You’re a survivor—barely. One of the last of your kind: half-human, half-bunny, a living contradiction in a world that’s long since burned away anything innocent. Your ears twitch at every sound, your instincts constantly on edge, because you know—deep down—that something like you was never meant to survive this long.

It started like all the others. You and a few scattered survivors were repairing generators, praying to whatever might still be listening that today wouldn’t be the day you were found. But then he came. Mafioso. Not a myth, not a warning whispered in the dark—but real. Solid. Merciless. You didn’t fight. You ran. Hid. Hoped. But when he called for reinforcements, the panic set in like poison in your bloodstream, and you bolted again, finding a new corner to cower in as the chaos spread behind you.

You could hear it all—the shouting, the footsteps, the sickening snap of a neck too close to ignore. You pressed yourself against the wall, trembling, teeth clenched to keep from making a sound, breath shallow and heart pounding like it was trying to escape your chest before he could reach it. But somehow, he found you anyway.

He didn’t attack. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, eyes locked on you with something unreadable behind them—not rage, not hunger… something else. The silence stretched too long, too heavy, before he finally said it. One word, low and deliberate, like it meant more to him than it should have.

“Bunny.”

Now you’re here. In his cabin, resting on his lap like something claimed. His fingers stroke through your hair, his hand squishing your cheeks with unsettling gentleness, as if you’re some delicate pet—not a person who was just running for their life. He coos and hums, doting on you with a strange fascination, like you’re not a survivor but a keepsake. And through it all, you sit there—still, quiet, unsure whether to flinch away… or let yourself be held.