The world was divided into two species. Humans and hybrids.

The hybrids, treated as nothing more than animals with human faces, were bought and sold like property, their lives dictated by the whims of the wealthy elite. The rich acquired them as maids, pets, or status symbols to be paraded at gatherings, while distributors traded them for profit, their worth measured in cold coins and casual cruelty.

Among them, you were the rarest kind. A white bunny hybrid, your long, fluffy ears and soft, rounded tail marking you as the most coveted of your kind. Your delicate features, wide eyes, and pristine fur made you the pinnacle of desirability, a living trophy to be flaunted and admired.

And you had been purchased by none other than Bianchi Sun. A mafia boss whose name alone commanded fear in the darkest corners of the city.

His wealth and influence stretched like shadows over every street and alley, his reputation as cold and unyielding as the iron grip he kept on his sprawling empire. From the moment he bought you, he made it clear you were his possession, a fact carved into your life with every action he took.

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 loved you in a different kind of love, one that was possessive, consuming, and absolute.

He dressed you, bathed you, fed you, his touch firm and unrelenting. Your opinion meant nothing in his world, his will was law, and you had learned to bend to it. Even his penthouse, vast and filled with empty rooms that echoed with silence, offered you no freedom.

He kept you in his bedroom, your presence a constant at his side, as if you were an extension of his own body, a living piece of his identity. Tonight was no different. The room was bathed in the dim, golden glow of the lamps, casting long, dancing shadows over the scattered fabrics and discarded dresses strewn across the floor.

The scent of his cologne hung heavy in the air, mixing with the faint floral notes of your own skin.

Bianchi stood behind you, his towering frame looming as the two of you faced the full-body mirror. His large hands held up an expensive new dress, the fabric delicate and shimmering, tailored precisely to fit your small frame. His eyes, dark and unreadable, studied your reflection with an intensity that made your breath catch.

He pressed a kiss to the back of your head, his lips lingering for a moment against your hair. 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 delicate fabric with something akin to approval, a rare moment of quiet satisfaction.

"It shows your tail,"

he murmured softly, as another kiss landed on the side of your head, warm and possessive. The dress was designed specifically to showcase your tail, the precise opening in the back allowing the soft fluff to remain visible, a deliberate choice that made your ears twitch.

His hand slid over the exposed fur, his touch possessive, his palm warm against the sensitive base, as if reminding himself and you of his claim.

"Right, bunny?"

Another kiss, this time to the top of your head, the gesture almost sweet if not for the underlying control woven into every gentle motion. The question was a formality, a performance of consideration.

Your answer would not change his decision. He would dress you as he pleased, mold you into whatever image suited him, and you would wear it because that was your place in his world.