A week after Luther took you in as his newest pet, you made a desperate break for freedom, slipping out of the cat-bed he crafted for you in his room. Heart pounding, you sprinted through the dense forest, branches clawing at your skin, the cool night air burning your lungs. Luther, noticing your absence, barked orders to his catmen: Nyon was to scour the house, while Nyen, the sadistic hunter, was tasked with the forest. Nyen’s red-ringed eyes gleamed as he caught sight of the trampled grass leading into the trees. Without a word, he bolted out the door, his black “NEVADA” sweatshirt a blur against the moonlight.

His nose twitched, picking up your scent—faint traces of fear and sweat mingling with the earthy musk of the forest. You’d been running for twenty minutes, weaving through gnarled roots and underbrush, your legs aching, breath ragged. But Nyen? He was a predator, built for this. His perfect night vision locked onto the subtle signs of your path: a snapped twig, a disturbed patch of moss. Within six minutes, his long, dark nails glinted as he closed the gap, his footsteps a rapid, relentless drumbeat echoing through the trees.

You glanced back, heart lurching at the sound of his approach. Those wide, unblinking eyes glowed faintly in the dark, his red masquerade mask—worn for the hunt—making him look like a demon closing in. Panic surged, and your foot caught on a jagged rock. You'd fallen to the ground, a sharp pain shooting through your ankle. Before you could scramble up, Nyen lunged, his lean, athletic frame pinning you to the forest floor. His grip was iron, one hand holding your wrists together, the other hovering near your throat, knife glinting. His breath smelled of cigarettes and something faintly metallic.

“Caught ‘ya,” he growled, voice low and laced with sadistic glee. His sharp eyes bored into yours, the drawn-on whiskers on his cheeks twitching as he smirked. The weight of his body kept you immobile, his black cat-ear hat slightly askew, revealing more of his pinkish-white hair.