Only one pony was constantly looking away from the most beautiful Vanhoover mare, who was bathed in the spotlight and attention. Her face remained turned toward the stage, but her eyes looked away in a kind of thoughtfulness. Anyone in the audience would have been horrified by such a sacrilege: it was as if Princess Celestia had leaned over for a thank-you kiss, but the receiver was more interested in looking at the stained glass windows.

The red unicorn was watching the skinny orange stallion from the sidelines. Eileen Softhooves worked her way up the stairs. The hall erupted into applause and cheers, causing the unicorn to look away from Holiday and join the crowd. Holiday himself tapped his hooves against each other joyfully. Eileen watched the audience's reaction and the red unicorn in ecstasy, obviously pleased with the result. All this attention, applause, and emotion was satisfying to her ego and gave her an over-the-top pleasure, as if every part of her body was being turned into a sensitive zone and given a relaxing massage. She took a deep breath, savoring the moment like an expensive wine, memorizing every detail.

It was a firm conviction in Eileen's heart that she would not trade all these experiences for any riches.

The hall quieted down.

"One of my best works," Eileen said when there was complete silence. "I spent a lot of time on it, but it was worth it. And now my next song..."

The fascination that had enveloped Holiday was slowly releasing him. He remembered the ice cream and leaned over, taking a bite of strawberry with his lips. The sweet fireworks of flavor almost made him moan aloud with pleasure. For the first few moments, it felt like something fuzzy and ticklish was twirling in his mouth. He could hardly contain the urge to swallow it all at once, but even in that state he understood: the point of a treat was to savor and enjoy.

Delicious flavor!

He was a little oblivious to the vivid impressions after the song, focusing on the strawberry dessert. This did not escape the red unicorn's notice.

Perhaps the magical 'buzzing' is not coming from him, she thought, shifting her gaze to the blue unicorn sipping some wine from his glass. In any case, the magic is too weak to harm Eileen from a distance. I can barely feel her up close.

She had the calm demeanor of a skilled chess player, calculating possible moves and actions, but not forgetting that Eileen herself is no weaker or less sensitive to magic. She could stand up for herself.

The orange stallion licked himself lustily during the Softhooves' speech and continued to rub his nose in the ice cream like a dog sniffing another dog's ass. The blue unicorn listened to Eileen in awe and, as she guessed, mentally undressed her, fantasizing about getting his nose under her tail. Nothing particularly shameful or out of the ordinary—it was what half of Vanhoover dreamed of.

The birthday mare felt another magical 'buzz' in the hall—but she was able to determine its nature, making sure it carried no threat. And this...

What if it was some kind of jewelry whose magic was malfunctioning? I can't just randomly search guests just because I sensed some faint magical activity that I don't recognize. Excessive precautions will only serve to discourage, breed rumors and tension. Eileen might be suspected of paranoia, if her guards are bugging the guests about every little thing. Besides, I don't know who exactly it's coming from. Magic is everywhere, and there will always be something that is still of an unclear nature.

The red unicorn with a black mane was completely focused on the performance.

***

Middle of the day. Holiday washed the paint off his mane and tail with a special mixture. It was time to pay off his debts. There were still more than four months to go, but he wanted to get this matter settled soon and move on with his life in peace. They felt less like anchors and more like swimming in a pool with a bag full of rocks—not too disturbing, not dangerous, and could be dropped at any time. So why not do it now? Waiting would only make it worse.

With these thoughts he left his apartment on Luxury Street. Outside, winter was in full swing, as if it had come out for a country picnic, covering the world with a white cloth. Everything was covered in snow, even the old garbage in the corners. Tall houses and the crunch under his hooves accompanied him as he sank into contemplation of the life ahead. The cool air cleared his thoughts well.

What to do after paying off his debts? Continue playing casino games for the rest of his life? Or earn money for a full-fledged education to join one of the families? A regular job would be hard to come by, but this way I could at least find protection... in the Steelmane family, for example. My skills in any field could come in handy there. I'd have connections, even a career and a noble cause.

The two teenage stallions chatted excitedly with the music from the radio set on the open window of the first floor. The tune was wordless, upbeat and energetic. You could even dance to it, turn it on at a party or crowd-sourced event. Apparently the kids had decided to take a break from trying to bury each other in snowdrifts.

Holiday paid no attention to them, and they paid no attention to him. It was idyllic.

"...and what happened next?" one of them asked with glowing eyes.

"They lived happily ever after. That's all."

"Really? That's hard to believe."

"What did you expect? It's a fairy tale. Everything always ends well in a fairy tale."

"I wish I was in a fairy tale."

"So do I... But then again, the rich life gets boring fast."

"As if you know what it's like," the listener chuckled. The narrator sent a scornful glance in response, which intensified the former's laughter.

"Well, it's true... you have the same pleasures every day. It's like eating only sweets. Eventually you get nauseous, your stomach hurts. They say wealth makes some ponies crazy, do stupid things."

"Better a rich and boring life than a poor and unpredictable one. In a rich life you can at least find different ways to have fun... or who you can have fun with. By the way, is Sweetie Biscuit at home today, or is she helping her mother in the shop?"

Holiday was already far away. His ears had not heard the conversation, though he was not following it. He was pondering the luxurious life his imagination had painted. Where he would be recognized, where he had access to all sorts of life's goods and opportunities. A dreamy smile froze on his lips that nothing seemed to be able to peel off.

At this pace, the skinny orange stallion reached the store, seeing a familiar neon sign with an upside-down figure eight. 'Endless Wire'. Jingling the bell, he crossed the threshold and looked around. Everything was still the same: a variety of wires, wriggling, dangled from fixtures, some coiled. The customer in front of him had just finished his purchase and was leaving the store. Holiday tactfully and timely, as if a huge boulder had rolled on him, stepped aside with an indifferent look.

Behind the counter stood the crimson-milk stallion. This time his face in the cold white light of the ceiling lamps was much less friendly than last time. He always tried to keep a friendly face when he saw a customer, but even Holiday sensed something was wrong. He wasn't even recognized.

"What can I do for you?" the salespony asked, squeezing the phrase out with effort—as if he were opening an unyielding jar of canned pickles.

"I... want to pay off my loan."

The stallion's gaze gained clarity and realization, the shroud of irritation almost dissipating. He looked closely at the skinny orange stallion in the inexpensive coat and tried to remember who he was—but the image slipped away like soap in a bathtub. He quickly gave up, not wanting to exercise his meanderings for an unfamiliar pony now that those were consumed with the far more important task of making a list of all of his wife's sins and flaws.

