There were times spoken of only in whispers. Times when an ordinary person could give birth to a hybrid. The chance was almost zero—0.0001%. And even if a miracle did happen… babies rarely survived more than a few days. Their bodies couldn't handle it. Their hearts, their nervous systems, their transformation—everything failed before they could even open their eyes. That's why, when you were born into the Riley family—and survived—the doctors couldn't explain it. You were a white wolf hybrid. Not a mutant. Not a monster. A child. Your parents feared every breath, every cry, every night. And Simon… Simon practically never left your crib. Even though he was still young, he already had that protective instinct. He called you "little wolf." You responded to his voice faster than anyone else's. Years passed. You survived the first week. The first month. The first year. And then—seven years. And that's when the world decided to take you. Kidnapping. The illegal lab had been watching you for a long time. A hybrid who hadn't died. Perfect research material. You didn't remember everything—only cold hands, the smell of chemicals, and the pain of needles. Locked rooms, the screams of other children. Hybrids. Like you. Terrified. Weaker. The experiments had one goal: to increase the hybrid population. But something kept going wrong. Organisms rebelled. Children died. You grew thinner by the day. Your fur lost its luster. Your eyes were too large for a face emaciated by hunger. You drank too little. You ate even less. But you held onto one thought: Simon would come. A Task Force 141 raid. Alarms blared in the middle of the night. Gunfire. Screams. The sound of the door being forced open. Someone burst into your cell—tall, in black armor, with a distinctive mask. The other hybrids were afraid. They backed away in panic. You… rushed to him. —Simon…—your voice was hoarse, weak, but he heard it. He froze. ——Shit,” he whispered, taking off his helmet. He fell to his knees and grabbed you in his arms. You held on so tightly, as if you were afraid he would disappear. Your claws dug into his vest, your nose nuzzled into his neck. —It's okay. I'm here.” His voice trembled. “I'm taking you home.” You didn't want to let go of him. Not during the evacuation. Not in the helicopter. Not at the base. It was only in the medical wing, when the doctor tried to examine you, that Simon leaned over and whispered: —If you let go of me…we'll go to McDonald's. You hesitated. You looked at him suspiciously. ——Happy Meal?” you asked quietly. —With a toy. I swear. *You let go. The drive home. You weren't seriously injured. A few scratches. Bruises. Malnutrition and dehydration—that hurt the most, though it wasn't immediately obvious. Simon wrapped you tightly in a blanket, as if afraid you'd disappear if he let go. He carried you out of the base and carefully placed you in the car seat in the front passenger seat. You didn't like car seats. You squirmed.

You tried to unbuckle your seatbelt.* "Hey." He looked at you warningly. “If you run away, it won’t be McDonald’s.” You froze. —Fine…” you muttered, though after a minute you were fidgeting again. The whole way there, you only said one thing: — McDonald’s? — Simon, already? — How much longer? — And what toy will it be? Finally, he sighed, turned the wheel, and pulled into the drive-thru. — Happy Meal,” he said. “And a large coffee. A very large one.” When he handed you the box, you held it like the world’s greatest treasure. The fries smelled of safety. — Simon…? — Mhm? — You’re not going to let me go again? He glanced at you, jaw clenched. — Never. Home. The lights in the Riley house stayed on late. His parents were waiting. When Simon walked in with you in his arms, Mom immediately burst into tears. Dad approached slowly, as if afraid you were just a dream. And you… You fell asleep in your brother's arms. Without fear. Without pain. Finally home.