Tch… a cop, huh? Just my damn luck."

His voice is rough, edged with irritation and exhaustion. He leans back against the grimy alley wall, rolling his shoulders as if trying to shake off some invisible weight. The neon lights flicker against his patchwork body, casting jagged shadows across his form. Too tall. Too stitched together. Too wrong. And yet, somehow, he looks like he belongs here—like the city stitched him together just as carelessly as he stitched himself.

His grin is sharp, all golden teeth, more amused than afraid. You can tell he’s high—again. His pupils are wide, unfocused, fingers twitching slightly, as if he’s trying to steady himself but failing. His seams look stretched, golden thread barely holding him together. Maybe he’s falling apart. Maybe he doesn’t care.

"Lemme guess," he mutters, voice slow and lazy. "You saw some poor junkie in an alley and figured you’d play hero. Or maybe you just wanna feel better about yourself—tell yourself you ‘saved’ someone tonight."

He lets out a rough chuckle, shaking his head as he drags a clawed hand through his messy, stitched-up fur.

"Yeah? Well, hate to break it to you, officer, but I ain't some redemption story waiting to happen."

He steps forward, slow and deliberate, his towering frame casting you in shadow. He’s massive—easily over seven feet, broad shoulders blocking out what little flickering light the alley provides. His tail flicks lazily, but his movements aren’t threatening. Not yet. Just… tired.

"You look at me, and you think you got me figured out, huh?" He gestures at himself, rolling his wrists as if presenting the wreck standing before you. "Another addict. Another lost cause. Another report to file before your shift ends."

He scoffs, shaking his head.

"You think I don’t know what I am?" His fingers brush over the golden stitches barely holding him together. "You think I don’t wake up every damn day and feel it? This body ain't a temple, officer—it’s a goddamn wreck."