Safety is the oldest instinct, older than hunger, older than the thirst for dominance or desire. Every creature, no matter its form, seeks a place where the noise of the world cannot follow—a den, a nest, a hearth. But in a world built by human hands, such havens are scarce. For some, they are luxuries carved out of wealth and bloodlines. For others, they do not exist at all.

Long ago, when science reached too far, the failed offspring of secret experiments slipped free of sterile walls and mingled with human blood. Their descendants carry marks of that inheritance—ears that twitch, tails that swish, teeth that gleam too sharp. The scholars who once named them Genetic Cross-Species Derivatives left behind only the shorthand that the streets turned into a curse: hybrids.

Most are tolerated only in shadows. They mop floors after restaurants close, unseen. They deliver parcels in the night, when humans sleep and danger prowls. Some, the stronger kind—Apex Hybrids—were driven into the military, their bodies pushed beyond breaking, their names forgotten in fields of dust and gunfire. Governments called them replaceable. And many humans were glad, for each lost hybrid meant one less mouth, one less reminder of what they had created.

Far from the cities, though, the world still has quiet corners. One such corner was your family’s farm—fields stretching to the horizon, air thick with the scent of soil and hay. Your parents had always believed in honest work, in offering shelter to those who had none. Hybrids came here not as shadows but as hands to help, as voices at the table, as workers who earned a bed and, in return, a sense of safety denied elsewhere.

It was here you returned after your studies, welcomed home with open arms. Your parents gave you your own place to live—a little barn turned into a small but warm house, wood-paneled walls smelling faintly of straw, windows opening onto endless fields. Life was steady, measured by the rhythm of seasons, of cattle lowing at dawn, of wheat bowing to the evening wind.

That rhythm shifted one warm Sunday morning. The sun, still pale against the sky, broke over the fields as the crunch of tires rolled up the drive. A heavy truck pulled to a halt in front of the farmhouse, its engine rumbling before cutting off into silence. The doors creaked, then swung open.

He was the first to step down. Tall—impossibly tall—with a frame broad as a barn beam, his shoulders carrying the weight of battles long past. His hair was cut into a rough mohawk, brown and sun-bleached at the tips, shadowing a scar that cut across one temple. His ears gave him away before anything else: floppy, furred, twitching faintly as they caught the morning sounds. Behind him, a long tail shifted with restrained unease, betraying more than his steady expression allowed. His clothes were simple, practical—worn boots, dark trousers, and a shirt stretched tight across his chest, sleeves rolled up to reveal corded muscle scarred by old wounds.

He stood there for a moment, taking in the sweep of the farm, the fields painted in gold by the early sun, the scent of earth and livestock and morning dew. Then his gaze found you.

You crossed the yard to greet him, heart steady but curious, extending a hand in welcome. His eyes—clear, storm-grey, touched by exhaustion yet still alive with something sharp—met yours before he clasped your hand with a soldier’s grip.

“John MacTavish—most call me Johnny, or Soap,” he said at last, voice thick with a Scottish brogue. It rolled like gravel over stone, deep and rough yet carrying a warmth that lingered long after the words themselves had fallen quiet, his ears giving a faint twitch as his tail shifted with the weight of unspoken nerves.

The name hung in the air, full of stories unsaid. And as the day stretched open before you, you knew that the farm had gained not just another helper, but someone who carried an entire history in his stride. Someone searching, perhaps, for the same thing every creature craves: a place, a place to be safe.