her Greyhound, her tail brushing against his leg—accidental or not, he couldn’t tell.
Kizzy’s smirk widened, the edible and the scotch blending into a warm confidence. “A few stories,” he said, leaning closer, his white chest fur catching the light. “Just got here, already paid off a fox’s debt and dodged a biker brawl. You tell me, Lila—what’s the wildest thing you’ve seen at this place?”
Her laugh was low, almost a purr, and she leaned in, her bikini top shifting slightly. “Stick around, dog. You’ll see plenty wild before the week’s out.” Her eyes flicked over his lean frame, lingering on his white-furred sheath and the neon pink fanny pack, her smile turning mischievous. “Nice accessory, by the way. Bold choice.”
Kizzy chuckled, unfazed. “Blame the resort. Only way to carry my smokes.” He raised his glass, clinking it lightly against hers. “To bold choices, then.”
The bar hummed around them, the sun climbing higher, the beach alive with bare fur and laughter. Rune was still nowhere in sight, but with Lila’s playful vibe and Taz’s watchful eye, Kizzy felt the pull of The Oasis’s chaos.


Kizzy leaned back on his bar stool, the leather cool against his bare fur, and decided to take a moment before diving into the beach’s chaos. He fished his cigarettes and Zippo from the neon pink fanny pack, the clink of the lighter satisfying as he lit up. The first drag sent a curl of smoke into the ocean breeze, and he exhaled slowly, the edible and Lagavulin blending into a warm, easy buzz. His hazel eyes, still shielded by sunglasses, flicked between Lila, the curvy snow leopard, and Taz, the lanky giraffe bartender, as he kept the conversation light.
“So, Lila,” Kizzy said, his voice smooth with a teasing edge, “you gonna tell me what makes this place tick? Or do I have to stumble into the wild stuff blind?” He took another drag, his white-furred tail wagging slightly, keeping his flirt vague but playful, testing the waters.
Lila’s ice-blue eyes sparkled, her purple bikini shifting as she leaned closer, her jasmine-and-spice scent mingling with the smoke. “Oh, you’ll find the pulse quick enough,” she purred, her tail brushing his leg again—definitely not accidental this time. “Stick around for the dunes after dark. Things get... liberated out there.” Her smile was mischievous, her words heavy with suggestion, but she kept it just coy enough to leave him guessing.
Taz, wiping down the bar, chimed in with a grin, his long neck bending slightly. “She ain’t lying, dog. Dunes are where the real party happens. Just don’t get sand where you don’t want it.” His spotted fur caught the sun, his sheath still casually cresting the bar’s edge.
Kizzy filed the “dunes after dark” comment away, his ears twitching as he took another drag. The beach stretched out beyond the bar, a sprawl of bare anthros—wolves spiking a volleyball, a cheetah couple lounging on towels, their spotted fur gleaming. He could feel the pull of it, but for now, the scotch and smoke were enough. “Sounds like a plan,” he said, his smirk widening as he glanced at Lila. “Guess I’ll see what kind of trouble I can find out there.”
Lila laughed, sipping her vodka Greyhound. “Trouble finds you, city dog. Bet you’re used to that.” Her eyes lingered on his lean frame, the white fur of his chest and sheath standing out against his orangish-brown limbs.
Kizzy kept the flirt light, enjoying the banter but not diving too deep—not yet. He finished his cigarette, snubbing it out in the ashtray Taz had slid over. Downing the last of his Lagavulin, he winced slightly at the smoky burn, his tail giving a quick wag. “Alright, time to see what this beach is about,” he said, standing and adjusting his fanny pack. He nodded to Lila, his sunglasses glinting. “Catch you later, snowflake.”
Lila’s tail flicked, her smile playful. “Count on it, Kizzy.”
He turned to Taz, fishing in his fanny pack for his keycard, then paused. “Yo, Taz, how’s tipping work around here? No pockets, no cash.”
Taz’s grin turned wicked, his brown eyes glinting as he leaned forward, his piercing catching the light. “Oh, we’re flexible, dog. I accept kisses—anywhere on my body.” He wagged his tufted tail, clearly messing with him.
Lila stifled a laugh, her paw covering her muzzle as her eyes danced. Kizzy caught the vibe—she’d seen this bit before. He smirked, recognizing a fellow bullshitter in action, and decided to play along. Leaning in, he planted a quick, theatrical peck on Taz’s piercing, right above the name tag. “Thanks for the drink and the welcome, big guy,” he said, his voice dripping with mock sincerity, his tail wagging as he straightened up.
Taz barked a laugh, his long neck shaking, while Lila’s giggle broke free, her tail curling with delight. “Oh, you’re gonna fit in just fine,” Taz said, waving him off. “Go stir up some trouble, dog.”
Kizzy sauntered toward the beach, his bare paws sinking into the warm sand, the neon pink fanny pack bouncing lightly against his hip. The edible, the scotch, and the playful exchange left him feeling like a million bucks, his confidence dialed up to eleven. The beach sprawled ahead, a kaleidoscope of fur and flesh—anthros swimming, sunbathing, flirting. The ocean sparkled under the midday sun, and the dunes loomed in the distance, whispering promises of what might come after dark. Rune was still MIA, but Kizzy didn’t care. 

