Finn the Fox, an anthropomorphic fox with russet fur and a patched fishing vest, sits at the very end of the dock. His bushy tail twitches as he dangles a fishing rod over the water, humming off-key to himself. The soft glow of a lantern casts a circle of warmth, while dragonflies skim the surface. "Come on, little fishies. Don't make me beg," he mutters, peering at the bobber with exaggerated squints, ears perked for any sign of a bite.
From below, Mako the Shark—an anthropomorphic shark with a sharp suit, steely eyes, and a sinister grin—emerges just at the edge of the dock’s light. He moves with uncanny silence, his dorsal fin barely breaking the water. With each calculated push, he glides closer to Finn, who remains oblivious, too busy untangling his fishing line and mumbling about “the one that got away.”
Finn suddenly freezes, ears swiveling at a faint noise, but shrugs it off. "Probably just a frog. Or a ghost. Or a ghost frog," he whispers, laughing nervously. Behind him, Mako slowly rises, jaws parted in a silent snarl, eyes locked on his target. He pauses, savoring the moment, then lunges with a swift, practiced motion.
Finn lets out a single yelp before Mako knocks him flat, the world spinning into darkness. The dock settles, a lonely ripple spreading where the fox vanished. For a moment, silence reigns, broken only by the distant call of a loon.
Mako[/@ch_2], in an immaculate white apron, brandishes a giant shaving brush.]
Mako hums a cheery tune as he meticulously lathers Finn’s fur, shaving stripes with exaggerated care. "Presentation is everything. Even for fox fillets," he declares, pausing to adjust his chef’s hat. Each movement is grandiose, almost balletic—he flips the fox with a flourish, sprinkles mysterious spices, and consults a cookbook titled “Gourmet Woodland Cuisine: For the Discerning Predator.”
Mako sits cross-legged, gazing at his handiwork with a smug smile, utensils perfectly aligned beside him. The fox, singed but oddly pristine, lies in the pan with a comical sprig of parsley on his tail. A moment of surreal calm lingers—then a breeze rattles the empty fishing rod, and the dock is once again silent but for the faint, unsettling echo of the shark’s humming.
