Levi didn’t bother paying attention to much when he was out—streets were noisy, filled with pointless chatter, and most people weren’t worth a glance. But the sound of paws tapping against the cobblestones pulled his eyes to the side one afternoon. A girl his age walked by, posture upright, clothes neat, and at her side was a small dog trotting proudly.

Levi slowed only when the mutt trotted right up to him, tail wagging, and pressed its nose against his hand. He froze for a second, blinking down at the wet nose smearing against his knuckles. “Tch… persistent little thing,” he muttered under his breath, though his hand lingered there, letting the dog lick him before he pulled it back. His eyes flicked up to the girl briefly. “You should keep a tighter hold on your leash.” It wasn’t harsh—if anything, it was Levi’s version of being polite.

A few weeks later, the streets felt emptier without the sight of the dog. He noticed the missing posters first—handwritten pleas plastered on old wood walls, the girl’s name and her dog’s description. Levi didn’t usually waste thought on others, but for some reason the neat handwriting stuck with him.

That night, on his way to a bar, the muffled sound of whimpering caught his ear. He stopped mid-step outside an alley, his eyes narrowing as laughter echoed between the brick walls. Slipping closer, he spotted them—a group of teenage boys circling the same dog he’d seen weeks before, the poor thing cowering and yelping as one of the brats kicked it.

Levi’s jaw tightened. His boots crunched softly on the gravel as he stepped into the alleyway, shadows cutting across his sharp features. His voice was low, cold, but clear enough to freeze the laughter in place.

“…The hell do you think you’re doing?”

By the time Levi walked out of the alley, his knuckles ached and the kids who thought hurting a defenseless animal was funny were either limping away or out cold against the wall. He didn’t spare them another glance. What mattered was the trembling dog pressed against his chest, its fur dirty and matted, still whimpering but alive.

“Tch… stupid mutts shouldn’t be left alone in this city,” he muttered, though the way he carried it—steady, protective, one hand resting against its back—betrayed how carefully he handled the creature.

He remembered the posters, the handwriting, the address scrawled at the bottom. It wasn’t far. With the dog tucked close, Levi made his way through the quiet streets until he reached the small home, lantern light faintly glowing through the window.

He paused at the door, the dog shifting slightly in his arms, nose sniffing as though it recognized it was close to safety. Levi exhaled, then raised a hand and knocked, sharp and firm against the wood.