"Go to the back room. You'll be welcomed there," he spat out the words with a kind of vibrating anger, as if the very thought of that room or who was in it pissed him off.

Holiday nodded and walked through, opening the door.

The white unicorn with the light purple mane tied in a bun at the back of her head was sitting at her desk, looking frustrated as she fixed the remote control of a green radio-controlled car that refused to be fixed.

Go to hell!

It's a mystery whether it was addressed to her husband or the remote control. Perhaps both at the same time. She would have been happy if all her problems had gathered in a dense bunch, and she would have stroked the huge sledgehammer with a sly grin, like a typical movie villain strokes his black cat, and with a single blow with the words "FUCK YEAH!" would have destroyed the bunch with such force as if a giant bomb had exploded.

The white, lifeless light of the chandelier cast shadows on the shelves with drawers of appliances and other things. Tools spread out on the table, bits of wires, electronics parts, and gems were lying here and there. The odor of rosin was still well perceptible in the air.

With a sour look, as if a slice of lemon had been marinating in her mouth for hours, she smiled at the client she noticed almost immediately.

"What can I do for you?" it sounded a little rude, but Holiday took no offense and paid it no mind. "Need something fixed or are we talking about a loan?"

"Yes, about the loan. I want to pay it off. My name is Holiday. I was here over six months ago."

"Wait a minute..." she spoke. Her horn flashed with a familiar silver light.

He remembered the mint scent that came from the unicorn.

A wooden clipboard with a list flew up to her face. After a couple seconds, her eyes stopped on the right name; she rummaged through the desk some more and pulled out a sheet listing valuable items.

"Found it. Loan for five thousand caps. The repayment amount is ten thousand. You still have four months to go."

"I already have the amount. Here," he said, pulling from his warm coat a bank check in the amount of ten thousand caps.

The milk-colored unicorn stared at it and then at Holiday. Memories rushed from her subconscious into her consciousness, disconcerting: all her angry thoughts froze at once, as if slapped. Paying back the loan was not unusual for her, but it was this loan that caused her the most emotion. It was the biggest one for her. Her husband... had convinced her to trust a dubious stranger who was legally captive to a griffon who liked to eat pony meat.

"Yes... Nice..." was all she said. The frustration and anger faded away like the echoes of a subsiding storm. As if in a trance, she took the check from the client and made a note on his passport that the debt had been repaid. "You got it, as I understand?" she asked softly, remembering some project of his.

"Yep. I've already gotten the benefit."

"It's wonderful when someone gets something to work out..." she stared at the check confusedly, strangely empty. Relief and joy mixed with guilt toward her husband. "You don't need anything else?"

Holiday shook his head.

"Well... that's it then."

He nodded and left the store. The unicorn sat at the table for a long time, looking lost. Her gaze fell on the remote control of the green machine, and—as if by magic—the pony realized why she couldn't fix it.

In less than a minute, the green toy car was spinning around the table, its tiny wheels spinning furiously, following the commands sent from the remote via radio waves. For the first time in the past twenty-six hours she smiled involuntarily, genuinely delighted by the shrill whirring of the little motor. The whole surrounding reality faded like a fading oil lamp, everything but the toy disappeared and ceased to make sense.

The muffled laughter of the foals and the amazed sighs of the foals who watched the first attempts of the white mare without a cutie mark to fix and make things sounded in her head. She was sitting on the steps of her parents' apartment building, and the foals surrounded her and squealed with excitement as they watched a white toy car with light purple stripes drive down the concrete steps and jump off them at speed. It's one thing to manipulate objects with telekinesis, where you can still feel them by 'touch', and quite another to do without magical assistance. All that serene laughter, the admiration for her skills...

The white unicorn blinked as she heard the toy fall off the table, and felt tears welling up. She brushed them away. Picked up the toy with her telekinesis and examined it again—but not because it might have broken from falling from such a height.

All of her current accomplishments in the family seemed mundane against that background. Material accumulation and the other goods of life were no longer such a pleasure; and in general, those times had brought her far more happiness than the present.

She felt like the stupidest pony ever when her gaze focused again on the bank check of ten thousand caps. An impressive sum—but far more importantly a return to what was now bringing her the most important happiness in her life.

The crimson-milk stallion's ears twitched when he heard the clatter of hooves behind him. He instinctively turned around and was about to defiantly turn away, but instead he stared at the white unicorn's face, her lips quivering. She had been through too much in the last few days and was exhausted.

His heart ached, it was filled with guilt. He should have been her support, he should have realized that the struggles in families were not easy, that there were many obstacles along the way that anyone could stumble over.

"You earned five thousand caps," she said quietly. He blinked in surprise, completely out of his thoughts and the nascent desire to smile and hug her.

"I don't get it."

"That stallion... you believed in him then. And now it's all paid off."

After a couple moments, what she said reached him, that same soft smile on his lips that made something tingle in her chest and her knees turn to melted chocolate. Her gray eyes glazed over, and his smile melted before her gaze—just as he turned fully toward her, opening his front legs for a hug. Wiggling, she reached him and hugged him, burying her nose in his neck and moistening his fur with hot, quiet tears.

***

Holiday's booted hooves crushed the snowflakes in the griffon neighborhood in slow motion. Mostly controlled by the Falcon family; the neighborhoods teemed with weapons and ammunition manufacturing facilities.

The orange stallion in the cheap coat jumped where he stood at the sudden rumble that came from somewhere in the depths of the building to his right. Before his brain realized that he was almost instantly on the opposite side of the road, his eyes saw a yellow illuminated sign above the front of the building with a stylized image of a revolver muzzle at the moment of firing, "Shooting Range"

Letting out a sigh of relief and removing his hoof from his chest where his heart drummed beneath him, Holiday returned to the sidewalk and walked on. He still shuddered with every gunshot.

The street is full of establishments that provide services for the sale and maintenance of weapons and ways to have fun with them—like shooting ranges where you can participate with the hope of winning a prize of an inexpensive gun or plush toy, or firing ranges where you can shoot and test sample weapons with various modifications for a small fee. The Falcons are constantly interacting with critters and mutants, so you can buy full stuffed animals and other decorations here, but the bulk of the goods go to Softhooves, who also produce clothing.

A distinctive feature of high-rise buildings in this neighborhood was the presence of open spacious balconies, through which the griffons living on the upper floors could quickly get to their homes or leave it. Everything is designed in a convenient way for landing.

