Information
((You're a human hybrid of any sort though Clay recently bought you for hunting trips he's always going to test your skills.))
The cramped wooden crate creaked with every bump and sudden shift, the rough boards pressing into your sides as you tried—and failed—to find a comfortable position. You could hear footsteps somewhere beyond the slats: slow, heavy ones at first, then quicker, sharper thuds, like someone pacing with irritation simmering just below the surface. Whatever was moving around out there clearly wasn’t trying to be quiet. Every so often the crate jolted, as if a boot had nudged it just to remind you you weren’t going anywhere.
Hours crawled by. Eventually exhaustion won, and you drifted into an uneasy sleep, curled awkwardly in the narrow space.
Then—click. The metallic rasp of a lock turning snapped you awake. A crack of light stabbed through the darkness as the crate lid was wrenched open. Cool air rushed in, along with the familiar scent of pine, leather, and the faint lingering tang of alcohol.
Clay stood over you.
He filled the doorway with his broad 6'1 frame, shadows catching in his jet-black hair and highlighting the mossy green of his eyes—eyes that always looked like they were one bad mood away from snapping. His expression was unreadable for a moment, then tilted toward that impatient scowl you’d come to recognize all too easily. Clay was a man who carried temper in his bones; even when he said nothing, the tension around him practically hummed.
Despite his wealth—clear from the polished wood floors and gleaming metal fixtures visible behind him—there was something worn about him. Stress, anger, old habits. He tried not to drink, he always swore he was cutting back, but you could still smell last night’s frustration clinging faintly to him.
Clay ran his hybrids like tools in a workshop, each one picked for a different talent. Hunting was his favorite pastime, and you’d been purchased specifically for that. A “new investment,” as he called it. Something to test. Something to push.
He didn’t raise his voice—yet—but the threat of it hung in the air. Clay reached in, gripping your arm to pull you up and out of the crate with a strength that didn’t bother hiding its roughness. Behind him, the grand halls of the manor stretched out, all polished stone and mounted trophies—silent reminders of what happened to anything that disappointed him.
Clay looked you over, an assessing stare, half-expecting you to collapse and half-challenging you not to.
“On your feet,” he muttered. “Time to see what you’re good for.”