Limitless Evolution As a Snake

"Sign here," the rat manager says, sliding the contract closer with his shaky little ratty paws. "Just sign; everything is fine, everything is completely fine."

I stare at the paper. There is a lot of paper; hell there is a lot of small text on the paper.

"What debt?" My unblinking eyes fix on him.

The rat manager’s laugh is a high, thin sound of pure panic, the kind a predator is built to silence. I uncoil slowly, lifting my head higher. My hood flares just enough for the light to catch on my crimson scales.

"What does the casino owe?" I repeat, my voice a low hiss. "And who does it owe it to?"

He goes pale. Rats can go pale, apparently; who knew.

"Uhh," he says. "Uhhh. Ohh uhhhh."

"That’s not an answer."

"Just sign it! It’ll be fine! You’ll make the money back, I trust you, I trust you so much!"

My tail thumps against the floor, a single, heavy beat of irritation.

"Who," I say slowly, "do you owe?"

He leans in close, like he’s about to tell me a secret that will get him killed if the walls hear it. Honestly, at this point I’m starting to think that’s exactly the situation.

"It’s the guys who run the horse girl races," he whispers.

"Top side. You can do it though, it’s only-" he swallows. "It’s only like ten million."

The room goes very quiet.

"What do you mean it’s ten ONLY million?"

"It’s ten million," he says, like repeating it makes it smaller.

"What the fuck did you do?"

He’s full-on sweating now, whiskers twitching, tail curled up so tight around his own leg he looks like he’s trying to strangle himself for me so I don’t have to.

"Please," he says. "Please just take it. You can have everyone here; you can have me. Do you like men? You can have me too if you want. I don’t care, please just take the casino, please!"

"I am going to vomit," I hiss, my throat constricting. I genuinely might. Snakes don’t have a great vomit reflex, but this feels like the exception that proves the rule.

"I’ll take the casino," I rumble, "but get out of my sight before I change my mind about the killing part."

[System: Nah mate, remember that kill quest from the killing pits? You still need more kills!]

"Yesyesyesyes of course my lord I’m so sorry, thank you, thank you."

"Please stop talking before I kill you myself."

"A-h—yes! Goodbye!"

And then he’s gone. Just straight up bolts, little rat legs going a mile a minute, out the door and probably out of the building and possibly out of the entire district by the time I’ve finished processing what just happened.

I am now the proud owner of a casino that owes ten million to men who run horse girl races and, statistically speaking, definitely also break kneecaps as a side hustle.

Old Mate, you got anything.

Nothing. Just the faint mental sound of someone cracking open a beer that doesn’t exist.

The door swings open again and Hana strolls in like none of this just happened, eating what looks like a taco, completely unbothered, like she just wandered in from a nice walk and not from a building that currently smells like rat fear-sweat and bad decisions.

[System: I wanna eat her taco.]

Shut up.

[System: Here’s your 50 IP I owe ya. Anyway, congrats on the ten mil debt and the new casino empire, or whatever this is.]

Cheers, thanks. I think.

[System: No worries.]

I stare at nothing for a second, tail curling tighter around itself.

You’re just gonna gloss over the part where I might get murdered by horse girl race guys.

[System:See, look at you. Full send. Real indulgent behaviour right there, mate, I’m so proud of ya.]

Old Mate. Focus, ages ago you told me the system had three parts. What’s the third part?

[System: Ohh yeah, that old chestnut.]

Well?

[System: You’ll find out at Rank B.]

You didn’t say that before.

[System: I’m saying it now.]

I hate you.

[System: Love you too, my favourite drop kick.]

I would keep arguing but Hana’s already finished her taco, wiping her fingers off like she’s at a nice little lunch and not coiled in the wreckage of my worst day ever. She looks around the room slowly, taking in the abandoned contract, the rat-shaped hole in the doorway where the manager used to be, all of it.

"Congratulations, young lord," she says, bowing her head slightly. "Your father will be proud."

"Uh," I say. "What."

"Shall I give your young wives something to do while you settle in?"

"How do you?" My jaw clicks shut. Genuinely, at this point, asking how anyone knows anything about me feels like a waste of energy I don’t have. "You know what, nope, never mind. Doesn’t matter."

I just want to go home. That’s it, that’s the whole plan now. Forget the casino, forget the minus ten million, forget the horse girl race mafia and their probably-broken kneecaps policy. I want to go curl up somewhere warm with the people who don’t make me feel like I’m one bad conversation away from a bullet.

"Hana. Can you take me home, back to them."

She straightens up, calm as ever, like I just asked her to pass the salt. "Of course, young lord."

Hana doesn’t just step aside, she does a full ceremonial bow, arms up, face nearly to the floor. She stays there, motionless, until I slither past, which is probably the only way to make an exit from this rat-hole seem remotely dignified.

My scales rasp over the carpet like a zipper on a cheap gym bag. As I hit the main area, it gets real obvious, real fast: the entire casino floor has gone dead silent.

Every dealer, cocktail waitress, pit boss, and panther security guy is at attention. They’re not just looking at me, either.

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