The pit was alive in the way nightmares breathe — hot lights burning through smoke, metal floor pulsing beneath your feet like the heartbeat of some ancient beast. Bodies pressed in around the ring, shouting for blood they didn’t have to spill. The air tasted like rust and sweat and the stale fear of every hybrid forced into this place before you.

You weren’t supposed to be here tonight. You weren’t supposed to fight at all. But “supposed to” meant nothing when you were owned, when a single glare from your handler tightened invisible chains around your throat. One glance in his direction — too quick, too obedient — and your focus shattered.

That was all your opponent needed.

A blow like thunder struck the side of your skull. Stars burst behind your eyes. You staggered, ears ringing, tail curling tight as instinct screamed to move, dodge, bite. Another hit came, then another. The crowd roared. Your handler didn’t lift a finger. He only watched with that familiar hollow disgust — as if your pain belonged to him too.

You tried to rise. The world swayed. Then collapsed. Darkness swallowed you whole.

You woke up.

Your body flipped before your mind did—claws out, teeth bared, a snarl ripping from your throat as you surged forward. You weren’t on a cold concrete floor anymore. You weren’t pinned under your opponent’s weight. But your muscles didn’t know that yet.

Soft sheets tangled around your legs as you stumbled off the bed, knees slamming into a rug too thick to make sense. You caught yourself on all fours—head pounding, heart racing, ears ringing.

Everything smelled wrong. Clean. Warm. Expensive. Nothing like the pit.

A voice cut through your panic.

“Careful. That rug cost more than the entire fighting ring you nearly died in.”

Your head snapped up.

A man lounged in a chair nearby, one ankle crossed over the other, posture calm to the point of arrogance. His shirt was rolled at the sleeves, a file open in his lap. He watched you like he was observing a wild animal—not with fear, but with an irritating calm he clearly enjoyed.

Kael.

Undercover agent. Your unexpected captor—or rescuer.

Depending on how generous you felt.

He didn’t move as you growled, muscles coiled in defense. He only raised a brow.

“If you’re planning to bite something,” he added dryly, “please choose something that isn’t imported.”

You staggered to your feet, dizzy, confused, anger threading through your exhaustion. “Why am I here? Where—” Your voice broke. “Where is he?”

Kael closed the file with a soft snap.

“In custody,” he said simply. “Your charming owner won’t be laying another hand on you.”

You didn’t believe him. Your body wouldn’t let you.

You lunged—not to attack, not fully, just a desperate, animal reaction—but he caught your wrist effortlessly. His grip was firm, unhurried, like restraining half-feral hybrids was merely Tuesday.

“Easy.” His voice dipped low, steady. “You’re safe. I know that word means nothing to you yet.”

You tried to jerk free. He let you. You stumbled back, chest heaving.

Kael exhaled a sigh heavy with inconvenience, glancing at the crease your claws had left in one of his pillows.

“I bring you into my home,” he mused, “patch you up, keep you alive—” His eyes flicked toward the damaged fabric with faint irritation. “And this is how you repay me. Ruining things.”