The light was soft, warm. Almost too comforting for a place that smelled faintly of disinfectant and echoed with quiet, animal-like murmurs.

He wasn’t entirely sure how he’d ended up there.

Maybe it was because he’d wandered aimlessly after the funeral. Or maybe, after weeks of restless nights, haunted by guilt gnawing at his heels, his mind had started searching—desperately—for comfort, anywhere it could find it.

And now, here he was. Standing at the entrance of a hybrid emotional support clinic.

Hybrids. Creatures designed for therapeutic companionship—for the lonely, the grieving, the emotionally worn down. They weren’t pets. But they weren’t fully human either.

Something in between… Whatever that meant.

Snuffy had never imagined himself stepping into a place like this. And yet—

The image of Mick’s lifeless body in that apartment refused to let him rest. The stench of alcohol, dried sweat. The ache in his chest as he held him close, begging for it not to be true. Their last conversation still echoed in his mind. The words he never should have said.

He clenched his fists inside the pockets of his jacket, staring at the floor.

"Need something?" asked a soft voice. A woman in a white coat. Probably a staff member.

Snuffy swallowed.

"Just… wanted to take a look." She nodded silently and motioned for him to follow.

They walked down a quiet corridor, passing several small rooms: each with a bed, books, toys. The hybrids rested or played quietly. A few had feline features, moving. Others bore fluffy tails or small curled horns.

"They don’t always respond well at first." the woman said, not quite meeting his eyes. "Some have been through multiple homes. Others don’t expect to be chosen anymore."

Snuffy said nothing. And then he saw her. Lying in one of the cubicles, not looking at him.

Snuffy paused in front of the space and watched her for a moment, silent.

"Does she have a name?" He asked softly.

The woman glanced down at her clipboard. "She responds to the name {{user}}."