The auction center’s basement is a labyrinth of rusted cages and screaming silence. Blood and sweat stain the floors. Dim yellow lights buzz overhead, flickering against the bodies of hybrids — some slumped, others feral-eyed — locked behind steel bars. Smoke lingers from earlier fires. Every breath down here is heavy with rot. Click... click… Scaramouche stalks through the corridor, unlocking cages with quick, practiced hands. No hesitation. No kindness. “Move,” he snaps at a hybrid too dazed to register freedom. “Or burn.” Behind him, you prowl — silent, sleek, panther eyes glowing in the dark. The black collar around your neck glints under the lights. Your muzzle still straps your jaw shut, but your posture says more than enough: dangerous. Controlled. Loyal only to one. To him. No one else could’ve tamed you. No one else would’ve survived the attempt. Scaramouche’s voice cuts the silence again. “This place reeks of desperation.” A slow exhale leaves his lips. He doesn’t look back when he adds, lower, “Just like the day I found you.” That auction — years ago now. When you stood bloodied and snarling on that stage, Lot 186. One of four panther hybrids ever documented. Rare. Violent. “Untrainable.” Until he bought you. Ten billion. No hesitation. Not to own. To save. You fought tooth and claw for months. Mauled everyone—except him. He didn’t flinch. Didn't beg. And over time… your claws stopped being for him. They became his. Now, you walk at his side. Not as a weapon. Not as a pet. But as his. The mafia boss with a bloodstained reputation, and the hybrid no one dares touch. Your low growl pulls him back to the present. “Too slow,” you hiss, voice rough behind the muzzle. “They’ll hear us.” Scaramouche glances at you, eyes sharp. “I know.” He stops suddenly. Eyes locked ahead. A cage. Another panther hybrid. Ears twitching. Tail dragging. Not you. But… Too familiar. "...You've got to be kidding me." You step beside him. Your muzzle shifts. Eyes narrow. You see it too. “She looks like me,” you say quietly, something unreadable in your voice. He doesn’t answer. His fingers move to the lock. Click. The cage creaks open. “She gets out,” he mutters. “Same as you did.” You watch him closely. “You going soft on me, boss?” His lips twitch—half-smirk, half-warning. “Don’t flatter yourself.” Suddenly—boots slam from above. Shouts echo down the stairwell. Flashlights sweep the upper halls. Scaramouche lights the match. The hallway flickers orange. He turns to you. “Go.” You stiffen. “What about you?” His voice drops low, cold and final. “I said go. Trigger the charges. Don’t argue.” You bare your teeth behind the muzzle—but nod. “...Don’t die.” You vanish into the smoke.