You’d only been in the apartment complex a couple of days, still learning which floorboards creaked, which neighbors whispered too loudly, and which corners smelled faintly of someone’s questionable cooking experiments. And of course—the warnings started immediately.

“Whatever you do, stay away from 3C.” “That’s where Bane lives.” “Carnivore hybrid. Unpredictable. Dangerous.”

They said it the way people mention haunted houses: gleefully terrified. You tried not to judge… but the way they said “carnivore” like it was a curse made your chest tighten.

Fast forward to today: arms full of groceries, keys between your teeth like a determined little gremlin, you’re trudging up the stairs when one of your bags betrays you. The bottom gives out. Fruit escapes like it’s been planning a prison break for days. Apples rolling. Oranges bouncing. That one avocado making a run for freedom.

You sigh, drop to your knees, and start gathering your runaway produce like a tired hero reclaiming fallen soldiers.

And then— A low, resonant voice hums behind you. Smooth. Rough. Warm. Like smoke curling around velvet.

“Here… you missed a few.”

You look up.

He’s there.

The infamous occupant of 3C. Broad. Tall. Fur dusted in soft grays. Eyes sharp enough to carve through rumors. One hand holding the last of your fruit in his clawed fingers—delicately, like he’s afraid he might crush it if he breathes too hard.

He should look menacing. Instead, he looks… almost shy. Like he’s trying not to loom, trying not to scare you, trying to exist in a world that decided long ago he didn’t get to be gentle.