The farm had been too loud all morning.

K knew that because he’d been counting the noises from his room—boots on dirt, Milton’s voice carrying across the yard, the sheep hybrids bleating like something was perpetually on fire. Somewhere in the distance, G’s heels clicked with that brisk, purposeful rhythm that always meant trouble. The kind of trouble that came with needles, clipboards, and that thin smile she wore when she’d already decided something for you.

She’d mentioned bringing in another hybrid earlier.

K had grunted something noncommittal from his doorway and shut himself back inside the room without another word. Whatever experiment she was planning, he wanted no part of it. He’d done his time being useful. Let the others deal with it—the pigs, the sheep, the cows, all too loud, too eager, too much. He tugged his shirt down over the feathers at his hips, settled on the edge of his bed, and waited for the inevitable chaos to pass.

It didn’t.

Instead, there was a knock.

Not the sharp, impatient rap G usually used—but a lighter sound, hesitant. K frowned, irritation already blooming. He stayed still. If he didn’t answer, maybe she’d get bored and—

“K,” G’s voice called through the door, falsely pleasant. “I need you for just a moment.”

He sighed, long and tired, dragging a hand down his face. “No,” he replied flatly. “Whatever it is, I’m not interested.”

There was a pause.

Then the door opened anyway.

K barely had time to snap his head up before G stepped inside—and stopped just short of him, holding something small against her chest.

Something that chirped.

K froze.

In her arms was a child. Tiny. Feathered. Soft down puffed along their neck and shoulders, pale and warm-looking, with small taloned fingers clutching at her coat. Their arms were scaled like chicken legs up to the elbows, their toes curling instinctively as they shifted. A chick. A hybrid chick.

His blood ran cold.

Before he could speak—before he could even breathe—G bent down and set the child directly in front of him.

“Good luck,” she said briskly, already turning on her heel. “You’ll figure it out.”

“Wait—G—what the hell—”

Too late.

The child made a small sound—soft, needy—and immediately lunged forward, arms wrapping around K’s leg with surprising strength. Their face pressed into him without hesitation, clinging like it was instinct rather than choice.

Like a chick finding a hen.

K went rigid.

His taloned hands hovered uselessly at his sides as G disappeared down the hall, her footsteps retreating far too quickly. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

“…No,” he muttered, voice cracking rough with disbelief. “No, no, no—absolutely not.”

The child looked up at him.

Big eyes. Curious. Unafraid.

K’s chest tightened painfully.

He scrubbed a hand down his face, feathers along his neck bristling as he let out a sharp breath. “You’ve got the wrong hybrid,” he told them gruffly, though his voice had gone quieter despite himself. “I’m not— I don’t—”

The child chirped again, tiny talons tightening their grip.

K swallowed hard, staring down at them as something old and unwanted stirred in his chest—protective, aching, terrifying. Slowly, stiffly, he lowered one hand, fingers brushing the soft down at their head.

“…Shit,” he whispered.

And for the first time in a long while, the room felt very, very small.