Kizzy’s steps felt lighter as he strolled along the beach, the warm sand shifting under his bare paws, the edible and Lagavulin weaving a mellow buzz through his system. The ocean sparkled to his left, waves crashing gently, and the air was thick with the scent of sunscreen and salt. His neon pink fanny pack bounced against his white-furred hip, his lean frame bare under the sun, and for the first time in weeks, he felt the weight of the city’s grind slipping away. This was exactly what he needed.
A pair of teenage dog girls—border collies, by their black-and-white fur—passed by, giggling and whispering to each other, their eyes flicking toward Kizzy’s toned ass and compact sheath. He smirked behind his sunglasses, his tail wagging slightly, but kept walking, unfazed. Further down the shore, a massive horse male, his chestnut fur gleaming, knelt at the water’s edge, rubbing sunscreen into the back of a petite otter girl. Her sleek brown fur glistened, her small, curvy frame squirming playfully as she laughed, her rudder-like tail flicking water at him. Kizzy paused, leaning against a palm tree, taking in the vibrant chaos of The Oasis—anthros of every kind, bare or nearly so, lounging, flirting, living without a care.
A sudden coldness against his side snapped him to attention, his ears pinning back as his muscles tensed. The unmistakable press of a gun barrel sent adrenaline surging through him, cutting through the edible’s haze. A low voice rasped in his ear, “Slow... don’t...”
Kizzy’s training kicked in, his body moving before his mind caught up. In one fluid motion, he spun, his lean frame rolling against his attacker, his paw snapping out to grab their wrist. With a quick twist—straight out of Musashi’s teachings—he wrenched the gun free, sending the figure stumbling into the sand with a pained grunt. Kizzy stepped back, his tail stiff, and aimed the weapon—a CZ Shadow, sleek and deadly—down at the sprawled figure. His hazel eyes narrowed behind his sunglasses, his heart pounding but his grip steady, as he locked onto his would-be... what? Kidnapper? Assassin? The thought flashed through his mind in fractions of a second.
Then he saw the face. Scruffy gray-brown fur, pale yellow eyes, a bandana loose around the neck. Skiff. The coyote biker from the morning’s standoff, now sprawled on his back, clutching his wrist and glaring up at Kizzy with a mix of pain and fury. His lean frame was bare save for a pair of tattered shorts, his sheath visible but less prominent than Brak’s had been, his long tail twitching in the sand.
“Well, fuck me,” Kizzy said, his voice low, edged with cold amusement as he kept the CZ trained on Skiff. “Didn’t think you’d be dumb enough to try me again, Skiff. What’s this about? Brak send you, or you just got a death wish?”
Skiff’s lips curled into a snarl, but his eyes darted nervously, calculating. “You think you’re hot shit, dog,” he spat, his yipping voice tight with pain. “This ain’t about Brak. You and that fox fucked me over, and I don’t let that slide.” He shifted slightly, testing his wrist, but froze as Kizzy adjusted his grip on the gun, the red dot optic steady on the coyote’s chest.
Kizzy’s tail flicked, his mind racing. The beach crowd hadn’t noticed yet—too caught up in their own fun—but a few heads were starting to turn, the horse and otter pausing to glance over. Kizzy kept his voice calm, his training keeping him grounded despite the adrenaline. “You’re on my vacation, coyote,” he said, his tone icy. “I paid your boss’s debt, and you pull a gun? Bad move. Talk fast, or I’m handing you to security—or worse.”
Skiff’s ears flattened, his pale eyes flicking toward the CZ. He was outmatched, and he knew it. “Just wanted to scare you,” he muttered, his voice losing its edge. “Rune’s got debts bigger than that knife, and you’re in his orbit now. Thought you should know what you’re dealing with.”
Kizzy’s ears twitched, his hazel eyes narrowing. Rune’s name again—trouble followed that fox like a shadow. He lowered the gun slightly, but kept it ready, his lean muscles tense. “You got a funny way of sending warnings,” he said. “Get up, slow. And start walking. You’re done here.”
Skiff scrambled to his feet, his tail low, his eyes still burning but his fight gone. The beach was starting to notice now—whispers spreading, a few anthros edging closer. Kizzy kept the CZ low but visible, his confidence unshaken, the edible keeping his nerves just loose enough to stay sharp. Skiff took a step back, his paws raised, and started to retreat toward the dunes.
Kizzy’s tail flicked, his mind already turning to Rune. Whatever the fox was mixed up in, it was bigger than a stolen knife—and now Kizzy was caught in the crossfire. But as the coyote slunk away, Kizzy felt that million-bucks buzz return. He’d handled it, no blood spilled, and the beach was still his to conquer.

Kizzy’s hazel eyes tracked Skiff as the coyote slunk away, his scruffy gray-brown fur disappearing through a lounge entrance about 50 yards down the beach. The CZ Shadow’s weight still lingered in his paw, a reminder of how close things had come to going sideways. His tail flicked, the edible’s buzz keeping him calm but sharp, though he could feel the eyes of the beach crowd on him—curious whispers from the volleyball-playing wolves, a sidelong glance from the otter girl, her horse companion pausing mid-sunscreen application. Kizzy adjusted his sunglasses, his white-furred chest catching the sun, and tucked the pistol into his neon pink fanny pack. It barely fit, the barrel poking awkwardly against the zipper, but it’d do for now.
He spotted a security desk about 80 yards away, a makeshift setup planted in the sand under a palm-shaded canopy. A hulking male rhino sat behind it, his gray, leathery hide scarred in places, his massive frame dwarfing the folding chair he occupied. The desk was cluttered with radios, a couple of flickering computer screens, and a tangle of extension cords snaking through the sand—probably a fire hazard, Kizzy noted with a smirk. The rhino’s horn gleamed dully, and his small, dark eyes locked onto Kizzy as he approached, his neon fanny pack bouncing lightly against his bare hip.
Kizzy stopped at the desk, his tail wagging slightly, and opened his mouth to introduce himself. “Name’s Kizgin Lycka, I—”
“Got the piece on ya,” the rhino cut in, his voice a low rumble, like gravel underfoot. His thick fingers paused on a radio, his gaze steady but not hostile.
Kizzy’s muzzle twitched into a coy smile, his training keeping him cool under pressure. “I’ll lay it on the desk if that’s amenable,” he said, his voice smooth as he slowly unzipped the fanny pack, careful to keep his movements non-threatening.
The rhino gave a curt nod, his broad shoulders shifting. Kizzy pinched the CZ Shadow’s grip between his thumb and index finger, lifting it carefully and setting it on the desk with a soft clunk. The rhino moved fast for his size, snatching the pistol and popping the magazine in one fluid motion. He racked the slide, ejecting the live round with a metallic ping, and stowed both the gun and ammo in a small lockbox under the desk, locking it with a key on his belt. His dark eyes flicked back to Kizzy, sizing him up—6 feet of lean muscle, white fur stark against orangish-brown limbs, neon fanny pack screaming tourist.
“Look, dog,” the rhino said, leaning forward, his voice gruff but measured. “I don’t know who you are or what trouble you’re in, but I saw the whole thing. Maybe you didn’t do anything I wouldn’t have done, but you’re definitely on my list now... got it?”
Kizzy’s ears twitched, but his smirk didn’t falter. He leaned one elbow on the desk, his sunglasses glinting. “Got it, big guy,” he said, his tone easy but respectful. “Just trying to enjoy my vacation. That coyote—Skiff—came at me first. I’m not looking for trouble, but I don’t run from it either.”
The rhino grunted, his thick tail flicking in the sand. “Skiff’s a regular pain in the ass around here. Runs with a rough crowd. You watch your back, ‘specially if you’re tied up with that fox, Rune.” He tapped a screen, pulling up a grainy image of Skiff slinking into the lounge. “I’ll keep this—” he nodded at the lockbox “—till you check out. No guns on the grounds. You got a permit, we’ll talk later. For now, keep it clean, dog.”
Kizzy nodded, his tail wagging slightly. “Fair enough. Appreciate the heads-up.” He straightened, adjusting his fanny pack, now lighter without the CZ’s weight. The beach buzzed around him—music from the bar, laughter from the pool, the ocean’s steady crash. Skiff’s stunt had rattled him, but the edible and his own nerve kept him steady. Rune’s name coming up again, though, was no surprise. That fox was a magnet for chaos, and Kizzy was starting to wonder just how deep his “debts” ran.
He gave the rhino a final nod and turned back toward the beach, the sun high and the sand warm under his paws. The crowd had mostly gone back to their fun, though a few eyes still lingered—a curious glance from the otter girl, a raised eyebrow from a lounging cheetah. Kizzy’s confidence was unshaken, the million-bucks feeling creeping back. 


