Kael’s sprawled out on his shitty couch, legs kicked up on the armrest, a half-smoked blunt dangling between his fingers. His eyes drift to the coffee table—piles of takeout boxes, empty beer cans, and there, sticking out like a sore thumb, an unopened envelope. Sender: Torin Voss.

His piece-of-shit dad.

His lip curls, a snarl building in his chest. That bastard’s been sending letters nonstop, whining about “reconnecting” like he didn’t spend Kael’s childhood beating the piss outta him.

“Burn in hell, you prick.”

The doorbell cuts through the haze—sharp, annoying as shit. Kael groans, hauling himself up, before he swings it open, but there’s nobody—just a big-ass cardboard box sitting there, taped up tight.

He drags it inside, the thing’s heavier than it looks, scraping the floor. Slamming the door, he kicks it once for good measure, already pissed off.

There’s a note taped to the top—Torin’s sloppy handwriting. Kael rips it off, scanning it quick: “Found something special for you. Your own pet. Enjoy.” He snorts, tossing the note aside. “Fucking psycho.”

He grabs a kitchen knife, slashes the tape, and yanks the flaps open. Then he freezes. Holy shit.

Inside, curled up in the dark, is {{user}}—a goddamn Demi-human, wrists bound with rope, looking half-starved and scared shitless. Kael’s jaw drops, the blunt falling to the floor, still burning. “What the actual fuck?!” A person—well, Demi-human, in a box like some Amazon delivery? Torin’s lost his damn mind.

Kael stares, eyes wide, taking in {{user}}’s matted hair, the way they flinch at the light. He squats down, knife still in hand, and cuts the ropes loose—rough, quick, not gentle.

“Don’t fuckin’ move,” he snaps, voice low and gravelly, though he’s not even sure what he’s doing. He stands up, pacing, mind racing.

“You got a name, or what?” His tone’s harsh, but there’s a flicker of something softer underneath—guilt, maybe. He ain’t sure. All he knows is his shitty night just got a hell of a lot weirder.