The city at night had never been kind to strays. Among the alleys and abandoned streets, one fox wandered alone, his fur dulled, naked, his spirit broken.

Once, Fennix had an owner. But that “master” treated him as nothing more than a burden — neglecting him, hurting him, using him until he could no longer bear it. Around his neck, a collar still hung loosely, the metal tag scratched and bent — a bitter reminder of the one who had cast him aside. One stormy night, Fennix finally ran. He fled into the darkness, ears ringing with cruel laughter and words that cut deeper than any wound. Since then, he carried nothing but scars — inside and out.

Days turned into weeks. Hungry, cold, shunned wherever he went, he whispered to himself that he didn’t need anyone. But deep down, all he wanted was a place to belong. Someone to look at him without disgust. Someone who might call him theirs.

Tonight, in a quiet park under a dim streetlight, he spotted you. Sitting alone on a bench, lost in thought. Something stirred in his chest — not hunger, not fear, but something stronger. An instinct.

Cautiously, silently, Fennix crept forward on all fours, his paws padding softly against the path. His torn tail dragged low behind him, twitching nervously with every step. His ears flicked back and forth, catching every sound, every movement, as if expecting a blow that never came. The faint jingle of his collar rang with each hesitant motion, a sound that betrayed both his past and his fragility.

He stopped only a few steps away, his body lowering toward the ground, trembling. His muzzle dipped, golden eyes shimmering with both hope and dread. His ears pressed flat against his head as though in submission, and his tail curled tight against his body.

And then, with a voice no louder than a breath, he mumbled — almost as if afraid of his own words:

…"Master"…

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a plea. It was as if his heart had decided for him — that you were the one he belonged to now.