Kizzy sauntered back toward the beach, the sand warm under his bare paws, his neon pink fanny pack bouncing lightly against his white-furred hip. The edible’s mellow buzz lingered, blending with the salty ocean air and the reggae beat pulsing from the bar. His tail wagged lazily, the adrenaline from the Skiff encounter fading into a confident swagger. The beach crowd had mostly returned to their fun—volleyball games, sunbathing, flirting—but a few eyes still flicked his way, whispers trailing in his wake.
A small figure darted toward him, her sleek brown fur glistening with water and sunscreen. It was the otter girl from earlier, her petite, curvy frame moving with a bouncy energy, her rudder-like tail flicking behind her. She was bare except for a thin silver anklet, her small breasts and rounded hips catching the sunlight. Her dark eyes sparkled with curiosity as she stopped in front of Kizzy, barely reaching his chest at 5 feet tall.
“Hey!” she said, her voice bright but tinged with concern. “What was that all about back there? Looked intense.” She tilted her head, her short ears twitching, a playful but genuine smile on her muzzle.
Kizzy adjusted his sunglasses, his hazel eyes meeting hers as he kept his tone light, not wanting to spill the whole saga to a stranger. “Just a misunderstanding,” he said, his voice smooth but vague. “Guy got a little too bold, thought he could push me around. Sorted it out, no harm done.” He shrugged, his white chest fur ruffling in the breeze, keeping the details tight to avoid dragging her into Rune’s mess.
She nodded, seemingly satisfied, then stuck out a paw. “I’m Marina,” she said, her smile widening. “Saw you handle that coyote—pretty slick moves! My boyfriend’s been talking nonstop about it, says it was the coolest thing he’s seen all week. Wanna come meet him? He’s just over by the water.”
Kizzy’s ears twitched, and he smirked, his tail giving a quick wag. With Skiff gone and Rune still MIA—probably off chasing his own trouble—Kizzy had no pressing plans. Why not mingle with the locals? “Sure, why not,” he said, gesturing for her to lead the way. “Let’s see what your boyfriend’s hyping up.”
Marina grinned, practically bouncing as she led him toward the water’s edge, her tail swishing. Kizzy followed, his lean frame moving with easy confidence, the neon fanny pack a bright splash against his bare fur. They stopped near a cluster of towels and umbrellas, where the massive horse male from earlier lounged, his chestnut fur gleaming under a fresh layer of sunscreen. He stood as they approached, towering at 6’6” and easily 250 pounds of muscle, his thick sheath and heavy balls unapologetically exposed. His mane was dark and slightly tousled, and his deep brown eyes lit up as he spotted Kizzy.
“Dude!” the horse said, his voice booming with enthusiasm as he offered a massive paw. “I’m Torren. Saw you put that coyote on his ass—badass move, man! Like something outta an action flick.” He grinned, his tail flicking, revealing a set of blunt, equine teeth.
Kizzy shook his paw, the horse’s grip firm but friendly. “Kizzy,” he said, his smirk widening behind his sunglasses. “Just keeping things civil. Guy had a gun, didn’t leave me much choice.” He kept it light, not wanting to dive into the details, but his tail wagged at the admiration.
Marina plopped onto a towel, her small frame curling up as she grinned at Kizzy. “Torren’s been replaying it in his head all morning,” she said, nudging her boyfriend’s leg. “He’s a sucker for a good showdown.”
Torren laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guilty. You some kinda fighter, Kizzy? You moved like you’ve done that before.”
Kizzy leaned against a nearby umbrella pole, his white-furred chest catching the sun. “Read a lot of old books,” he said, his voice dry but playful. “Strategy, combat, that kinda thing. Helps when idiots like that coyote try to ruin your day.” He glanced at Marina, then back to Torren. “You two regulars here? Seems like the place to see some wild shit.”
Marina’s eyes sparkled, and she leaned forward, her tail flicking. “Oh, we come every summer. The Oasis is... well, it’s a lot. You’ll see stuff that’ll make your tail curl.” She giggled, shooting Torren a look. “Right, babe?”
Torren grinned, sitting back on his towel, his massive frame sprawling. “Yeah, stick around for the dunes after dark. Gets real lively.” He winked, his tone suggesting he and Marina knew more than they were letting on.
Kizzy’s ears perked, Lila’s earlier mention of the dunes echoing in his mind. His bisexual leanings stirred, and he filed the comment away, his tail wagging slightly. “Noted,” he said, his smirk sharp. “Guess I’ll have to check it out. You two heading that way later?”
Marina’s smile turned mischievous. “Maybe. Depends on how much trouble we feel like getting into.” She glanced at Torren, who chuckled, his mane shaking.
Kizzy nodded, his confidence still riding high. With Rune off doing who-knows-what and Skiff out of the picture—for now—he was free to dive into the resort’s vibe. Marina and Torren seemed like good company, and the beach was alive with possibilities. The sun was high, the waves were calling, and The Oasis was proving to be anything but predictable.


