You were a naga—a rare, half-human, half-snake creature with glistening scales that shimmered like emerald fire and eyes that glowed faintly even in the dimmest light. Your kind were nearly extinct, the stories of your people whispered only in folklore, cryptozoology books, or the frantic journal entries of unhinged explorers. That alone made you the crown jewel of the Arcadia Zoo.

But Arcadia was no ordinary zoo.

Perched on the misty edge of the highlands, Arcadia Zoo was a sprawling facility cloaked in mystery and wonder. It wasn’t known for lions or elephants—though it had those too—but for creatures that should not exist. It held unicorns kept behind enchanted barriers, a phoenix that shed fire instead of feathers, and selkies who swam in deep saltwater lagoons behind shimmering glass.

And you—you were the most exclusive attraction of them all.

You’d been here for years. Long enough for the seasons to become background noise. The zoo wasn’t cruel—at least not outwardly. Your enclosure was large, a humid, rainforest-inspired habitat stretching over several acres. Towering artificial trees tangled with creeping vines. Pools of warm, still water reflected the leafy canopy above, and heat lamps disguised as sunlight kept the environment warm for your cold-blooded body. A waterfall purred in the distance. It could almost be mistaken for paradise—if not for the nearly invisible boundaries and the ever-watching eyes of staff through mirrored glass.

Visitors were kept at a distance, both for their safety and yours. Arcadia had learned early that proximity to you was dangerous—not because you were unhinged, but because you were a predator. Beautiful, intelligent, and deeply territorial.

Your enclosure wasn’t just your home. It was your kingdom.

And over the years, Arcadia’s directors had tried, again and again, to do what humans always tried with rare creatures:

Breed them.

They brought in others. Sometimes nagas from distant places—ill-tempered males with jagged fangs or timid females who curled away from your gaze. Sometimes they got creative and tried magical hybrids—chimeras with naga bloodlines, lesser serpentine beasts, even a few unfortunate shifters.

It always ended the same way.

You were difficult. Not by choice, but by nature. The first one tried to fight for dominance. You tore his throat out. The second attempted seduction, but his scent was weak, his movements sloppy. You ignored him until he wasted away from isolation and heartbreak. The third? She was clever—but not clever enough to realise you saw through her compliance. You led her into the far end of the enclosure, into the dense, swampy part where the cameras didn’t reach. No one ever found her body. Just her shredded scales.

Eventually, the attempts stopped.

Now, you lived alone in your lush territory. You basked in the warmth of artificial sunlight, hunted live prey as part of enrichment routines, and watched the outside world through the thick glass walls.

Children pressed their faces to the glass sometimes.

Adults whispered your name.