LXXIX
Cane Russo had the golden boy pinned so hard against the brick wall that his shoes barely touched the ground.
We'd been following him, the golden dancer, the living Hat‑Man. We tailed him through the evening streets, the cat darting ahead and doubling back, chattering about old stage tricks and backstage gossip like a man remembering his youth through a haze. He was almost home. Almost safe. Then we turned the corner.
And safety vanished. There they were, the famed Russo brothers.
Cane Russo was built like a freight train in a bowler hat—broad shoulders, swarthy tan skin, hairy forearms that looked like they could snap a man in half. He had the dancer by the collar, shaking him so hard his blonde hair came loose from its pomade.
"You owe us a thousand simoleons," Cane growled, spit flying, voice thick with Brooklyn menace.
The dancer's feet scraped the pavement, trying to find purchase.
"I—I know, Cane, just—just listen—"
But Cane wasn't listening.
Cane never listened.
He shook him again, harder, the golden suit crumpling under his fists.
The cat beside you hissed softly, tail puffing, yellow eyes narrowing.
"I hated this part."
Then the taller brother stepped out of the shadows, Mutt Russo.
Mutt Russo was the opposite of Cane. He was slimmer, slicker, sharper. Pencil‑thin mustache, hair oiled back, suit pressed so neatly it looked ironed onto his bones. He twirled a watch fob in his hand, the chain glinting under the streetlamp.
"Ok ok, Cane, put him down."
His voice was smooth, almost bored.
"He won't make any money dead."
Cane dropped the dancer, who stumbled, caught himself, and immediately tried to stand tall, and tried to look like he wasn't terrified.
Mutt stepped closer, tapping the watch fob against his palm.
"You got three days, tap‑dance man."
His tone was light, conversational, like he was discussing the weather.
"If you don't fork over the cash…"
He leaned in, smile thin and cold.
"It's curtains on your number, capiche?"
The dancer swallowed hard, nodding, eyes wide and shining with fear.
"Y‑yeah. Yeah, Mutt. I—I'll get it. I promise."
Mutt patted his cheek—gentle, mocking.
"See that you do. Slim's vouching for you. Don't make him look stupid."
He turned away, Cane lumbering behind him, and the two disappeared down the street like wolves melting into the dark.
The dancer sagged against the wall, breathing hard, rubbing his throat where Cane's grip had left red marks. His golden suit looked dimmer now, rumpled, defeated.
The cat trotted up beside him, staring at his living self with something complicated in his eyes.
"Three days, sweetheart."
His voice was quiet.
"That's all he had left before everything started falling apart."
I stepped closer, heart pounding, the dead mirror heavy in my bag.
The dancer looked up at you, cornflower blue eyes still bright, still hopeful, still unaware of the future.
"Hey… doll."
He tried to smile. It wobbled.
"Didn't think you'd see me like this."
And just like that, you were standing in the middle of the moment that would lead to his death.
"Welcome to the trouble, darling. Now we're really in it," the hat-man said out loud.
The dancer blinked at me, then looked at the cat, then back at me again. His head tilted into his hand like he was trying to keep his skull from sliding off his neck.
He looked dazed, bruised, shaken from Cane's beating… but not that shaken.
"Excuse me, lady…" he said slowly, voice wobbling between confusion and disbelief, "is it the concussion, or did your cat just speak out loud?"
The cat froze mid‑step.
His tail puffed. The cat's pointed ears flattened against his skull.
His entire tiny body radiated offended dignity.
"Oh for—" he hissed under his breath, "I told you to keep quiet, sweetheart. He's not supposed to hear me."
The dancer's eyes widened.
"He DID speak!"
He pointed at the cat like he'd discovered a new species.
"He said sweetheart! He called you sweetheart!"
The cat groaned, tiny paws covering his face.
"Great. Fantastic. Perfect."
He peeked between his toes.
"I forget how thin the veil is when I'm this close to myself. Living me can hear things he shouldn't."
The dancer stared at the cat, then at me, then at the cat again."Lady… your cat talks."
