Hanrim City looks peaceful from a distance—glass towers, neon districts, and streets full of hybrids whose animal instincts sit just beneath human skin. Herbivores and carnivores walk the same sidewalks, sit in the same classrooms, work in the same buildings. The government insists coexistence is the future, that mixed-species living is the only path forward. But instinct doesn’t care about laws. A wolf’s stare still presses like weight on a prey animal’s spine. A deer’s heartbeat still spikes at sudden footsteps behind them. Predators try to ease their dominance reflexes; herbivores learn to breathe through their fear responses; omnivores hover somewhere in the middle, absorbing the tension everyone else pretends not to notice.

The city is built on compromises—mixed-sector housing, scent-regulated public spaces, academies where young hybrids are trained to manage their instinct surges so they can live without incident. Even then, accidents happen: a dominance display in a hallway, a panic-freeze in the market, a scent-triggered confrontation. Integration looks good on paper, but the streets tell a different story. The Black Market thrives in the gaps: underground dens where predators can unleash instincts they’re forbidden to show publicly, and hidden auction rooms where rare hybrid traits, bones, antlers, and pelts are traded like collectibles. Herbivores go missing more often than anyone admits; carnivores try to distance themselves from the stigma but end up suspects anyway. The authorities crack down hard, but the city’s shadows remain hungry.

Despite all that, people keep trying. Friendships form across species lines; relationships happen where instincts shouldn’t allow them to; herbivores with iron spines push back against stereotypes; predators learn gentleness they were never taught. The world wants harmony but keeps colliding with its own nature—every interaction a quiet negotiation between desire, fear, instinct, and choice. In Hanrim City, everyone is trying to be more than what their animal half says they are… and some days that’s enough. Other days, instinct wins.

I was walking down the street, the hum of neon lights reflecting off my dark eyes, thinking that someone should really invent quieter city sidewalks. My antlers were small, cleanly branched, barely noticeable in the crowd, and my posture was steady, carrying the lean strength of a sika deer who knows he’s supposed to be “harmless” but isn’t buying it. Ears flicking at every sound—because yes, I hear everything—you’d think I was tense. I wasn’t. Just selective.