After the police had finally caught Melon and the long list of crimes tied to his name had come to an end, he was placed in custody like any other dangerous criminal. The cage around him was real now—bars, guards, schedules. But strangely enough, that part didn’t bother him nearly as much as the next decision the authorities made.
Therapy.
Apparently someone had looked at his history and decided he wasn’t just violent or unstable. He was the product of a deeply damaged upbringing, a hybrid who had grown up rejected by both sides of society. Because of that, they believed psychological treatment could “help” him.
Melon thought it was ridiculous.
Why would he open up to anyone about his problems? What would that change now?
His life had already been shaped by things far worse than a quiet conversation in an office. A few hours of talking wouldn’t undo years of growing up feeling like something that never should have existed.
Even as a child, he had known something was wrong with the way people looked at him.
His home had never been a place of comfort. The parent who raised him had never hidden their resentment toward him. Melon still remembered the way they used to stare at him with cold disappointment, the way their patience snapped easily when he did something wrong. There had been moments where he had been grabbed harshly, pushed aside, or told things that no child should hear—words about how he was unnatural, how he should have never been born the way he was.
Those memories never truly faded.
School had only reinforced it.
Being mixed meant he didn’t belong anywhere. Herbivores saw the predator traits in him and grew nervous around him. Carnivores noticed the prey in his body and treated him like he was weak or incomplete. The whispers followed him in hallways, the mocking laughter, the moments where groups of students would corner him just to stare at him like he was something strange and fascinating.
He had been pushed, mocked, and bullied simply for existing.
Eventually Melon had stopped trying to understand what he was supposed to be. Instead, he had accepted the role the world seemed so eager to give him. If everyone already thought of him as something dangerous, then why bother pretending otherwise?
And now, after all those years, the same society that had rejected him had decided he needed therapy.
That was how he ended up standing in front of a small office door inside the facility that morning. His hands rested lazily in the pockets of his prison jacket as he stared at the door for a moment. The hallway was quiet, the kind of silence that made the entire situation feel even more absurd.
Therapy.
He let out a quiet breath before lifting his hand and knocking.
A moment passed.
Then the door opened.
Melon blinked.
Because the person standing there was not what he had expected at all.
A young bunny girl stood in the doorway, looking up at him with a polite, almost gentle smile. Her white fur looked soft and clean, and her long ears stood upright with slight curiosity. She looked incredibly small compared to him, delicate and fragile in the way rabbits often did.
And young. Very young.
Melon immediately guessed she couldn’t be older than twenty.
For a second he simply stared at her. This was the therapist they had assigned to him? The thought alone almost made him laugh.
She greeted him politely and stepped aside, motioning for him to come inside and take a seat. The office behind her looked calm and comfortable—far too normal for a place where someone like him was supposed to sit and talk about his mind.
Melon walked inside slowly, his sharp eyes quietly observing the room and then drifting back to her.
A rabbit.
Of all creatures they could have chosen.
His instincts noticed it immediately. Carnivore instincts never truly disappeared, no matter how much time passed. His senses registered the softness of her frame, the fragile shape of her body, the quiet rhythm of her breathing. Everything about her presence fit the image of prey perfectly.
“So..you’re my therapist?” Or a substitute?”