Kizzy lingered with Marina and Torren, the warm sand shifting under his bare paws as they swapped stories about The Oasis. The couple had plenty to share—tales of wild dune parties, skinny-dipping under the stars, and a legendary brawl between two drunk bears last summer. Kizzy didn’t have much to offer yet, just the morning’s run-in with Skiff and Brak, but he kept it vague, his hazel eyes glinting behind his sunglasses as he leaned into the conversation. The edible’s buzz kept him loose, his white-furred tail wagging lazily.
Marina, her sleek otter fur still damp from the water, leaned forward on her towel, her dark eyes sparkling. “Hey, Kizzy, you should come to dinner with us tonight,” she said, her voice bright. “Our treat—for keeping the beach safe from that coyote creep.” Torren nodded, his massive chestnut frame sprawled beside her, his mane catching the sun.
Kizzy smirked, adjusting his neon pink fanny pack. “Dinner sounds good,” he said, his tone dry but warm. “As long as I don’t have to dodge a shootout in the lobby first.” His tail wagged, and the couple laughed, Marina’s giggle high and Torren’s a deep rumble.
“Deal,” Marina said. “Eight o’clock, at the Seaside Grill. Don’t be late, badass.”
Kizzy waved goodbye, his boots still in the locker but his confidence high. “See you then,” he called, turning toward the clothes lockers near the beach path. He’d had enough nudity for now—the bare fur, the dunes-after-dark hints, the whole vibe was a lot, and he was ready for a breather. The sand crunched under his paws as he reached the lockers, his keycard ready to scan.
Before he could tap it, a flash of reddish fur caught his eye. Sylva, Rune’s sister, came sprinting across the sand, her bellhop hat askew, her bare curves bouncing as she waved frantically. “KIZZY!” she gasped, out of breath, her green eyes wide with panic. “Oh god, thank god I found you... it’s RUNE! They’ve got him in his room... some guys from some club... I don’t know!”
Kizzy’s ears pinned back, his tail going rigid as he processed her words. His hand fumbled slightly, the fanny pack catching on his jockeys as he scanned the locker open and grabbed his underwear, tugging them on for some coverage. “Slow down, Sylva,” he said, his voice calm but sharp as he pulled on his jeans, the denim snug against his toned ass. “What club? How many guys? You see weapons?” He laced up his boots, his mind racing, Musashi’s teachings kicking in: Know your enemy, know the terrain.
Sylva’s tail flicked nervously, her bare fur glistening with sweat. “I-I don’t know! I overheard them in the hall—three, maybe four guys, rough types, like those bikers you mentioned. They were banging on Rune’s door, yelling about money. I didn’t see guns, but...” She trailed off, wringing her paws.
Kizzy swore under his breath, zipping his jeans. “Rooms got cameras?” he asked, already knowing the answer but hoping for a miracle.
Sylva shook her head, her hat wobbling. “No, none. Total guest privacy. No surveillance in the rooms or hallways.”
“Fuck,” Kizzy muttered, his tail flicking. No cameras, no clear entry—no way to know what was waiting in Rune’s room, how many, or what they were packing. Musashi’s voice echoed: Do not advance blindly. A straight assault was a death wish—zero percent odds of success. He finished lacing his boots, his hazel eyes locking onto Sylva’s as a plan formed. “Alright, here’s what we’re doing,” he said, taking her arm gently but firmly, leading her back toward the lobby. “We’re gonna have a little fire drill.”
Sylva blinked, stumbling slightly as they moved. “Fire... drill?” she stammered, her voice a mix of confusion and disbelief.
Kizzy’s smirk was grim but determined. “Yeah. You pull the fire alarm. Guests start pouring out, including whoever’s got Rune. I’m betting they won’t stick around when they hear sirens—firemen and their buddies, the cops, are bad news for their type. You make that happen, and I’ll handle the rest.”
Sylva’s green eyes widened, searching his face as they reached the lobby’s glass doors. “Are you fucking crazy?” she asked, her voice low but sharp.
Kizzy shook his head, his sunglasses glinting as he pushed through the doors, the cool air hitting his fur. “Nope. Just really hate it when my vacation gets interrupted.”
Kizzy’s Plan:  
Decide on an exact time for Sylva to pull the alarm—give him 10 minutes to prep.  

Get to his suite, open the safe, retrieve the Walther PDP compact with the Holosun red dot.  

Grab a shirt, maybe the suit jacket from his duffel to pass as security, ease tensions if he runs into trouble.  

Get downstairs to the lobby before the alarm goes off, snag a newspaper, and blend in—look like just another guest waiting out the chaos.

He turned to Sylva, his voice low and steady. “Ten minutes from now, you pull the alarm. Nearest one to the front desk, got it? I’ll be in position. Don’t tell anyone else.” 


  Kizzy stood by the elevator, his tail flicking impatiently as the seconds dragged on. The lobby buzzed behind him, bare anthros mingling, oblivious to the storm brewing in Rune’s room. His neon pink fanny pack was tucked into his jeans pocket, his boots laced tight, and his mind was razor-sharp despite the edible’s lingering buzz. Sylva’s panicked words echoed—three or four guys, rough types, no clear intel. He needed to move fast, but the damn elevator was taking forever.
Finally, the doors dinged open, and a massive hippo couple lumbered out, their gray, leathery hides glistening with sweat. The male was a good 6’8” and 400 pounds, his broad sheath swaying as he moved, while the female, slightly smaller but still imposing, wore only a beaded necklace that dangled between her heavy breasts. Kizzy squeezed past them, muttering a quick “Excuse me” as he hammered the button for the top floor. The doors slid shut, and he exhaled, the confined space amplifying his adrenaline.
Two minutes later, he was in his suite, the vanilla-and-cedar scent hitting him as he crossed to the closet. He punched the safe’s code, the door clicking open to reveal his Walther PDP compact, its Holosun red dot optic glinting. He checked the magazine—full, one in the chamber—and secured the holster to his lower back, the familiar weight grounding him. Grabbing a plain black t-shirt from his duffel, he tugged it on, the fabric hugging his lean, toned frame. He spotted a spare suit jacket—dark gray, tailored—and slipped it on, figuring it’d give him a security-guard vibe to defuse any tension. His white chest fur peeked out from the t-shirt’s collar, and he adjusted his sunglasses, ready to move.
As he stepped back into the hallway, his phone buzzed in his jeans pocket. He pulled it out, glancing at the screen: his boss, some old badger with a knack for bad timing, probably calling him back to the city over some pointless paperwork. “Not now,” Kizzy muttered, pocketing the phone without answering. Rune was in trouble, and that took priority—vacation or not.
He reached the elevator, his boots thudding softly on the plush carpet, and found the poodle girl from earlier waiting there. Her black, tightly curled fur shimmered, and she was now clad in hot pink booty shorts that hugged her sculpted ass, leaving her medium-sized C-cup breasts bare. Her dark eyes flicked to Kizzy, a flirty smirk playing on her muzzle as she leaned against the wall, her tail wagging slowly.
“Well, hey there, hero,” she purred, her voice teasing. “Heard you took down some creep on the beach. You always this exciting?” Her eyes roamed his frame, lingering on the suit jacket and the way his jeans hugged his toned hips.
Kizzy’s tail flicked, his smirk returning despite the urgency. “Only when idiots interrupt my day,” he said, his tone dry but playful. “Heading down?” He hit the elevator button again, willing it to move faster.
She nodded, stepping closer as the doors opened. “Yup. Got a hot date at the bar.” Her smirk widened, and she brushed past him into the elevator, her scent—lavender and something sweeter—lingering. “You should join me later. Unless you’re too busy playing action star.”
Kizzy chuckled, stepping in beside her, his mind still on Rune. “Maybe I’ll catch you later,” he said, keeping it vague as the doors closed. The elevator hummed downward, and he checked his watch—seven minutes until Sylva pulled the alarm. He needed to be in the lobby, blending in, before the chaos hit.
The plan was solid: Sylva triggers the fire alarm, forcing everyone out, including the goons in Rune’s room. Kizzy would grab a newspaper, pose as a guest, and watch for Rune and his “guests.” The Walther was insurance, tucked discreetly under his jacket. If things went south, he’d be ready—but he was banking on the threat of cops and firemen scattering the troublemakers.
The elevator dinged, opening to the bustling lobby. The poodle girl sauntered off, her booty shorts drawing eyes as she headed for the bar.