Working in the restaurant where Rich Inner World was served impacted Holiday, even traumatized him. The whole environment had a kind of hostile power, sucked the confidence and composure out of him with the same efficiency that the pulpit does out of stage fright and public attention. Holiday felt naked, as if in a terrible dream, but not because of shame. His body felt as if he were being viewed not with mockery, contempt, or lust, but with a far more frightening undertone, as if the stares were a frost that gave him goosebumps. Hungry eyes judged the deliciousness of his body in the truest sense of the word.

His entire mind froze in paranoid anticipation, listening for every rustle, shadow, or movement—they reinforced the conviction that he was being watched by beak-licking predators, sizing up their prey and waiting for the right moment. He looked even smaller—all shrunken, hushed, trying to reduce his visibility, to turn into a small mouse. What urged him most strongly to flee as far away from here as possible were the shrill predatory cries from the nearby houses. Screams imbued with strength and power, as if to say, "I see you, meat. Se-e-e you!".

Highlighted to Holiday's ears was the sound of mighty feathered wings flapping, the airflow visible to his orange fur beneath his thick winter coat. The griffons flew over him, and the faint shadow of the clouds cast a faint shadow over Holiday—but to his frightened mind it was the embodiment of terror, as if the Darkness itself would pounce on him and drag him down into the abyss, forever depriving him of warmth and light.

Two female teenage griffons sat at the edge of the balcony on the fourth floor, their hind paws and tails hanging down. In their front paws they held revolvers, on which they focused their sparkling, short-circuit-like eyes of delight.

"Nice gun!" one of them uttered with emotion, looking at the paw of the second griffon clutching the pistol by the holder. "It's so long... let me feel it!"

Griffon weapons are often strikingly different from what ponies use. Their design allows them to be held in their paws rather than in their mouths or battle saddles.

The beak of the owner of the thicker and longer gun distorted into a smug grin.

"Yeah you've got a nice iron too," she added. The friends exchanged revolvers. The one who received the larger gun immediately began groping and stroking it, enjoying the coolness of the steel in her paw. The other turned the smaller revolver in her paws. "Yours is small, but it's better balanced, and it's nicer to hold."

Both of them casually took aim at the orange earth pony, who was walking, twitching constantly, as if he were wearing the scratchiest sweater his grandmother had sewn for the winter holidays. He didn't notice them: the griffons sat practically motionless.

The owner of the smaller revolver smirked: she had the idea to play a joke on him by shooting him under the hooves. The owner of the big gun had noticed her intentions. She wouldn't mind mocking the pony, but it was too much for her—she preferred to tease verbally.

"Don't even think about it," she said.

"Come on, it's only one shot."

"No," she said decisively.

"Is it because I want to fire your revolver?" she asked, still aiming at a point in front of Holiday's hooves.

"You aim no better than a drunken griffin in front of a toilet." The griffon with the large gun in her paws turned and opened her beak, but she was outpaced, realizing her potential request, "Also, given the way he twitches, he'll get shot at the wrong moment. My aim won't help here."

"Bummer," she sighed. They returned the revolvers to each other.

"If you'd shot a pony, you'd have a few months of teasing except at your cellmates. If you'd killed, months would have turned into years."

Holiday paced on. His subconscious mind caught a fleeting glimpse of the chimneys of the factories above the houses with their open balconies and the predators that landed there, like the claws of drowning griffons looking for salvation, but for betraying their ideals or revealing the secrets of the Falcon family, they could only expect a brick from those who had been commanded to drown them instead of a helping paw.

At some point, Holiday's brain gave the command to freeze and calm down a little: he was blinded by the bright yellow light from the sign, "The Griffon's Grip". He entered through the front entrance of the restaurant, and, afraid to look at the hall filled mostly with predatory birds, went straight to the receptionist's table, at which stood a young female griffon with a polite—because of the specifics of the job—expression on her face. The line of her beak stretched into a welcoming smile, which had a calming effect on Holiday.

Ponies in places like this didn't surprise the griffon administrator, but still, they were a rarity here. She eyed him with interest and couldn't help but notice the nervous pose of the skinny orange stallion as he stepped over the threshold.

Holiday couldn't remember if he'd seen her before when he worked here. He was generally bad at remembering names unless they were displayed somewhere visually in large letters, like store signs or billboards.

"I'd like to see the chief... I owe her a debt," he muttered and was surprised: his voice still shook like a washing machine on the rough basement floor. The receptionist cast a dubious glance at him, turning her head and trying to maintain etiquette, but unwittingly showed him the length of her beak, which made him uncomfortable. The curve of the beak line struck him as malevolent. "M-my name is Holiday. I worked here almost nine months ago."

A clawed paw reached for a notebook by the desk, opened it, and flipped through it. Holiday couldn't help but think of the strength and sharpness of those claws.

"Now... Uh-huh... Ah. Yes, I have a note left that Holiday may appear within the year. Then come in."

She waved her front paw, indicating the service door behind her. He didn't need to point. He remembered how to get there, but nodded gratefully and staggered toward the service quarters, feeling as if his knees were encased in quick-hardening concrete. He tried not to stare at the dining tables for fear of seeing pony guts there.

In the hallway, he went to the supervisor's door, lifted his leg, barely swallowing the accumulated lump of fear the size of a baseball, and knocked. After granting permission, he entered the office.

The interior was unremarkable except for the skins and stuffed animals and mutants from the Wasteland. Fortunately, there were no stuffed ponies here. A brown raptor sat at a desk. It set the paper aside, recognizing Holiday instantly.

He was scared by the fact that she remembered him well.

In less than a second, predatory eyes fairly flashed, studying his crouched, frightened, and submissive pose. More than anything else, she followed his open eyes, trying to get into his brain and read his thoughts. And was surprised to find that she had already been 'sitting' there for the last... nine months? She couldn't say for sure, but she remembered Holiday's fear when she'd pinned him to the refrigerator; his expression was much different now. Predators know every shade of fear in the eyes of their prey—the look of awe in Holiday's eyes. It was the look of someone who had literally seen a nightmare that would not leave him alone.

He wouldn't stop thinking about me, and the dreams... Oh, I wish I could see what his imagination was painting!

Her body rose, her mighty muscles moving. Holiday's rump sank helplessly to the carpet with the same speed. She stepped up to the skinny nightmare-intimidated stallion—quite close, just like that time. She looked down at him like a rabbit. Holding back the contents of his bladder abruptly became more difficult. He'd forgotten that his salvation lay in the inside pocket of his coat.

