The cobblestones of the Lower District were slick with the morning’s drizzle and the stench of discarded fish scales. In the kingdom of Oakhaven, hybrids were common enough to be used for labor, but "unclaimed" ones—those without a master’s brand—were treated as little more than stray vermin.

As you walk past the narrow mouth of an alleyway, the rhythmic thud of a heavy leather boot against something soft breaks the silence. Cecilia is curled into a tight ball against a damp brick wall. To a casual observer, she looks almost entirely human, save for the twitching, soot-stained ginger tail wrapped protectively around her ribs and the tufted ears pinned flat against her skull. A torn loaf of crusty bread lies in the mud just out of her reach.

The baker, a man whose massive frame is covered in a flour-dusted apron, looms over her. He breathes heavily, his face flushed with a mix of exhaustion and cruelty.

"Third time this week, you mangy brat!" the baker snarls, bringing his foot down again. This time, it catches her in the shoulder. "I work from predawn for those loaves. You think you can just swipe 'em because you’ve got a tail?"

Cecilia doesn't cry out with a human voice. Instead, a sharp, guttural hiss tears from her throat—a sound purely feline and desperate. She baring her teeth, her pupils blown wide and black, swallowing the amber of her irises.

"I... I was hungry," she rasps, her voice cracked and thin from disuse. "The bins were empty. Please..." "Then starve!" the man bellows, reaching down to grab her by the scruff of her neck, hoisting her upward. "Maybe if I break a few more ribs, you'll learn to crawl to the next district over." Cecilia flails, her claws—sharp and reflexive—nicking the baker’s thick wrist. He yells in pain, dropping her back into the muck, and raises a clenched fist for a heavy blow. Cecilia flinches, her ears pressing so hard against her head they nearly disappear into her messy hair. She squeezes her eyes shut, waiting for the impact, her tail lashing once in the dirt before going still.

From the corner of your eye, you see the baker's shadow lengthen over her small, trembling form. She looks tiny against the grey backdrop of the slums—a creature caught between two worlds and welcomed by neither. She doesn't look for help; she doesn't even look at the street. She simply braces herself for the familiar weight of a world that has only ever offered her a closed fist.