I opened my mouth, but the words were stuck. I had no idea what explanation could possibly cover this, when the cat hopped up onto a crate, puffed his chest, and declared:
"I do NOT talk. You're concussed."
The dancer blinked.
"You just talked again." He pointed at the cat.
"You're hearing things," replied the cat, twitching his whiskers.
"I'm hearing YOU!" He started to yell but then gripped his head. His splitting headache was worse from the yelling.
I stepped between them before the argument escalated into the world's strangest shouting match between a bruised vaudeville dancer and a supernatural cat.
The dancer grabbed my sleeve, eyes wide, voice dropping to a whisper.
"Lady… what in God's name is going on?"
The cat sighed, long and dramatic.
"This is why I didn't want to come here. Living me is a nosy little golden idiot."
The dancer sputtered. "HEY!"
The cat pointed a paw at him. "See? Nosy."
I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing, because the living Hat‑Man, bruised and shaken and still glittering in his rumpled gold suit, looked absolutely bewildered.
And for the first time, the two versions of him. One human and alive and dead in the body of a tuxedo cat, golden and shadow, were arguing in the same alley.
And I was standing right between them.
The dancer eased back into the armchair, wincing as the springs creaked under him. His apartment smelled faintly of old coffee and floor polish, the radiator hissing like it was trying to shush the entire situation. You pulled ice from his icebox—real ice, chipped and frosted—and wrapped it in a dish towel before pressing it gently into his hand.
He held it to the side of his head, eyes half‑lidded, still dazed.
You knelt in front of him.
"Look," you said softly, "I can tell you a story, or I can tell you a truth that you're probably not going to believe."
The dancer blinked at you, then at the cat perched on the arm of the chair like a tiny, judgmental gargoyle.
"Are you sure there, doll?" the cat said, tail flicking. "That alien said we shouldn't mess with the timeline."
The dancer's eyes widened.
"Alien…? Timeline…? Lady, I think I am concussed."
You ignored him for the moment and turned to the cat.
"Hey, cat. This is life and death, you know. Not my life and death—his."
You nodded toward the dancer.
"And yours. You've got a chance to make things right. Do you wanna take it?"
The cat froze.
Not dramatically.
Not with a hiss or a puffed tail.
Just… still.
His yellow eyes softened, losing their usual sharpness. He looked at the dancer—his living self—slumped in the chair, bruised, scared, still trying to smile through the pain. The golden suit was wrinkled. His hair was mussed. His hands trembled slightly around the ice pack.
The cat's voice, when it came, was quiet.
"Sweetheart… you don't know what you're asking."
He hopped down from the armrest, landing lightly on the floor. He padded closer to the dancer, staring up at him with an expression you'd never seen on him before—something like grief, something like longing, something like regret.
"This isn't just a timeline," the cat murmured. "This is me. Before everything went sideways. Before the mirrors. Before the mob. Before the funhouse. Before the death."
The dancer blinked down at him, confused, pale, still holding the ice to his head.
"You're… me?" he whispered.
The cat didn't answer directly.
He just kept staring.
You leaned forward.
"You said you wanted a chance to fix things. To make things right. This is it."
The cat's ears lowered.
"I died because of this," he said softly. "Because of the Russo brothers. Because of Slim. Because I was stupid and proud and wanted to be somebody."
He looked up at you.
"If I change this… I change everything."
You held his gaze.
"That's the point."
The dancer swallowed hard, voice trembling.
"Lady… cat… whoever you are… if you can stop whatever's coming… please."
The cat closed his eyes.
And for the first time since you met him, he looked afraid.
Not of death, afraid of hope.
He opened his eyes again—bright, sharp, determined.
"Alright, sweetheart," he said quietly. "Let's change the ending."
The dancer exhaled shakily, gripping the ice pack tighter.
And the timeline shivered. I had once heard there were some events that were inevitable. I hoped that this small death wouldn't be one of those things.
"First, we're going to make a little deal." I smiled at him, and he pulled back a little disturbed. "Maybe make you an offer you can't refuse."
The cat made a little snort, paws kneading the chair arm, claws out as if sharpening them.