"Hello, bag of bones," she muttered quietly. A smug grin stretched across her beak like a client on a masseur's table. "I remember telling you not to come back here until you returned the caps or brought a well-fed pony..." She casually glanced at the open door, knowing no one was with him. "If there's no one there... then why did you leave the door open? Not polite."

She stepped around Holiday, closing the door. At least it wasn't locked. The orange earth pony was afraid to move.

"So... no well-fed pony," she muttered, standing in the same spot in front of him, her massive paw somehow resting on his head with love and care. Holiday summoned all his remaining willpower to keep from bowing in fear and falling flat on his stomach. At least she wasn't grasping at him like a falling old person grasping crutches. "So you brought the caps?"

He nodded, though it was hard to do so with a paw on his head.

"That's surprising. I didn't expect you to be able to do it. Also so fast."

The griffon was genuinely impressed. Her paw left his head and brown mane alone, like a dog losing interest in a toy. She stood in front of him, continuing to grin at the anxiety of her frightened prey.

He's got his caps ready, and yet he's afraid of me. What a fine specimen. I almost feel sorry I let myself let him go. I could play with him for a long time. His own nightmares did a good job, but I could have done better. I don't care if he's skinny... but that face!

Just as she was about to grin even wider at her own slightly horny fantasies, the orange stallion reached into his inside pocket with his face and pulled out the check. She disdainfully took it from her teeth, holding back a sigh of disappointment. Read the contents.

"Who did you rob? Admit it..." she cooed. He became uncomfortable. "Although... you don't have the guts for something like that." She allowed herself a mirthful chuckle. That laugh seemed far creepier than his subconscious had painted him in his dreams. "But any guts can be cooked on a platter."

Holiday shuddered with her ears down. The sight of it caused a moist heat to rush to the inside of her thighs. Her head spun, her breathing slightly quickened. She felt hot—but Holiday felt like he'd been thrown into a freezer.

She looked at the check again. She wasn't having money problems. As a Captain of the Falcon family, she'd invested all her savings and time into this business, where ponies were served as meat for the few griffons that would eat something like that. And she's among them. Even some ponies secretly come here to taste the forbidden food.

This kind of business attracts a lot of trouble with the law. They live by the rules of the ponies, which include many really powerful unicorns. Prince, the families, they're a force to be reckoned with.

Not everything pays off, and it's not always worth the effort—except to those who matter. For her, it did. Other things just didn't appeal to her, didn't give her the same emotions and sensations, even though they brought in a lot more caps. This restaurant was not her only source of income, but it was the least profitable, but she paid much more attention and care to it.

She looked into the victim's frightened brown eyes. Something inside her flared up. It burned with a bright flame. The beak was eager to dive into the blood! Her whole being urged her to sink her claws into his body right here and now, to turn into a huge wave that would crash down and swallow the orange earth pony standing by the shore.

He mentally didn't understand the reason why his heart was covered with burning ice, but his animal instincts told him that the griffon who was fixed and glaring at him was very, very bad!

The one thing that helped her enjoy this pleasure over the years was one extremely important thing. Which kept the sensations sharp and fresh.

I am not a slave to my own urges. They don't control me, I won't let them. I am free. Free!

She stared into his eyes, into that attractive frightened face. The ravenous fire inside her fueled her imagination, showing the exciting things she could do to him. What pleasure she could extract. The unthinkable temptation. The claws of her paws tensed, clawing into the carpet, but Holliday paid no attention.

No, I'm free! No... go away. Away! Unlike most masters, I don't submit to quick desires! I'm not like those weak-willed fools. Constant gratification of desires will lead to loss of taste and boredom. It's irresponsible and stupid. I don't want that!

She took a deep breath, feeling control return. Passion still raged, but at least it wasn't controlling her. Still, despite the uphill struggle, she was pleased with herself. She had stayed true to her principles. The self-control, the occasional denial of pleasure to herself only made it stronger.

"All right. Give me your passport and get out of here."

Holiday staggered away from the neighborhood with a lifeless and emaciated look, like a blind and deaf feral ghoul, paying no attention to the gunshots or the piercing predatory screams. Outside the neighborhood, the restraining rivets inside him were violently ripped out, and he burst into tears, drawing the attention of some passersby, who quickly lost interest in him.

***

Flakes of snow covered the streets of Vanhoover, falling lazily, swirling, on the bare noses of ponies as if a confectioner had sprinkled powdered sugar on the top of a cake. Holiday was not exempt from this fate, so when he crossed the threshold of the Gem Casino, he gave a doggy shake that every pony that entered did. A little farther away, a guard post was inspecting visitors for weapons and other dangerous items.

Light colors dominated the interior, the palette reminiscent of a hospital—everything seemed sterile and tidy, but if you looked closely...

The casino-hotel belonged to the Meadows family. It was the only gambling establishment they owned, but it was so profitable and popular that only the Crystal Lotus Casino, owned by the Softhooves, could compete with it. Holiday had been here many times before, but then he had been concerned only with debt and caution. Now he had the opportunity to gaze and appreciate the interior with peace of mind.

He was distracted from his thoughts about what to do next, such as where to put the caps and whether it was worth it at all. There was the smell of cleanliness, the clinking of slot machines and the muffled voices of players. On the way to the cash register, his gaze ran over the polished, light-colored interior, sparse on decorations, patterns, and the like. Everything was furnished in such a way as to draw attention solely to the few stylized posters and photos, like the revealing garments of the mare employees, highlighting their thighs, buttocks, and chest fur.

The theme of kinkiness united the black and white photos. The Softhooves brothels were known for their elegance, beauty, and passion, while the Meadows sold even harsher, animal sex with virtually no restraints, where any fantasy and desire could be realized for the appropriate fee. The pictures showed ponies and griffons of both sexes in various poses with their faces frozen in ecstasy in the context of the most common deviations from which... Softhooves employees turned their noses up at—too much pain, humiliation, and disgusting things, and in addition to the active use of various drugs. Because of that the Meadows sex workers were overwhelmingly slaves: one should be out of their mind to willingly work under such conditions and demands of clients.

Drugs were still more important for the Meadows, because pills, powders, weed and other potent drugs not only provided a wide range of trips into unknown colorful worlds of the subconscious, but also softened the feelings of slaves when clients did whatever they wanted with them. The pleasure of using drugs could not be attractively captured in photos—only dumb facial expressions, open mouths with dripping drool, and tongues hanging out as if after a lobotomy session. Stylized posters were used, where the riot of colors tried to convey the brightness and expressiveness of impressions. It was these posters that Holiday observed on the way.

