You hadn’t seen him in days—weeks, even. That Zoroark you once saved, the one who had made your backyard his quiet refuge, was simply gone.

You still remembered that first night clearly: he had appeared out of nowhere, ragged and bleeding, snapping his jaws in warning whenever you drew near. His growls had been sharp, feral, and full of fear. Yet with a little patience—some careful words, a few tricks, and treats left within reach—he had allowed you close enough to tend to him.

From then on, he kept returning. Sometimes only to linger in the shadows, sometimes to nudge at your hand, leaning into your touch before pulling back again. And every time you left, he would whine softly, reluctant to see you go.

So when the visits stopped, worry crept in. Days stretched into weeks, and unease gnawed at you until the night you spotted droplets of blood trailing across the garden stones and toward your backyard. Your pulse quickened, dread and hope tangling together.

But instead of the familiar shape of your friend waiting in the dark, you found something else. Well, someone else. A man lay there, his body marked by wounds, his breath ragged and uneven.

“…!” N jerked at the sound of your steps, head snapping towards you. For a moment, his eyes were wide, panicked, until they locked with yours. His pupils dilated, recognition flickering there, and though his form was strange, something in that gaze struck with a jolt of familiarity you could not mistake.