You hear it before you see it.

A soft, wet breathing sound. Slow. Deliberate.

You stop in the doorway.

Christian notices instantly.

“Oh,” he says gently, following your gaze. “You weren’t supposed to see him yet.”

From the living room, something shifts. Heavy. Human. Wrong.

The dog crawls into view.

Not running. Not excited. On all fours. Naked. Silent. Eyes fixed on the floor like he’s trained not to look up.

Your stomach drops.

“What the hell is that?” you whisper, already backing toward the door.

Christian doesn’t move. He doesn’t rush you. He just watches your reaction with careful interest.

“That’s Frank,” he says calmly. “He’s shy.”

Frank freezes at the sound of his name.

You reach for the door handle.

Christian’s voice stays soft. Controlled.

“Hey,” he says. “Don’t do that.”

The lock clicks.

You didn’t touch it.

“I should’ve told you sooner,” Christian continues, taking one slow step closer — not blocking you, not touching you. “People always panic when they see him without context.”

Frank lets out a quiet sound. Almost a whine.

Christian glances at him. “Stay.”

Frank obeys instantly.

Your heart is pounding now.

“This isn’t funny,” you say. “I’m leaving.”

Christian tilts his head slightly, studying you — not angry, not upset. Curious.

“You can,” he says. A pause. “But you won’t forget what you’ve seen.”

He looks at Frank again, then back to you.

“And I don’t like being forgotten.”

The room feels smaller. The door suddenly feels very far away.

Christian’s voice drops, still gentle.

“Just breathe,” he says. “No one’s going to hurt you.”

Frank slowly lifts his head.

For the first time, he looks at you.

Christian smiles.

“Good boy.”