He stared at the image of a mare—an earth pony—flying surrounded by huge flowers, planets, jewels, and other colorful objects.

No doubt, Holiday thought, standing up at the poster. The Meadows is the masters of such things, but if I try it once... I'll never get off. It's a way to diversify the luxurious life, though it's the easiest. You don't have to try and look for vivid impressions and sensations. The fun powder will do it for you.

Holiday looked at the nearest photo, where a stallion was fucking a mare with his organ and a strap-on, moving synchronously in both of her rear holes, and clamping a leash in his teeth, squeezing her neck. The mare rolled her eyes and opened her mouth for air. Both were clearly taking in something joyful, but the hardest thing to tell in photos like this is who is the client and who is the employee. It wasn't uncommon for clients to ask to be tortured, but the Softhooves didn't want to participate here either for fear of something going wrong. The Meadows had no problem with this. An abundance of medical equipment, drugs, and spells would rescue and cure overplayed clients or sex slaves. Not to mention cleanliness—no diseases, no unwanted pregnancies or other side effects.

The skinny orange stallion decided not to stare because of the risk of blood rush to his lower half and walked on. He knew full well that lust clouded the mind as much as alcohol. He'd come here to play, not to have fun. Though maybe he should distract himself this way. Taste some of this life? Taking drugs is unhealthy and unnatural, whereas the urge for sexual pleasure is inherent in nature.

At the entrance to the main hall he was greeted by several signs with black letters on a white background: 'Sex and drug use in the halls and hallways is FORBIDDEN!', 'All fun happens behind CLOSED DOORS only!', 'If you are suspected of being drugged, you will be KICKED OUT of the casino or forcibly taken to your room, if you have one'.

The most depraved casino, the benchmark of hypocrisy. It is ironic, because this is the essence of the Meadows family: on the outside they are so educated, practical, clean and neat, while behind closed doors there is not only debauchery and indulgence of unchanging animal desires, but also frightening experiments—it is necessary to test new drugs, spells and magical innovations on someone. No one outside of the Meadows elites is aware of their acceptable moral boundaries. They are associated with, but never spoken of loudly, whispering to each other in fear, a certain elusive assassin whose voice no one has heard. He's like a ghost. Silent Ghost.

This family is not to be messed with, Holiday thought, realizing that everything inside him went cold.

He turned away from looking at the signs and walked toward the cashier's office. Nearby were booths with workers issuing rooms, and nearby were catalogs with pictures of sex workers and lists of head-banging drugs with brief descriptions. You can order here or by phone from the room. You can also arrange whole floors for orgies here. Some people make them private, and some let strangers participate for a couple thousand caps. The order, of course, is watched over by a trained staff.

After receiving the chips, Holiday felt the need to dump the liquid. Blissful relief swept over his pelvis, the water in the toilet bowl stopped squelching, and then his ears twitched at the sounds from the next cubicle: rustling, muffled moans, and heavy sighs.

The phrase on the sign immediately popped into the orange stallion's mind: 'All fun happens behind CLOSED DOORS only!'. He quickly pressed the water drain and hurried out of the cubicle so he wouldn't have to think about the lewd sounds.

In the hall, it didn't escape Holiday's attention that some of the players were clearly tipsy or high on something, but they maintained a relatively good appearance and restrained demeanor. They weren't kicked out. The guards here were primarily focused on order, rather than on psychological state of the players.

After sitting at the slot machine and making a reasonable profit, Holiday felt a growing desire to try something like this for himself. He looked at the slaves who followed their masters. Sometimes the players were approached by charming casino workers in provocative outfits.

Need to try something like that too... But in a quieter environment. Someplace else. I don't like it here.

On his way to the cash register, one of the workers came up to him and whispered something in his ear, making him stop. He only saw her through his side vision, unable to turn around.

"Would you like to spend some time with me?" she asked with a huff in a voice filled with sexual energy. His back arched involuntarily, as if a pleasantly cool cream had been spilled on it, as the mare rubbed her rump against his cutie mark.

Blood, as if sensing the bubbling energy in her bouncy buttock, boiled and rushed to his lower abdomen. His entire body from neck to hooves was hidden under his clothes, and a lingering tightness was building in his lower abdomen. While the blood had not yet had time to fully recoil from his brain, he slipped out, walking forward with a quick step.

"No thanks," he muttered slurred, not turning around so her image wouldn't add to his arousal.

After exchanging the chips for a bank check, he promptly left the casino. The blood had returned to his head a little, but the unquenched thirst still refused to leave his body, like a drunk who'd clung to a doorway and been pushed out of a bar. Holiday wanted not just to satisfy it, but to do so to the point of nausea. He set a course for The School. There would be someone to warm up with this winter.

***

The School was a steel grid fenced neighborhood. It had been built around dozens of houses already after the apocalypse during the early rebuilding of Vanhoover. Here special physically healthy slaves gave birth to new slaves, specially trained staff raised them like cattle. They were raised, imposed a worldview of fear of freedom and the importance of serving others, their health was cared for, and they were taught the necessary skills depending on where they would be used—as labor in manufacturing or in private homes. The unwanted foals of careless masters, where they were raised to be slaves, were also brought in, but they were cheaper than those born from specially selected ponies, for obvious reasons—questionable quality goods due to a higher risk of congenital health problems.

Four of Vanhoover's five families contributed to the breeding and training process—the two hundred thousand slaves needed to maintain production and the economy of the entire city—in exchange for discounts when buying in bulk. They were the main customers, needing a labor force that was not particularly educated, but docile and obedient. The Waterfall family was most useful: they supplied scarce electricity, agricultural products, and water supplies. The Meadows were responsible for medical care, the Softhooves and the Stillmane provided household goods and their maintenance. Only the Falcon family was left overboard. Since there was little need for weapons for the guards, they paid full price for the slaves, but also supplied something unique and in high demand. The rest of the expenses, like salaries, were covered by the city's budget, which was replenished by the same Five Families and independent businesses: the Arena, the Radio Station, the Vanhoover Polytechnic Institute, the Kings' businesses, and any other little thing that managed not to fall under the control of a Family.

Holiday entered the spacious school building. He wandered through the corridors, following the signs, and reached one of the classrooms converted for visitors—here everyone was waiting for their turn. Separate halls were set up for representatives of each family for bulk purchases—or private purchases, but you had to be a Soldier-level member of the family, not just working for it like a Lackey.

