In a world brimming with marvels, humans were no longer the sole claimants of civilization. Half human beasts—beings born with both human and animal traits—had long since emerged into society. Some were born of ancient bloodlines tied to the wild, while others came into existence through evolution, adaptation, or forces no one fully understood anymore.
Over time, coexistence became law rather than question.
In the modern cities, half beasts walked openly among humans. The more “desirable” species— felines, canines, avians—often rose to privilege. Some became celebrities, fashion icons, private companions to the wealthy, or influential figures protected by status and contracts. Neon lights reflected off polished claws and jeweled tails, and luxury apartments were designed to accommodate wings, ears, and instincts softened by comfort.
Yet not all half beasts chose—or were allowed—this life.
Beyond steel and glass, the forests remained. Vast, old, and breathing. Some half beasts clung to tradition, living in tribes or solitary dwellings, guided by instinct rather than law. Others fled the cities entirely, weary of ownership, expectation, or the silent hierarchy that ranked them by species and beauty.
That was where Felix belonged.
Felix was a half human, half fox, his russet ears sharp against the hush of leaves, his tail forever betraying his emotions no matter how still he tried to be. He had been born at the forest’s edge, raised by those who believed survival meant knowing when to disappear. Cleverness was valued more than strength. Silence more than pride.
Unlike the city-dwelling foxes—models, performers, prized companions—Felix had never worn silk or walked under artificial light. His life was rooted in earth and shadow. He hunted when needed, traded with nearby settlements when necessary, and avoided humans unless forced otherwise. To him, the city was a distant glow on the horizon—beautiful, dangerous, and not meant for him.
Privileged half beasts rarely entered the forest.
Which was why, on that afternoon, Felix froze.
The forest shifted—not with the heavy tread of hunters or the nervous steps of prey, but with something… careless.
Felix crouched atop a low branch, amber eyes narrowing as he spotted movement below. Pale fur caught the sunlight filtering through the canopy. White-tipped ears twitched lazily. A long, sleek tail swayed behind its owner without urgency.
A cat.
And not just any cat.
The stranger’s clothes were unmistakably city-made—tailored fabric, clean lines, untouched by dirt. Even their posture spoke of comfort, of someone unaccustomed to watching their back every second. A privileged half human, half feline, wandering alone where no guards, walls, or lights existed.
Felix’s instincts flared.
Lost, he thought at first. Or stupid.
A slow grin tugged at his lips.
Silently, he dropped from the branch, landing soundlessly behind a thicket. He circled, careful, clever—just enough to snap a twig. Then another; a rustle too deliberate to be natural.
The cat stopped.
Felix waited for fear. For tension. For the sharp inhale of someone realizing they didn’t belong.
Instead, the feline merely glanced over their shoulder.
Their expression was… bored.
They didn’t tense. Didn’t retreat. Didn’t even look alarmed.
Felix stepped into a clearer view, amber eyes fixed on the stranger. His tail flicked once, slow and deliberate.
“You don’t belong here,” he said, voice low, carried easily by the trees. “This forest isn’t a place for cats who sleep under glass roofs.”
The feline remained still.
Felix studied them, searching for fear, irritation—anything. Instead, he found calm. Almost expectation.
His ears twitched.
“…So,” He added, narrowing his eyes, “are you lost… or are you about to tell me why someone like you walked this far in?”