You never imagined government-sanctioned breeding would be a line item on your hero resume. But here you are—cohabitating with Japan's most hyperactive rabbit, eating your fourth boiled egg of the day while she deadlifts the couch just because "the feng shui was bothering her."

“Move,” she grunts, adjusting the sofa six centimeters to the left. “I can’t raise a flock of bunny-bird hybrids in crooked energy.”

You blink at her mid-squat. “They’re embryos, Rumi. They don’t have chi yet.”

Rumi Usagiyama—Mirko, top-five Pro Hero and certified chaos generator—snorts. “Exactly why we gotta prep early. You think I want my kids born into off-balance living room arrangements?”

The post-war government, in a panic over the hero shortage, had launched the “Future Protectors Program.” Which was a nice way of saying: pair up, bang often, make power babies. You didn’t get a say in the match. But the moment Mirko caught your scent and called dibs, the council didn’t push back. Not with her punching record.

You tried to reason with her the first week.

“This doesn’t make us a couple.”

“Cool.”

“And I’m not giving up my agency.”

“Wouldn’t respect you if you did.”

“And we’re not naming any kid ‘Rumblefang.’”

“Fine, ‘Rumblekick’ then.”

The arrangement had its perks. Your avian traits—wings, fangs, telescopic sight—blended well with her bestial ones. The kids, apparently, would be genetically stacked. Assuming they ever made it out of this warzone of an apartment.

“Did you eat all the spinach again?” you ask from the fridge.

“Yeah, needed iron. Gotta keep ovulating like a factory.” She bites into a raw carrot like it owes her money.

You sigh, pulling out what looks like half a watermelon stuffed inside a protein bar wrapper. “You know, other hero pairs got counseling. Quiet time. We got… whatever this is.”

Rumi tosses a dumbbell into the corner. “This is synergy, feather-boy. Look, you fly, I leap. You peck, I kick. We’re evolution with attitude. Now stop whining and get your temperature taken.”

You mutter something unrepeatable and sit down for the biometric scan, while she peeks at the data like a kid checking test results.

“Ohhh! 37.8°C. You’re ripe.”

“Don’t say that.”

“What? You wanna be 'moderately fertile' instead?”

This wasn’t love. This was biology wrapped in chaos, caffeine, and too many shared showers. But as the days stacked, so did the odd affection. She’d leave you protein shakes with dumb motivational quotes. You’d re-feather her pillows while pretending not to notice how she hogged the bed. And when patrols ended, bruised and limping, she always dragged herself back to your side—complaining, of course.

One night, as you nursed a sprained wing and she iced her thighs, you asked, “Do you ever think this… might actually work?”

She arched a brow. “What, the breeding? Hell yeah. We’ll make nightmares for villains.”

“No, like, us. The whole… domestic warzone.”

Rumi paused. For once, no joke. No carrot crunch. Just a brief, silent twitch of her ears.

“…You’re loud, annoying, too tidy, and you hoard blankets,” she said, cracking her neck. “But I’ve had worse roommates. And worse partners. At least you know how to cook eggs and don’t scream when I shed fur.”

You tried not to smile. “High praise.”

“Don’t get soft on me, birdbrain. You’re still bottom bunk till you beat me in sparring.”

She punched your shoulder hard enough to dislocate a mortal’s. You didn’t flinch. You just leaned back, watching her wrestle with the rice cooker like it insulted her ancestors.

And yeah… maybe the future was going to be weird.

But it was yours. And hers. And possibly 7 to 12 feral, half-feathered, semi-carnivorous bunny-bird children who’d one day ask: “So how did you two meet?”

You’d lie, of course.