Masters sat at school desks, leafing through catalogs with pictures of slaves and descriptions of their characteristics. They paid no attention to Holiday. The first thing he did was to take a number at the entrance, noticing a sign on the wall that read, "Don't appear in the office within a minute after the number is announced, you'll miss your turn." Just as he sat down at the desk, a soft voice from the speaker announced, "Number twenty-nine is being served."

Holiday got number forty-two. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a mare of a light orange hue rise from the desk, heading for the next room with a catalog. The others were concentrating their noses into their copies. Holiday joined them.

Color of coat, height, weight, build, sex, race, date of birth, price, and more were listed next to the pictures of the slaves. Almost all appeared to be younger than Holiday. Looking at the dozens of options, he studied the ones that visually appealed to him the most—they were mostly earth ponies like himself. And they were the cheapest: in the neighborhood of four thousand caps. Unicorns were the next most expensive, at six thousand caps. Pegasi cost ten thousand caps, and griffons were fifteen.

Looking at another photo, Holiday remembered that pegasi had not been in the city before, but about thirty years ago Vanhoover's forces had captured a Stable with them. Since then, they had been actively breeding them, trying to meet the demand. Mostly they were bought for personal use; often to produce winged foals. Thirty years later, pegasi are as common in the city as griffons, but are often found as slaves. Their numbers grow with each generation.

The most interesting case is that of the slave griffons. They are a quite proud species, and would not simply allow their kind to be used in the service of some ponies. Replenishment comes at the expense of nestlings from parents willing to pay off debts. The Falcon family themselves can forcibly sell those whose parents have fucked up the family in a special way to The School—this often includes irresponsibility, which is considered a basis for slavery. The adults are made into slaves and used to breed nestlings for their own use or to sell them to The School. A peculiar way to affect the proud griffons.

Holiday had mixed feelings at the sight of a female griffon as a slave. He considered buying one, but didn't have the right amount of caps. Besides, even as slaves, they were difficult to control. Why acquire one? Perhaps he longed for some form of revenge against his former boss and the entire griffon race. To get even.
A long flip led him to believe that the average slave for domestic chores would not have the necessary skills to pleasure him. They are taught cleaning and cooking, not the techniques of sexual pleasure. Fortunately, there was, is, and will be a demand for such assets, so the Softhooves were quick to step up to the plate, offering their services in training. At the same time, representatives of families in The School by agreement are engaged in additional training of slaves for their own needs. Thus, with a markup in The School they sold slaves with additional skills, and it is obvious that the most demanded among slaves for private use were the skills of pleasuring.

But there were no such slaves listed in the catalog before Holiday's eyes. He turned his head and whispered to the nearest unicorn of a light blue hue, as if urging her to let him write down the answers to a test.

"Which hall sells pleasure slaves?" he asked. Her ears twitched and she looked at him without any emotion. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed number forty-six on her ticket. She'd gotten here later. Number thirty-five was being served now. "I'll give you my turn."

She smiled faintly and nodded.

Following the directions he received from the unicorn, he made his way to the correct room. It was much more crowded here, and there was a line even at the entrance to the waiting room. Line upon line.

The Softhooves should expand the staff for this, Holiday mentally angered.

He was afraid there might not be any candidates left in the catalogs, but after waiting in line, he took a number and sat down for a catalog. The Softhooves picked out attractive individuals at once, both mares and stallions, to suit every taste. There were as many mare buyers here as there were stallions.

Holiday didn't have to choose for a long time—the catalog was more than half empty. The unicorns were more expensive because they were trained with spells that could enhance the pleasure of the process. Holiday had to be satisfied with earth ponies. His choice was a gray-colored mare with a silver mane. Almost all candidates were seventeen or older—slaves were sold from sixteen, but the Softhooves actually booked them, and they spent one year in training.

As he waited for his turn in the office, the exhilarating feeling never left him: he was taking someone else's life under his own responsibility. A whole new experience. Previously, the others had always been in charge of him. Hurting slaves is considered bad form—but usually not because of sympathy for them, but because of the cost of slaves and the developed ideology of responsibility. Slaves are submissive and work to the best of their ability. If their health suffers for any reason, their master is bad. It's like a car owner who doesn't take care of his property, doesn't take care of it, and doesn't have it inspected. The days of senseless cruelty due to disobedient slaves were over—the brainwashing honed over decades had done its job.

The office welcomed him in. From the catalog they took the file of the slave he had chosen and returned it to the room for the rest of the waiting crowd. They drew up a few documents and asked him to come to another building tomorrow at the appointed time. Everything happened quickly—not even five minutes had passed. No unnecessary conversations. However, the clients themselves like to have a word with them, and Holiday's taciturnity was approved by the local staff.

Toward evening the next day, Holiday met his slave mare. The attractive light gray earth pony—wearing simple warm clothing and a collar—was sitting in one of the halls at one of the school desks. The mare in charge of the transfer took the document from Holiday and handed him the remote control for her electric collar. She had nothing else on her.

It was strange to him to see the enthusiasm in her dark red eyes: she was beaming with excitement, as if she were being led to an amusement park. Her whole worldview was centered around her master: a slave should help with whatever he or she needed, make life easier. In her case, it was also to provide pleasure, so that her master could go about more important and complicated things, doing more good for the city.

That's what they've been led to believe. That's usually how it works—the slaves help with the routine. But masters don't become more responsible or smarter. Often slaves are treated as pets or property, entertainment for the powerful—with varying degrees of sympathy. But slaves were not taught to question. Masters know best.

The skinny stallion felt awkward. He was fully aware of who he was now. He was still a nobody, and he didn't know if he could become someone and build a career in some family.

Holiday stood at the tall steel fence, looking into dark red eyes waiting patiently for instructions. A sparse snow was falling on her face and on her light gray nose. The wavy curls of her gray mane barely reached her shoulders. Her ears remained pointed at him.

But aren't slaves acquired to relieve the cares of everyday life? To make life easier for themselves to do meaningful things? He needs to fulfill his needs. At the moment, it's nauseating to the point of wanting to distract himself, to forget about his former life so he can pick up his mind with renewed energy.

"Let's go to Mane Street. I want to spend tonight at the Luxury Hotel."

"Will I be there with you, master?"

"Yes..."

He liked the way she called him. He felt a surge of self-importance, strength and confidence. At the same time, he couldn't help but wonder at her excitement and anticipation. An eerie thought flashed through his mind for a moment, and he involuntarily cast a long glance at the nearest School building.

How they've been brainwashed... They're either psychology masters or fucking hypnotists. Or maybe both.

