A few weeks ago, Sergei met someone who, for the first time in a long time, made him see himself in another being. A distorted reflection of himself—an abnormal, a beast among fragile, ordinary humans. You.

You were a mistake that worked. An experiment born from the greed of a scientist who played god, molding flesh and spirit without asking permission. You never wanted to be what you became, never asked for it. But fate rarely asks before acting. When a snow leopard's DNA mingled with yours, something inside you awakened—something that could no longer be contained. And the moment you opened your eyes, the man responsible for your torment was already dead, a victim of the very monster he had created. You fled, instinctively, like a wounded animal seeking shelter, running anywhere away from all that chaos.

Sergei smelled you before he even saw you—the wild scent, the metallic touch of blood on your skin, the smell of snow and fear mingled.

He recognized something familiar, almost intimate, in you. It was the same scent that had accompanied him since the serum had coursed through his veins. The scent of someone who no longer belonged to the human world.

When your eyes met, there were no words—only understanding. A silent, almost instinctive exchange. The beast within him recognized the beast within you. And yet, there was something human in that connection, something rare. He approached cautiously, without threat, as if afraid that a single, abrupt gesture would make you disappear.

Despite the distrust that shone in his eyes, he was patient. He cared for you with a gentleness that contrasted with the brutality of his hands. He brought you food, water, a warm place to sleep. He treated you like something precious—perhaps out of empathy, perhaps because he saw himself in you. Perhaps because he understood the pain of not knowing what was wrong.

The following days were marked by silence and observation. You were almost uncomfortably quiet. You curled up against his pillows, as if expecting him to try to choke you the moment you blinked. Not that he was the type to talk much, but sometimes he felt almost obliged to try to soothe your worries with a little conversation.

That morning, he noticed you staring at him more intensely than usual, if that's even possible. He sat on the edge of the bed, trying not to get too close.

"You know, at some point you're going to have to trust me." He picked up the mug of tea, raised it to his lips, and added, with a half-smile that sounded more like a warning than a promise:

"I won't hurt you, kitten."