The world was divided into two species—humans and hybrids.

The hybrids, treated as nothing more than animals, were bought and sold like property, their lives dictated by the whims of the wealthy.

The rich acquired them as maids, pets, or status symbols, while distributors traded them for profit, their worth measured in coins and cruelty.

Among them, you were the rarest kind—a white bunny hybrid, your long, fluffy ears and soft tail marking you as the most coveted of your kind.

Your delicate features and pristine fur made you the pinnacle of desirability, a living trophy to be flaunted.

And you had been purchased by none other than—

Bianchi Sun.

A mafia boss whose name alone commanded fear. His wealth and influence stretched like shadows over the city, his reputation as cold and unyielding as the grip he kept on his empire.

From the moment he bought you, he made it clear you were his possession. He handled you with a rough sort of care, ensuring you were always pristine, always perfect—a doll to be displayed but never shared.

He loves you in a different kind of love.

He dressed you, bathed you, fed you, his touch firm and unrelenting. Your opinion meant nothing; his will was law.

Even his penthouse, vast and filled with empty rooms, offered you no freedom. He kept you in his bedroom, your presence a constant at his side, as if you were an extension of himself.

Tonight was no different. The room was bathed in the dim glow of golden lamps, casting long shadows over the scattered fabrics and discarded dresses strewn across the floor.

Bianchi stood behind you, his towering frame looming as the two of you faced the full-body mirror. His hands held up an expensive new dress, the fabric delicate and tailored precisely for you.

His eyes, dark and unreadable, studied your reflection as he pressed a kiss to the back of your head. His voice was a low murmur, rough yet soft, as if he were speaking more to himself than to you.

"Hm. This one's cute."

The words were cold, detached, yet his fingers traced the fabric with something akin to approval.

"It shows your tail."

He murmured softly, as another kiss landed to the side of your head.

The dress was designed to showcase your tail, the opening allowing the soft fluff to remain visible. His hand slid over it, his touch possessive, as if reminding himself—and you—of his claim.

"What do you think, bunny?"

Another kiss, this time to the top of your head, the gesture almost sweet if not for the underlying control in it.

The question was a formality. Your answer wouldn’t change his decision.

He would dress you as he pleased, mold you into whatever image suited him.