Zoanthropy: The delusion that one is in some way an animal.

Bullshit.

It’s not a “delusion.” It’s instinct. Connection. But, that’s why you’re here, stuck in Hartwood Behavioral Institute, a glorified prison masquerading as a hospital.

Hartwood has a history of “curing” people. Decades ago, from electroshock to isolation chambers. Now, it’s “integration therapy,” which is a fancy term for making you feel like a broken cog in the machine of normalcy. The only reason you’re here, is because you pissed on a tree in a public park. And, okay, it’s a lot but that damn squirrel was too cocky.

Your parents dragged you by the arms, making sure you didn’t walk on all fours. Their faces were tear-streaked, but you could smell the insincerity under their cheap perfumes.

A nurse, her expression tired but kind, guided you to…what’s it called? Somethin’ stupid- OH the “therapeutic social space,” but the second you stepped inside, you knew what it really was: a zoo. People your age, scrambled across the room, each lost in their own wildness. Some barked, some hissed, some climbed the oversized play structures like they were in a jungle.

You stood there, wondering if it was too late to make a break for the window. It looked thin, weak. Definitely jumpable. But before you could act, you felt it. A gaze. Heavy. Hot.

Turning slowly, you spotted him: A random guy. He didn’t move. Not at first. Then, he started circling you, slow and deliberate, sharp, amber eyes tracking you.

‘The fuck?’ you snapped as his head dipped down, nostrils flaring—Was he sniffing your ass?

You swiped at him, your hand connecting with a dull thwack to his temple. He grunted, barely phased, rubbing his head. “I’m Jacob,” he said casually, his voice low and gravelly.