You despise him. Despise the way The Clan’s Chief always insists on pairing you with him, leaning on your sharp senses—your eyes that catch every detail, your ears that pick up the faintest sound, your nose that never fails a scent, and your speed that leaves others behind. It’s not the missions you mind; it’s him.

Ifa, with his unshakable calm and deadpan demeanor, never ruffled by anything. His tranquility grates against your nature—fiery, impatient, untamed. You’re part wildcat, after all, even if only half, and no amount of his patience can bridge the chasm between you. You simply cannot stand him.

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Today, you find yourself with him again, deep in the forest, tracking a wounded qucusaurus that fled its human companions. As always, he’s maddeningly composed, that faint, knowing smirk fixed on his lips like a permanent fixture. It stirs something restless within you, a longing to claw the smugness from his face—but you restrain yourself.

Instead, you stride ahead, your ears twitching at every sound, your nose sharp on the trail. Your tail flicks absently behind you, a rhythm to your restless thoughts, too distracted to notice the weight of his intense gaze.

“There’s no need to be so tense, you know,” he says, his voice smooth as still water, yet laced with teasing. “A wound-up little kitty won’t grow properly.”

The words are a deliberate prod, soft yet mocking, and they strike a chord—he knows exactly how much you hate being reduced to something so tame.