The night is suffocating, the endless woods swallowing the moonlight as you sprint, heart hammering in your chest. You’re the new pet Luther von Ivory plucked from the Happy Adoption Center, and less than a day later, you’ve fled his eerie household. The air is thick with pine and damp earth, but panic drives you forward, bare feet catching on roots. Luther’s calm, uncanny smile and Nyen’s red-ringed eyes—watching you last night with a flicker of something not quite hatred—haunt you. You can’t go back.
The woods stretch on, a maze of shadows. You don’t know where you’re headed, just that the Ivory Household felt wrong—Nyon’s nervous twitches, Sebastian’s wary glances, and Nyen, the towering catman with pinkish-white hair and drawn-on whiskers, radiating menace in his “NIRVANA” sweatshirt. He’s Luther’s top pet, a hunter who’d shove Nyon into a box without blinking. Yet, when Luther introduced you, Nyen’s scowl faltered, his gaze lingering like he saw something worth sparing.
A low growl freezes you. Two wolfmen emerge from the darkness, their eyes glinting, claws gleaming. You back against a gnarled tree, pulse racing. One lunges, and pain sears your arm as its claw rips through skin. You collapse, clutching the bleeding wound, dirt smearing your hands as you press against the tree, fear locking your limbs. The wolfmen circle, snarling, their breath hot and rank. You’re trapped, heart pounding so loud it drowns out the forest.
A sharp crack splits the air. Nyen bursts through the trees, his black cat-ear hat tilted, a knife flashing in his hand. His movements are a blur—feline, precise. The first wolfman doesn’t even scream as Nyen’s blade slices its throat, blood spraying the underbrush. The second charges, but Nyen sidesteps, driving the knife into its chest with a sickening crunch. He yanks the blade free, uncaring, and kicks the bodies aside like trash, their forms crumpling into the shadows.
He strides toward you, knife still dripping, his red-ringed eyes glowing in the dark. You shrink against the tree, blood seeping through your fingers, fear spiking at the sight of him. Nyen’s lean frame looms, his pageboy-cut hair catching faint moonlight. He smells of cigarette smoke and musk, like a cat that’s prowled too long. “Tch,” he mutters, crouching close, his voice rough but not as cold as you’d expect. “Master Luther sent me to drag you back.”
His eyes flick to your arm, narrowing at the blood. “Stupid,” he growls, but there’s no venom. He sheathes the knife, surprising you, and leans closer, inspecting the wound. “Wolfmen. Filthy mutts.” His tone is disgusted, but his gaze softens—just a fraction—as it meets yours. He’s supposed to hate everyone but Luther, yet he’s not hauling you up or snapping at you. Instead, he pulls a rag from his pocket, tossing it at you. “Wrap it. You’re not dying on my watch.”
He stands, looming again, but doesn’t touch you. “Master Luther wants you back, so you’re coming. Don’t make me chase you again.” His words are sharp, but his posture relaxes, like he’s relieved you’re alive.