On the way to the Luxury, he was going over the possibilities in his head, thinking about the responsibility he'd taken on. He was responsible for literally all of the slave's actions—this was due not so much to ideology, but to the position of the law. All the slave's actions automatically shifted to the master's shoulders in case the latter got it into his head to give instructions that violated the private boundaries of other masters or slaves: stealing, killing, fighting, and so on.

The beige interior of the Luxury was strikingly new and well-maintained. He had only seen something like it at the Crystal Lotus, but that hotel belonged, as far as he knew, to some King. The pictures on the wall told a brief history of the hotel: how the place had been improved over the decades, how cleanliness and order had been maintained. Even middle-income masters can't afford in their homes what the rooms and penthouses here have. This was the place to spend one's days if one wanted to live in luxury and comfort for a while.

He took a room for seven hundred caps, went upstairs to the thirteenth floor.

Holiday stepped into the room, eyeing the cleanliness and neatness of the wooden furniture, the beige walls, the elegant chandelier, the jukebox, the TV with a selection of pre-war movies. The room consisted of three spaces: living room, bedroom, and bathroom with toilet. Behind the glass doors was a balcony. Holiday stepped through and looked out at the view: the snow-covered roofs of countless houses spread out in all directions, the light of street lamps seeping between them. To the right, the sun was sinking over the watery horizon of the Desert Ocean. The sky in that place was mottled with orange colors. Wonderful.

The slave mare stood at the entrance, waiting for his instructions. Holiday kept forgetting that slaves did not make any decisions or take initiative unless it was allowed. Without their master's instructions, they could only follow him, largely because of the collar—if they fell too far behind their master, the collar would send a shock of electricity into their bodies.

"Help me undress," he said, walking over to her. He wanted to dip himself in the hot water. "And then undress yourself. You can help me wash."

"Yes, master."

As she took his coat, he couldn't help but feel the thrill of pleasure that she was following his every instruction without a hitch. Lustful thoughts banged against the walls of his mind more and more persistently, like passengers trapped in a sinking ship screaming, "Let us out!"

He filled the tub with hot water and immersed himself in it. A wave of bliss swept over his entire body; the blood rushed freely through him, reaching every corner. The slave girl appeared almost immediately. She soaped up a sponge and began to rub it on his skinny orange neck, his back, his legs—he lifted them one by one, placing them under her caring hooves. The water splashed and squelched, gently tickling his fur.

Slaves have an extremely low sense of disgust for unpleasant labor. They enjoy their service regardless of what it involves. Instruction from their master for them is accompanied by a burst of positive feelings in the brain.

Holiday loved the way the slave mare carried out his instructions. With every heartbeat a wave of excitement rose through his body, his thoughts filled with only one desire. The feeling of controlling the light gray mare was sweet, a little intoxicating. Now he understood better why so many were drawn to power.

The slave mare certainly saw Holiday's cock sticking out of the water, throbbing. Needless to say, she waited for the order with the burning eyes of a dog that wait for the fetch command while looking at a 'stick'.

"Go," he said, noticing the eagerness in her gaze, which only put heat into his already aroused body.

Without further ado, she put her skills to work. He cum quickly, not thinking to prolong the pleasure. He wanted to get rid of the tension as soon as possible, as if he had sneezed so many times, but had not been able to, and now the dissatisfaction was finally gone.

Next he helped the slave to wash herself as well, studying her body in the process. He hadn't been able to do that in his time: sex at work had happened a couple times, but only because the mares were in heat and were attracted to skinny and helpless ones like him. It happened quickly, in a matter of minutes. And here, the whole body was in his complete control. He couldn't help but seize the opportunity. The process of learning and power over another mare's body aroused him again, and the matter moved to the bedroom. And he indulged in pleasure: it was as if a beast had awakened in him, which could not be satiated until he was physically exhausted. The light gray earth pony didn't have time to show off some of her skills, but she didn't care, because her master was obviously satisfied.

Holiday ordered food for himself and his slave. The robot butler delivered everything on a table with wheels about ten minutes later. The dense dinner ended with a dessert of mint ice cream and a glass of red wine. He laid down on the couch, asking the slave mare to cover him with her body on top of his, they turned on the jukebox with an extensive selection of songs and just lay there.

The orange earth pony, covered like a blanket by the light gray mare whose curls tickled his fur, inhaled deeply, as if trying to savor these moments.

They took another bath, after which he let her drift off to sleep and went outside, exposing his naked fur to the cold wind. His whole body felt invigorated, steamed, breathing freely.

A glorious life. No wonder why everyone wants it, even if it's boring. It wouldn't be long before I was sick of it.

He crawled under the blanket with his slave and fell into a deep sleep.

***

The first thing Holiday felt was his inability to turn around properly—his whole body felt stiff and uncomfortable—but it quickly faded into the background. His sleepy eyes stared up at the ceiling, illuminated by the light of the early winter morning. He saw an elegant gilded pendant chandelier. A living room chandelier, not a bedroom chandelier.

He tried to open his mouth in confusion, but immediately found he couldn't move his lips. Panic rushed through his body with a deafening force, triggering every cell: he gathered himself to peel off the bandages that covered his mouth, but all his four legs wouldn't move—they too were restrained. He was completely naked, so the part of his consciousness not yet drowned in terror felt the ropes. He could turn his head slightly to the sides, but with effort, as his forehead and neck were also restrained by the ropes.

Turning his head to the left, by a dresser with a painting of a wooded snowy landscape, he saw a dark figure that looked like a pony. So dark, it was as if the morning light that struggled to break through the clouds refused to deal with it in any way. The figure, thick and indistinct, was losing clarity like a shaky movie film image. Total darkness—except for something white around the face.

The figure moved closer, as if waiting for the awakening and his reaction. Panic was joined by an animal horror at the unnaturalness of what he saw: he heard no sound of walking, no rustle of dark clothes, no breathing, as if some cloud or smoke were levitating over the red carpet, mimicking the movement of legs.

As the figure approached, Holiday's gut grew monstrously cold. His emotionally turbulent mind and breath fell silent in horror; with his heart beating loudly in his chest, he stared at the white face leaning toward him. Dark ears could be seen at its sides, and its head was covered by something black. The white mask lacked the outline of a mouth, and the dark abyss in the eyes merged with the eye sockets, as if they were portals through which horrors would pour out, engulfing everything around them, and reality trembled silently at the presence of a powerful otherworldly spirit, leaving no attempt to hold back the darkness that lurked in it.

