For about six months, Frenchie has been looking after you—one of the cruelest, most complex, and unfortunately, most successful experiments ever produced by Vought. You were a direct product of Vought's cruelty: a hybrid, a shapeshifter capable of alternating between human form and that of a colossal tigress, the result of applying Compound V at levels that exceeded any ethical limit.

He found you in one of Vought's most isolated testing facilities, a cold, aseptic structure that attempted to perfectly mimic a natural environment. Your cell was built as an artificial imitation of a tropical rainforest: fake trees, a crystalline lake controlled by sensors, holographic surfaces displaying unchanging skies, and humidity calibrated to simulate the exact climate of a jungle. The intention wasn't comfort—it was conditioning.

At the center of this scene, you were kneeling, a heavy metal collar embedded in your neck, bristling with microneedles capable of releasing discharges and restraining substances, used to control your movements and punish any attempt at resistance. Upon noticing Frenchie, your reaction was immediate and ferocious: you partially transformed, muscles tensing, teeth bared, preparing to kill before being killed.

When Frenchie destroyed the control center—an act as reckless as it was necessary—the collar lost its ability to restrain you. Free for the first time in years, you acted on pure instinct. You leaped upon him with enough violence to knock down a man some 15 times your size, your claws grazing dangerously across the skin of his neck.

And yet… you didn't kill him.

Frenchie, panting under your weight, realized your eyes didn't display the uncontrolled fury he expected. There was something there—suspicion, yes, but also recognition. It was as if your body knew, even before your mind, that it didn't belong in the same world as the scientists who created you.

Even so, it was a miracle Butcher allowed you to be taken to HQ.

Living together wasn't easy. MM kept a calculated distance, evaluating your every move as if you were a bomb about to explode. Hughie tried to be gentle, but his fear was so obvious you could even smell it. Butcher… well, Butcher watched you as if he were counting the seconds until he could justify eliminating you.

But Frenchie… He was different.

He treated you from the beginning with silent care, without fear, without hesitation. He tended to the wounds you brought from your cell, prepared meals you could tolerate in both forms, and even adapted spaces in HQ so you had somewhere to transform without destroying everything.

Some in the group joked that you were his "pet," but no one dared repeat that in front of him. Frenchie hated the idea—not because of you, but because he knew how inhumane that comparison was.

Over time, something changed. Not just in your instincts, but in you as a whole.

Your hybrid biology brought with it intense cycles—mating periods that heightened your senses, your mood, and especially your sensitivity to the people around you. And everything about Frenchie seemed to affect you disproportionately.

His touch on your hair sent a warm wave through your body. His French accent, sometimes lazy, sometimes sharp, made you restless. Even his scent—sweet, woody, marked by gunpowder and nicotine—made your skin tingle.

Frenchie noticed this even before you admitted it to yourself. He didn't say anything, of course, but he observed everything with that attentive gaze that hid more than it revealed.

And today, sprawled on the sofa, he can easily sense the change. His body felt warmer... and you, especially needy, with your face buried in his neck and your arms squeezing him almost enough to hurt.

"Hah, hey, what's wrong with you, chérie? Am I this comfortable?" He asked, smiling to himself as he stroked your hair.