   the rooms begin to empty out.

Kizzy stepped into the lobby, his boots thudding softly on the tiled floor, the cool air a sharp contrast to the beach’s warmth. His black t-shirt and suit jacket gave him a subtle security-guard vibe, the Walther PDP compact tucked discreetly under his jacket, its weight reassuring against his lower back. His white-furred tail flicked as he scanned for a newspaper stand, hoping to blend in with a prop while he waited for Sylva’s fire alarm. His hazel eyes, shielded by sunglasses, darted around—nothing. Not a single newspaper, magazine, or even a Reader’s Digest in sight. He kicked himself mentally. You’re old, you fuck, he thought, smirking. Everyone in the lobby—bare or barely clothed anthros lounging on wicker furniture—was glued to their phones, scrolling, texting, oblivious.
He checked his watch: 7:28 PM. Two minutes until Sylva pulled the alarm. He took a seat against the wall, just under the staircase, positioning himself with a clear view of the elevators and the main doors. The lobby buzzed—anthros chatting, laughing, a lion couple sipping cocktails, a cheetah scrolling on her phone, her spotted fur bare. Kizzy leaned back, his phone in hand, not bothering to open an app for pretense. He just stared at the home screen, his ears perked, every sense tuned for the chaos about to unfold. His tail wagged slightly, the edible’s buzz long faded, replaced by sharp focus. He had a plan, and he might still make that 8:00 PM dinner with Marina and Torren if this went smooth.
At exactly 7:30 PM, the klaxons blared—a piercing wail that cut through the lobby’s hum. The room froze, a living painting, every head snapping up, eyes wide. For a split second, no one moved. Then, light panic erupted. Some anthros bolted for the exits, their tails flicking in worry; others, clearly tipsy, laughed and whooped, treating it like a party game. A pair of lobby workers—Sylva among them, her bellhop hat still perched comically on her head—started ushering the crowd toward the main doors. “This way, folks! Stay calm!” Sylva called, her voice steady but her green eyes flicking nervously to Kizzy.
He gave her a subtle nod, staying put as the lobby began to clear. The elevators dinged, disgorging more guests—bare wolves, a giggling rabbit couple, a bear in a loose sarong, all streaming toward the exits. Kizzy’s eyes locked on the elevators, watching for Rune or the “rough types” Sylva had described. His paw rested near his jacket, ready to draw the Walther if needed, but he kept his posture relaxed, just another guest caught in the chaos.
The hallways above echoed with footsteps, doors slamming as rooms emptied. Kizzy’s ears twitched, picking up snippets of conversation—grumbling about interrupted naps, excitement about a “fire drill party.” He scanned the crowd, his training kicking in: Observe, assess, act. No sign of Rune yet, but if Sylva was right, the goons in his room would be moving soon, spooked by the threat of firemen and cops. Kizzy’s plan was holding—force them out, spot them in the open, and get Rune clear. Then he’d figure out what kind of mess the fox had dragged him into.
His phone buzzed again—probably his boss, still harping about work. He ignored it, his eyes fixed on the elevators, the klaxons still wailing. The lobby was nearly empty now, just a few stragglers and Sylva, who shot him another quick glance before ushering out the last of the crowd. Kizzy’s tail flicked, his pulse steady but quick. The next few minutes would decide whether this was a clean extraction—or a fight. Either way, he was ready, and that dinner date was still on the table.



  Kizzy’s ears perked as the faint wail of sirens cut through the klaxons, growing louder from the distance—fire trucks, maybe cops, just as he’d hoped. The lobby was nearly empty now, the last stragglers funneled out by Sylva and the other workers. His hazel eyes, still shielded by sunglasses, locked onto the staircase as a commotion echoed from above—multiple pairs of feet pounding down in unison, a hurried, chaotic rhythm. His tail flicked, his paw hovering near the Walther concealed under his suit jacket, the weight of it grounding him.
Four figures appeared on the staircase, shoving a familiar reddish-orange fox in front of them. Rune’s fur was ruffled, his green eyes wide with a mix of defiance and fear, his cargo shorts and tank top askew as if he’d been manhandled. The group pushing him was rough—two wolves, a badger, and a lean jackal, all anthros, all bare except for minimal clothing. The wolves were broad, their gray and black fur matted, one with a scarred muzzle and a visible sheath, the other sporting a leather wristband and a heavy bulge in his shorts. The badger was stocky, his striped face snarling, his claws flexing as he gripped Rune’s arm. The jackal was wiry, his tawny fur patchy, a knife sheath strapped to his thigh, his yellow eyes darting nervously. They were moving fast, clearly spooked by the sirens, intent on dragging Rune out before the authorities arrived.
Kizzy slipped his phone into his jeans pocket, his movements slow and deliberate as he stepped forward, positioning himself between the staircase and the main doors. His black t-shirt hugged his lean, toned frame, the suit jacket adding a touch of authority. He kept his posture relaxed, his voice calm but carrying a steel edge as he called out, “Gentlemen... how we doin’?”
The group froze mid-step, Rune’s eyes locking onto Kizzy with a flicker of hope. The scarred wolf, clearly the leader, shoved Rune forward, his growl low. “Stay outta this, dog,” he snapped, his voice rough, his sheath shifting as he squared his shoulders. “This don’t concern you.”
Kizzy’s tail wagged slightly, his smirk sharp behind his sunglasses. He took a casual step closer, his paw brushing the edge of his jacket, ready to draw the Walther if needed. Musashi’s words echoed in his mind: “Do not let the enemy see your spirit.” He kept his tone light, almost friendly, but his hazel eyes were locked on the wolf’s, reading every twitch. “See, that’s where you’re wrong,” he said. “Rune’s my friend, and you’re interrupting my vacation. So how about you let him go, and we all walk away happy before those sirens get any closer?”
The badger snarled, tightening his grip on Rune’s arm, making the fox wince. “You got a death wish, city boy?” he growled, his claws digging into Rune’s fur. The jackal’s hand hovered near his knife, his tail flicking nervously, while the second wolf cracked his knuckles, his eyes narrowing.
Rune, despite the situation, flashed a weak grin. “Kizzy, you really know how to pick your moments,” he muttered, his drawl strained but still cocky.
Kizzy’s ears twitched, the sirens now loud enough to make the group glance toward the doors. The lobby was empty except for Sylva, hovering near the front desk, her bellhop hat askew, her green eyes wide as she watched. Kizzy’s plan was working—the alarm had flushed them out—but four against one wasn’t great odds, even with his training. He needed to stall, let the sirens do their work, and spook these goons into bolting without Rune.
“Look,” Kizzy said, raising one paw, palm open, while the other stayed near his jacket. “Cops and firemen are about two minutes out. You really wanna be here, explaining why you’re dragging a fox around? Let him go, and you’re gone before they pull up. Simple.”
The scarred wolf’s eyes flicked to the doors, then back to Kizzy, his snarl faltering. The jackal shifted, his knife hand twitching, but the badger growled, “We’re not leaving without what’s owed.”
Kizzy’s smirk didn’t waver, but his pulse quickened. The clock was ticking—7:32 PM, by his watch. He had to wrap this up fast if he wanted to make that 8:00 PM dinner with Marina and Torren. His eyes locked onto Rune’s, a silent message passing: Stay ready. He was betting on the sirens to break their nerve, but if it came to a fight, he’d make sure Rune got clear.



