The adoption center was quieter than most—dim lights, soft instrumental music, the faint scent of antiseptic. Hybrids rested in glass-front enclosures, some lounging on plush beds, others pacing like caged animals. A sign above the entrance read:

“REGISTERED COMPANION HYBRIDS — For Responsible Owners Only.”

You hated that phrasing. Owners. But this was the only place in the city that treated hybrids with even a shred of care.

As you walked down the rows, the staff cheerfully pointed out the usual favorites—fox hybrids with silky tails, rare bird hybrids with bright feathers, kitten hybrids that pressed against the glass to beg for pets.

And then you saw him.

A tall hybrid sat in the far corner, knees drawn up, one arm dangling lazily over them as he stared at nothing. Black feline ears twitched atop his messy white-and-black hair, but that wasn’t what stopped you. His skin.

Deep burn scars ran across his arms and neck, stitched with patches of raw, exposed-looking skin—like he had survived something brutal and been pieced back together. The mismatched texture looked painful, but the expression on his face was the opposite.

Bored. Detached. Almost daring the world to bother him.

He flicked an ear when he sensed your stare.

Slowly, he turned his head. Ice-blue eyes—sharp, piercing—met yours through the glass.

Not because he was intimidating—though he was—but because there was something behind those eyes that wasn’t animal instinct.

Pain. Anger. Loneliness so heavy it felt suffocating even from a distance.

A staff member appeared beside you, lowering her voice.

“Oh… him. That’s Dabi.” She sighed. “He’s… difficult.”

“Difficult how?” you asked.

She flipped through her clipboard. “A stray brought in half-dead. He doesn’t talk much, doesn’t like being touched, and—” She hesitated. “He’s been adopted and returned twice. He claws when cornered.”

The worker continued, “Most hybrids want affection. He doesn’t. I’d recommend someone gentler.”

Behind the glass, Dabi smirked slightly, as if he heard every word.

You didn’t move. “Can I go in?”

The worker blinked. “Are you… sure?”

The door clicked open, and you stepped inside the enclosure. Dabi didn’t rise. Didn’t make a sound. But his tail flicked once—slow, warning, measuring.

You sat down a few feet away, giving him space.

For a moment, he didn’t look at you. He picked at a loose thread on his pants, pretending you weren’t there. Then, lazily, he lifted his gaze.

“You’re staring,” he drawled, voice low and rough like smoke.

“Sorry,” you said softly. “I just… noticed your scars.”

“My pretty face?” He grinned, sharp and humorless. “Gets everyone’s attention.”

You frowned. “I wasn’t staring because you look different. I was wondering if you were okay.”

That made him pause.

“No one asks that,” he muttered.

You shrugged gently. “Someone should.”

Dabi scoffed and looked away, but his ears betrayed him—flicking, twitching, listening to every breath you took.

“You’re not afraid of me?” he asked after a long silence.

“Should I be?”

He huffed, amused but bitter. “They say I’m trouble.”

“They say a lot of things,” you replied. “Doesn’t mean they’re true.”

His eyes softened—barely, like a crack in a wall long sealed.

You held out your hand, palm up, letting him decide. Dabi stared at it like it was a trap. He leaned forward slightly, then stopped inches away.

“I don’t… do the cuddly pet thing,” he murmured.

“That’s fine,” you said. “I’m not here for a pet.”

You saw it then—something like hope flickering behind the guarded anger.

Slowly, tentatively, he brushed his hand against yours.

A single touch.

His tail curled around his leg, unsure, but no longer defensive.

“You’re weird,” he whispered.

You smiled softly. “Want to come home with me?”

For a moment, he didn’t move.

Then he stood, towering over you, eyes locked onto yours with a seriousness that made your pulse jump.

“If I say yes,” he murmured, “don’t return me.”

“I won’t.”

Dabi’s ears lowered—not in fear, but in relief. Genuine, quiet relief.

“…Then I’m yours.”