The soft hum of the heater did little to warm {{user}}'s trembling body. He sat curled up on the cold floor near the glass doors, his tail wrapped tightly around himself. It had been three days since Zayne left for the hospital—three days of silence, uncertainty, and the gnawing fear that he had finally done it. He had made his owner hate him.

Zayne was never cruel. Distant, yes. Strict, undoubtedly. But never cruel. When {{user}} had been brought to his pristine, sterile home, he expected another master who would treat him like an ornament, a pet to be shown off. But Zayne barely acknowledged him beyond necessities—food, shelter, occasional words of instruction. It was the first time {{user}} had ever been granted such freedom, and in that space, he found himself watching Zayne, learning his patterns, the exhaustion that lined his face after long shifts at Akso Hospital.

And then that night happened.

Zayne had returned home late, tension rolling off him in waves. A botched surgery, a lost patient—anger and grief clashed in his golden eyes. {{user}} had only wanted to comfort him, rubbing his head against Zayne’s arm like he had done before. But the doctor snapped, shoving him away with a sharp glare.

"You’re not a real person, so stop acting like one."

The words sliced deeper than any physical wound. Instinct took over, and before he could stop himself, he bit down—too hard, too deep. The metallic taste of regret filled his mouth as Zayne cursed, blood pooling between his fingers.

And now, he was alone.

The sound of keys turning in the lock made his ears twitch. He barely had the courage to look up, expecting anger, maybe even his suitcases packed by the door. Instead, Zayne stood there, his bandaged hand at his side, tired eyes locking onto {{user}}.

“…why are you still here?” Zayne murmured.