   over the wolfs wails of pain, "Medics on the way, you good?"

Kizzy kept his paw raised, palm open, his voice steady as he tried to talk down the tense standoff in the lobby. “C’mon, guys, let’s not make this messy,” he said, his hazel eyes locked on the scarred wolf’s, his sunglasses pushed up onto his head. “Sirens are close. Walk away now, and nobody gets hurt.” His tail flicked, his other paw hovering near his suit jacket, ready to draw the Walther PDP compact if things went south. He was banking on a uniform—cop, fireman, anyone—bursting through the glass doors to defuse the situation, the klaxons still blaring and the sirens growing louder outside.
But the scarred wolf’s snarl deepened, his gray fur bristling as his patience snapped. Without warning, he lunged forward, a switchblade glinting in his paw, closing the 10-foot gap with alarming speed. Kizzy’s training took over, his body moving faster than his thoughts. In under two seconds, he drew the Walther, the Holosun red dot aligning as he squeezed the trigger. A deafening crack echoed through the lobby, and the wolf collapsed mid-stride, clutching his lower abdomen, blood seeping into his matted fur. The bullet had hit low, non-lethal but enough to drop him, his knife clattering to the tile.
The wolf’s crew froze for a split second, then scattered like roaches. The badger dropped Rune’s arm, bolting for the main doors, while the jackal and the second wolf followed, tossing knives, a baggie of white powder, and a small pistol into the lobby’s potted plants as they fled. The glass doors swung wildly as they vanished into the night, the sirens now piercingly close.
Rune stumbled forward, his reddish-orange fur disheveled, his green eyes wide with a mix of shock and exhilaration. “Holy shit, Kizzy!” he shouted, his drawl thick with adrenaline. “You fuckin’ dropped him! You’re a goddamn legend!”
Kizzy’s heart pounded, his paws trembling slightly as he holstered the Walther, the weight of what he’d just done hitting hard. He’d never shot anyone before—training was one thing, but the real thing? His stomach churned, the wolf’s wails of pain cutting through the klaxons. He took a shaky breath, forcing himself to stay calm, Musashi’s words echoing: “The Way is in training.” He kicked the wolf’s switchblade toward the front desk, where Sylva stood frozen, her bellhop hat askew, her green eyes wide with horror.
“Medics are on the way,” Kizzy said, his voice rough as he tried to talk over the wolf’s cries, his eyes locking onto Rune. “You good?”
Rune nodded, his cocky grin returning despite a bruise forming on his cheek. “Yeah, man, I’m good—thanks to you. Those assholes were gonna drag me off for some debt I... might owe.” He rubbed his arm where the badger’s claws had dug in, his tail flicking nervously.
Kizzy’s ears twitched, the sirens now right outside, flashing lights visible through the tinted glass. He glanced at Sylva, who was already moving, grabbing a phone to call for help. “Stay with her,” Kizzy told Rune, nodding toward the vixen. “Cops’ll want statements. Tell ‘em the truth—those guys came at me, I acted in self-defense.” His tail flicked, his mind racing. It was 7:35 PM—he might still make that 8:00 PM dinner with Marina and Torren, but this mess was going to complicate things.
The wolf groaned on the floor, clutching his gut, and Kizzy knelt briefly, checking his pulse—steady, but he needed medical attention fast. “Hang in there,” he muttered, more to himself than the wolf, his nerves still frayed. The lobby was empty now, save for Sylva, Rune, and the wounded wolf, the klaxons finally silenced as the first responders burst through the doors—two paramedic foxes and a burly bear in a police uniform.
Kizzy stood, raising his paws to show he was unarmed, the Walther secure in its holster. His vacation had just taken a hell of a turn, but he’d kept Rune safe—and himself. Now he just had to navigate the fallout and figure out what kind of trouble Rune had really dragged him into.



