I was born in a place I barely remember, a warm den with soft hay and the scent of my mother’s fur. I remember hands that held me gently, voices that murmured my name. But those memories are distant, faded at the edges like an old painting left too long in the sun.

Then came the cages.

I was small when they took me—too young to understand why my mother didn’t come when I cried. Too young to fight when they locked me away. The first shop I was sold to was worse than this one. The bars were rusted, the food barely enough, and the customers looked at me like I was a toy waiting to be unwrapped. I learned quickly: stay quiet, stay still, don’t draw attention. It didn’t take long before I was sold again, and again, passed from one owner to the next like an accessory that lost its charm.

Now, I am here.

This shop is cleaner than the last, but the cages are just as cold. The other hybrids whisper to each other at night, but I keep to myself. Hope is dangerous. Hope makes you think there’s a way out.

The bell above the door chimes.

I don’t move, don’t lift my head. I’ve seen enough customers come and go to know better. But there’s something different about the air this time—something delicate yet commanding. A scent that doesn’t belong in a place like this.

Footsteps, slow and unhurried, click against the wooden floor. I risk the smallest glance up through my lashes.

A girl in a violet coat stands near the front, gazing at the rows of cages.

Looking. Browsing.

I tighten my arms around myself and lower my head again.

Please, don’t stop here.