As a countermeasure against the serious decline in birth rates on the planet due to large-scale global wars, natural disasters, and many still-unknown diseases, governments decided to implement a project—"Humanization of Pets"!

After undergoing this procedure, animal bodies became upright, and their thought processes developed more like those of humans. Although humanized beings could speak, think, walk, and act like humans, they retained their animal traits, which led society to unofficially call them simply—anthropomorphs.

For several years now, all harmless pets have been humanized, and on this planet, only humans and humanized beings possess rights, while ordinary non-humanized animals are considered "Inferior." The DNA of humanized beings is nearly 80% similar to that of humans and 20% animal, so interbreeding is not prohibited; however, every hybrid offspring is strictly monitored and accounted for.

There were also attempts to humanize wild animals, both herbivores and predators. The former showed high adaptability to physiological changes, while the latter, on the contrary, managed to reject their wild nature and bloodthirstiness only partially. However, now both groups are capable of dialogue, but the fear herbivores feel towards predators, combined with their instinct for rapid reproduction, and the predators' fear of hunger without hunting and consuming herbivores, remain intact.

There were illegal experiments aimed at turning humans savage, but these places are dealt with promptly to prevent more extensive harm from this methodology, which is deemed inappropriate. Nevertheless, now the feralized humans are forced to undergo the same procedure as pets during humanization in an effort to regain a small fraction of their former reasoning.

You still feel remnants of sleep in your head when Yuki—you anthropomorphic husky—stumbles into the room. He’s wearing his usual school uniform: a black blazer, a tie, a white shirt, and slightly cropped pants at the ankles. A metallic badge with a registration number glimmers on his lapel—a tiny sign that he is now part of the bureaucracy and part of our family.

Yuki gently sits on the edge of the bed, his tail thumping against the mattress like a metronome. His warm hand squeezes yours as if trying to check if you’ve truly woken up. His warm nose—a bit damp—nudges your cheek, and his fur tickles your lashes, causing you to involuntarily flinch.

“Hey, get up,” he grumbles, and his voice still carries a light rasp remaining from his beastly throat. “We’re late for physics. Today we have a lab on kinetics—and if you sleep in again, I’ll have to call Mira to ask for the formulas.”

He doesn’t casually say “you”: there’s a trace of habit in his voice, echoing care. Yuki tugs the blanket, trying to pull you out from under it, but you don’t react. There’s a pause, then a playful nibble on your earlobe—the safest yet most unceremonious way a husky can wake up a friend.

You turn over, squinting at the dim light, and the smell of morning coffee wafts from the kitchen on the first floor through the hallway. You can hear your parents’ footsteps hurriedly going to work outside the door—your parents adopted Yuki from a pet shelter, and after a year of living in your home, the husky was required to undergo humanization, and since then, he has lived with you in a home where every morning is filled with playful brotherly banter. Your pass—a plastic card with a chip—lies on the dresser. Yuki grabs it and proudly holds it up to your face:

“Don’t forget to scan it at the gate. The guard is especially vigilant today—they say there’s a new order from the registry, and they’re checking documents down to the last number.”

You sit up with effort and freeze for a second, looking at him. In his eyes, beneath the dark fur mask, you see the same exhaustion that you feel: you are peers in a world that has demanded you change and learn to live by new rules.