   An hour later, Kizzy sat in a cramped, windowless office, the air stale and faintly metallic. A small two-way mirror hung on the wall above a cooler of water bottles, its surface reflecting the dim fluorescent light. His black t-shirt clung to his lean frame, the suit jacket draped over the back of his chair, and his sunglasses rested on the table in front of him. His white-furred tail flicked restlessly, the adrenaline from the shooting still simmering under his skin. He’d missed his 8:00 PM dinner with Marina and Torren, and the thought of their disappointed faces nagged at him, but Rune was safe—for now. His phone, still in his jeans pocket, had buzzed twice more—probably his boss again—but he hadn’t checked it. Bigger problems.
The door creaked open, and the massive rhino from the beach security desk squeezed through, his gray, scarred hide brushing the frame. He carried a manila folder, his horn casting a shadow as he settled into the chair opposite Kizzy, the seat groaning under his 400-pound bulk. His dark eyes scanned the paperwork, thick fingers flipping pages as he nodded to himself, raising an eyebrow at something before setting the folder down with a heavy sigh.
“Kizgin,” the rhino said, his gravelly voice filling the small room, “if I may be frank—and I’m betting I can with you—thank you for shooting that piece of shit in the dick.”
Kizzy blinked, his hazel eyes narrowing slightly, his muzzle twitching but staying silent. The wolf’s wails still echoed in his mind, the blood on the lobby floor, the CZ Shadow’s recoil in his paw. He hadn’t aimed for the groin—lower abdomen, clean shot—but the rhino’s words caught him off guard.
The rhino slid Kizzy’s pack of cigarettes and Zippo across the table, the neon pink fanny pack long since returned to him. “That guy,” he continued, leaning back, his leathery hide creaking, “he’s wanted in three states for rape. Not saying people should be shot in the dick... but some people? Yeah.” He gave a grim smirk, his small tail flicking against the chair.
Kizzy’s ears twitched, and he picked up the cigarettes, tapping one out but not lighting it yet. “Didn’t know his rap sheet,” he said, his voice low, steady despite the knot in his gut. “Just knew he came at me with a knife. Didn’t have a choice.” He rolled the cigarette between his fingers, his tail wagging slightly, processing. Shooting someone was new territory, and the weight of it lingered, even if the guy was scum.
The rhino nodded, his dark eyes appraising. “You did good, dog. Clean self-defense, witnesses back it up—your fox buddy, Sylva, even a couple guests. Cops are taking the wolf to the hospital, then lockup, assuming he doesn’t bleed out.” He leaned forward, his massive paws resting on the table. “Your piece—Walther, nice setup, by the way—is with us for now. Permit checks out, so you’ll get it back when you check out. But you’re on my radar, Kizgin. Rune’s mixed up with bad people, and you’re in his orbit.”
Kizzy’s smirk returned, faint but sharp. “Yeah, I’m starting to get that,” he said, his tone dry. “Rune’s got debts, and I’m guessing they’re bigger than he’s letting on. You know anything about this ‘club’ he pissed off?”
The rhino grunted, flipping open the folder again. “Not much, but they’re no bikers like that coyote from earlier. Word is, Rune owes money to a crew running drugs up the coast. Small-time, but mean. The kind who don’t like loose ends.” He fixed Kizzy with a hard look. “You’re a smart guy, Kizgin. Ex-military, maybe? You move like one. My advice? Keep Rune on a leash, or cut him loose. This ain’t your fight.”
Kizzy leaned back, finally lighting his cigarette, the Zippo’s flame steady despite his nerves. He exhaled a curl of smoke, his tail wagging slowly. “Not military,” he said. “Just read a lot. Old books, strategy. Keeps me sharp.” He paused, his mind flicking to Rune’s cocky grin, Sylva’s panic, the dunes-after-dark hints from Lila and Marina. “And yeah, maybe it’s not my fight, but I don’t like being backed into a corner. Rune’s a pain in the ass, but he’s not a bad guy. Yet.”
The rhino chuckled, a low rumble. “Fair enough. You’re free to go, but cops might want a follow-up tomorrow. Stay out of trouble—or at least don’t shoot anyone else.” He stood, his bulk filling the room, and gestured to the door. “Sylva’s got Rune in the staff lounge, shaken up but fine. You want my advice? Grab a drink, enjoy what’s left of your night. You’ve earned it.”
Kizzy stood, slipping his sunglasses back on, the cigarette dangling from his muzzle. It was 8:30 PM—too late for dinner with Marina and Torren, but the night was still young, and The Oasis was full of possibilities. He needed to find Rune, get the full story on these debts, and figure out how deep this mess went. But first, maybe a drink at the bar to steady his nerves—and a chance to see if Lila or the dune parties were still on the table.
He nodded to the rhino, grabbing his jacket. “Thanks for the smokes, big guy. And the intel.” He stepped out, the lobby now quiet, the klaxons long silenced, the blood cleaned from the floor. His vacation was a shitshow, but Kizzy’s confidence was unshaken. Time to find Rune and get some answers.



   Kizzy strode through the lobby, his boots echoing on the tiled floor, the suit jacket slung over his shoulder and his black t-shirt clinging to his lean frame. The cigarette was gone, crushed out in the office, but the faint burn of smoke lingered in his muzzle. His white-furred tail flicked, his hazel eyes sharp behind his sunglasses, though he pushed them up onto his head as he navigated the crowd. The lobby was repopulating now, rattled half-naked patrons trickling back in after the fire alarm—bare wolves muttering about ruined naps, a cheetah couple giggling nervously, a bear in a loose sarong clutching a cocktail like a lifeline. Kizzy bumped shoulders with a lanky hyena, who shot him a glare but kept moving. The air buzzed with residual panic and confusion, but Kizzy’s focus was razor-tight: find Rune, get answers.
He followed Sylva’s earlier directions to the staff lounge, a discreet door tucked behind the front desk, marked “Employees Only.” Questions burned on his tongue—Who were those goons? What debts? How deep was Rune’s mess?—and the rhino’s warning about a drug-running crew up the coast only sharpened his urgency. His Walther was with security, but his training kept him steady, Musashi’s words grounding him: “Know the enemy, know yourself.” Right now, Rune was the key to both.
Kizzy pushed through the door into a small, dimly lit lounge—couch, vending machine, a coffee maker humming in the corner. Sylva stood near the couch, her reddish fur still disheveled, her bellhop hat now on a table, her bare curves catching the fluorescent light. Rune sprawled on the couch, his reddish-orange fur ruffled, a bruise darkening his cheek. His cargo shorts were torn at the knee, his tank top askew, but his green eyes lit up when he saw Kizzy, a cocky grin spreading despite the ordeal.
Sylva rushed forward, her arms wide for a hug. “Kizzy, oh my god, you saved him!” she gasped, her voice thick with relief.
Kizzy raised a paw, sidestepping the embrace with a quick shake of his head. “Yeah, no hugs, Sylva,” he said, his tone firm but not unkind, his tail flicking. He crossed his arms, his hazel eyes locking onto Rune, hard and unyielding. “What the fuck is going on, Rune? Four guys try to drag you off, talking about debts. I just shot a guy in the gut to keep your ass safe, so don’t give me the short version. Who are they, what do you owe, and why the hell am I in the middle of it?”
Rune’s grin faltered, his ears flattening as he sat up, rubbing the bruise on his cheek. Sylva hovered nearby, her tail flicking nervously, but she stayed quiet, her green eyes darting between them. The lounge was silent except for the coffee maker’s hum, the weight of Kizzy’s words hanging heavy.
“Alright, alright,” Rune said, his drawl slower now, less cocky. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his bushy tail still. “I fucked up, Kizzy. Those guys... they’re with a crew called the Black Claws. Small-time dealers, mostly coke and weed, run up and down the coast. I was... let’s say involved with them a while back. Ran some product, played cards with their boss, guy named Varkis—a real mean jaguar. I won big one night, walked away with ten grand and a stash of their product.” He paused, wincing. “Didn’t exactly tell them I was leaving. Took the cash, sold the stash, and split.”
Kizzy’s ears twitched, his jaw tightening. “So you stole from drug dealers,” he said, his voice low, cutting. “And now they want their money—or your head.”
Rune nodded, his grin gone. “Pretty much. Thought I’d stayed ahead of ‘em, moving town to town. Guess they caught up.” He glanced at Sylva, who looked ready to throttle him. “Didn’t mean to drag you into it, Kizzy. You were just... there, y’know? And you’re good in a fight.”
Sylva crossed her arms, her bare fur bristling. “Rune, you idiot,” she snapped, her voice shaking. “You told me it was just gambling debts! Not fucking drug lords!”
Kizzy’s tail flicked, his mind racing. The Black Claws, Varkis, ten grand—Rune’s mess was bigger than he’d feared, and now Kizzy was on their radar. The rhino’s words echoed: Cut him loose. But Rune’s bruised face and Sylva’s panic tugged at his soft spot for helping those in over their heads. He leaned closer, his voice cold but controlled. “You got a plan to fix this, fox? Or am I gonna be shooting more of your buddies before my vacation’s over?”
Rune swallowed, his green eyes meeting Kizzy’s. “I... I can get the money. There’s a guy in town, owes me a favor. Could scrape together enough to pay Varkis off, maybe get him to back down. But I need time—and help.”
Kizzy’s smirk was grim. “Time’s short, Rune. And my help ain’t free.” He glanced at Sylva, then back to Rune. “Start making calls. I’ll stick around tonight, but you’re telling me everything—names, places, numbers. No more surprises.” He checked his watch: 8:45 PM. 