This is all a horrible dream! No, it's not real. It makes no sound, it can't be real! It's not real!

Holiday's instincts kicked in, his brain sending commands to different parts of his body: he twitched, he mumbled, his eyes filled with tears, his bladder weakened. Separate signals conveyed to his overloaded subconscious that heat had formed between his hind legs. The figure, made even less distinct by the tears, did not recoil or move, exuding an aura of utter indifference. No deal: it would ignore him, like a black-robed executioner raising a broad axe blade into the air.

The pulsing figure disappeared from sight, and he felt himself being pushed toward the balcony. There was a quiet scraping of something on the floor—he was lying bound on a table on wheels. Under the pressure, the balcony doors swung outward, and the earth pony's naked, skinny body was blasted with the morning winter air. The tabletop is higher than the stone fence. Just enough of a push to send him flying downward.

A wave of terror rose inside Holiday with renewed vigor, hot tears running down the fur on his cheeks. The figure appeared silently in sight again. His thoughts were scattered—impossible to think about anything for even a second. His mind was torn into two camps: one that didn't believe what was happening, and the other that believed it and was trying to cling to any possibility of making it stop.

Some of the ropes loosened. He felt the opportunity to wriggle like a worm in hot sand, but it was as if the unknown masked pony had expected his victim to move. It was already at his side, standing on its hind legs, and swung its front leg without a sound: Holiday's weeping brown eyes did not catch the movement, but his whole chest and stomach exploded with a piercing pain of such intensity that he had no time to realize it and cry out, and a moment later it was gone, leaving a cold void. His body relaxed and collapsed like a punctured tire, and his brain gradually became quiet and calm, losing interest in what was happening. The cloud-covered gray sky darkened rapidly.

Not a second later, a wooden sign was thrown over Holiday's body, cut from neck to lower abdomen, and he was pushed down from the table. His fading consciousness was not concerned with the sensation of falling, but at the last moment before he was about to fall into eternal darkness, he felt his body come to an abrupt halt as the long rope around his neck tightened and his insides spilled out.

There was hardly anyone outside the Luxury Hotel at this hour. A couple of mares came out the front door to walk down Vanhoover's still relatively quiet main street when something fell from above with a wet smack. One mare flashed the thought that some dishonest guest had tossed the leftover food outside for fun. The other froze in surprise at what had fallen nearby and squealed, attracting the entire neighborhood. The whispering and clamor of passersby approaching the hotel increased.

On the sidewalk, on the stomped white snow, as if on a clean platter, lay someone's bloody internal organs: intestines, liver, spleen, kidneys... the whole set. Hot steam emanated from them, melting in the frosty air. Dark red blood continued to drip from above, soaking into the snow. The lively whispering intensified as passersby looked up, and someone squealed even louder: a body with a slit chest and belly swayed slightly on a rope, a wooden sign with large letters around its neck reading, "Cheater".

Within minutes, the whole neighborhood knew what had happened, and in the room where the crime had occurred, a white unicorn in an elegant dark suit appeared in a flash of blue light. His well-groomed golden mane rippled as he looked around sharply and warily, concentrating on his senses, trying to catch any sign of magic, but he saw only a faint source of magical energy.

He headed for the balcony. A shifting couch, with a tight rope tied to its leg, stood in the glass doorway, open to the outside. It stretched to the balcony, passed over the table on wheels and was lost behind the railing. The white unicorn jumped over the couch and looked down at the growing crowd of gawkers and the gutted corpse.

The couch could not support the weight of the victim and slid toward the balcony.

The unicorn returned to the room and his blue eyes flashed with anger.

Again... And again it fled.

The doorknob from the bedroom turned, but the door itself did not open, a chair propped up against it. Prince pushed back the furniture and telekinesis opened the door on himself. The confusion on the face of the gray earth pony with the electric collar was replaced by awe: Prince of Vanhoover himself stood before her! The pony immediately lowered her head. If there was anyone that slaves could obey besides their master, it was him. She answered the questions, but there was nothing of substance in her words. As Prince had guessed, she was sound asleep, and the Silent Ghost's actions remained silent and unnoticed until the moment of hanging.

The lock on the door of the suite had been picked. In the hallway, Prince saw the hotel employees approaching him. Their questioning was to no avail; the robots also noticed no suspicious activity, and the residents heard and saw nothing. The police, who arrived shortly afterward, began a search of the room, describing the circumstances of what had happened. Prince only added that he had moved the chair away from the door behind which the slave had been locked.

The white unicorn, along with the others, examined the documents and the few belongings of the victim, among which was an unusual silver chip. Only after touching it with his telekinesis, he finally realized where the strange magical 'buzzing' was coming from.

It seemed to be the reason for the showy murder. Undoubtedly, the clients wanted the whole city to know about it.

Prince took the chip for himself.

***

On one of Vanhoover's many radios turned on, Oscar's all-too-familiar buddy voice emerged after the end of the quiet morning tune.

"I suspect you've been waiting for this morning's newscast. In half an hour, the rumors have already spread all over the city. You bet: that's the point of a show murder. I've been forbidden to disclose the name of the victim and possible killer. I can only speak about the motives. They're quite... telling. A young stallion was brutally murdered and hanged with a sign on which was written a single word: cheater. Based on a brief biography, the victim was a regular casino player. Wasn't from a wealthy background. What am I thinking? Given the social status, the casino, the cheater sign, the expensive hotel room. someone at the casino suspected him of cheating."

DJ Oscor's speech was interrupted by an ironic chuckle.

"Cheating the casino..." he repeated thoughtfully. "Yeah, right. I don't know what the victim was thinking: gambled, lost caution because of the riches he received, was too dreamy or careless. It's up to you. Don't get me wrong, I'm not condoning murder. I hope the guilty party is found, although the victim has probably been to all the casinos. I'm just saying that we are always responsible for our actions, and punishment may come not only from the law enforcement agencies. Stay aware."

Author's Note

This is where Holiday's short life ends. Also, this is my first completed fanfic of more than one chapter. Yay. The idea for this story started back in the winter of 2020, and it started... with the ending. It was going to end as described here -- hanging with a gutted belly and Silent Ghost's involvement. In the Discord channel (https://discord.gg/2bNyPEpW8h), perhaps I'll share more about how I worked on the story and why I got to its realization as much as four years later. Oh, I almost forgot. The hanging moment is a scene from one movie from the '00s. Can you guess what movie?)

If liked the story, consider giving a donation via PayPal: dovaki45@gmail.com
Even a little thing like that lifts my spirits and keeps me working on other stories