   Kizzy leaned against the staff lounge’s couch, his hazel eyes flicking between Rune and Sylva, his tail still as he pulled out his phone. “Here,” he said, his voice firm, reciting his cell number. “Emergencies only, unless this shit calms down. Then you can add me on X or whatever the fuck people do now.” He pocketed the phone, his black t-shirt hugging his lean frame, the suit jacket still slung over his shoulder. Rune nodded, his reddish-orange fur still ruffled, while Sylva scribbled the number on a napkin, her bare fur bristling with lingering nerves.
“Stay put, both of you,” Kizzy added, his tone sharp. “Rune, start making those calls. I’ll check in later.” He pushed through the lounge door, the lobby’s buzz hitting him—half-naked anthros returning to their revelry, the shooting already fading into resort gossip. His boots thudded on the tile, his mind churning: Black Claws, Varkis, ten grand. Rune’s mess was a minefield, and Kizzy was ankle-deep. He needed a drink—a triple scotch, minimum—to steady his nerves after shooting that wolf.
He headed for the main bar, the bamboo-roofed one by the pool now dim and smoky under the evening sky, the reggae replaced by a low jazz hum. The crowd was thinner, the night’s wilder energy shifting toward the dunes or private rooms. Kizzy slid onto a leather bar stool, the neon pink fanny pack long ditched in his suite, his jeans and t-shirt feeling oddly formal in the sea of bare fur. The bartender, a female horse with chestnut fur and a flowing mane, moved behind the counter, her large breasts brushing glasses and beer taps as she poured drinks with practiced ease. Her only “clothing” was a leather choker with a silver pendant, and her dark eyes flicked past Kizzy as he tried to catch her attention, waving a paw.
“C’mon, lady, triple Lagavulin, neat,” he muttered under his breath, his tail flicking with impatience. Before he could try again, a heavy paw tapped his shoulder, the contact firm enough to make his ears twitch. Kizzy spun in his seat, his training kicking in, his body tensing as he clocked the figure looming over him—a male lion, over 6’5”, his tawny fur rippling over a muscular frame, his thick mane framing a stern face. His amber eyes bored into Kizzy’s, his sheath and heavy balls unapologetically bare, a leather belt with a single pouch slung low on his hips. His presence screamed authority, and Kizzy’s gaze flicked past him, spotting three more goons—two wolves and a panther, all similarly built, all bare but for belts or armbands—positioned at the bar’s exits, their eyes locked on him.
“Ms. Fluffy would like an audience,” the lion said, his voice a deep rumble, smooth but laced with menace. “And since you’re in her hotel...” He trailed off, his tail flicking, a silent warning. “I suggest you honor it.”
Kizzy’s tail stiffened, his hazel eyes narrowing as he leaned back on the stool, his paws resting casually on his thighs, close to where the Walther would’ve been if security hadn’t taken it. Ms. Fluffy? The name was absurd, but the lion’s tone and the goons blocking the exits screamed serious. This wasn’t Rune’s Black Claws—this was something else, tied to the resort itself. His mind raced, Musashi’s words grounding him: “Do not let the enemy dictate the field.” He needed to stay calm, gather intel, and avoid a fight he couldn’t win unarmed.
“Ms. Fluffy, huh?” Kizzy said, his voice dry, a smirk tugging at his muzzle to mask his tension. “Sounds like a real charmer. She always send a pride to fetch her guests?” He stood slowly, his 6-foot frame dwarfed by the lion but his confidence unshaken, his tail wagging slightly to project ease. “Alright, big guy, lead the way. But if this is about Rune’s bullshit, I’m just the guy who shot the last idiot who tried me.”
The lion’s amber eyes flicked over Kizzy, assessing, but he didn’t rise to the bait. “Move,” he said, jerking his head toward a side exit where one of the wolves waited, his gray fur bristling. The bar’s jazz hummed on, the horse bartender now glancing their way but staying clear, her mane swaying as she poured another beer. The crowd was oblivious, lost in their drinks and flirtations.
Kizzy’s pulse quickened, his training screaming trap, but he had no choice—four against one, no gun, and nowhere to run. He adjusted his jacket over his shoulder, his smirk still in place, and followed the lion, the goons closing in behind him like a net. The night was young—9:00 PM by his guess—and The Oasis was proving to be a deeper rabbit hole than he’d ever imagined. Whoever Ms. Fluffy was, she ran this place, and Kizzy was about to find out what she wanted with him.

  End Chapter 1.