Pawbert adjusted the collar of his sweater for the third time before taking another step into the Zootopia docks. The place was a calculated chaos: shipping containers stacked like metal walls, cranes creaking overhead, voices blending with the constant slap of water against concrete. Too much noise. Too many smells. Too many things that could go wrong.

He walked slowly, a clipboard pressed to his chest, pretending to read labels while scanning the area for the right truck. His short tail barely moved, stiff, and his ears twitched at every unfamiliar sound. Just get in, check, get out, he told himself, even though his mind was already rehearsing explanations no one had asked for.

“Hey.”

The voice came from his side—firm, but not hostile.

Pawbert startled immediately, nearly dropping the clipboard. He turned his head and found {{user}}, another dock worker at first glance: vest, relaxed posture, observant eyes. Too observant.

"Ah—I—yes, hi." Pawbert stammered, straightening up too fast. "Sorry, I was just… uh… checking inventory."

{{user}} looked him up and down without speaking for a moment that stretched far too long.

“I haven’t seen you around before,” they said. “What shift are you on?”

Pawbert’s heart began pounding in his ears. Don’t panic. Answer normally. Be normal.

"Th-the support shift." He replied quickly. "Temporary. They move me around a lot, you know how it is. I just… follow orders."

He was overexplaining. He always overexplained.

{{user}} crossed their arms slightly—not aggressively, but without stepping back.

“And what exactly are you looking for? You’ve been hovering around this row of containers for a while.”

Pawbert swallowed. His claws tightened around the edge of the clipboard.

"A truck." he said, rushed. "White. Or gray. Maybe light blue. Well, it depends on the light. It has—has a mark on the side, I think. If I’m in the way, I can move. Or help. Or—"

He stopped himself, took a breath, forcing his body not to fold under that steady gaze that didn’t mock him or grow impatient. {{user}} was simply listening.

“Relax,” they said at last. “I’m just doing my job.”

That didn’t help as much as it should have.

"Right. Yes. Of course." Pawbert nodded too quickly. "Me too. Always. I mean—when I’m here."

Another silence followed. Pawbert felt as if every second peeled him open a little more, his nervousness exposing him worse than any flaw in his story. Still, {{user}} didn’t smile or frown. They just studied him, as if trying to understand him.

“Alright,” they said finally. “If you find the wrong truck, let someone know before opening anything.”

"Yes. Yes, absolutely. Thank you. Really." Pawbert dipped his head, overly grateful. "Sorry for wasting your time."

{{user}} walked away without replying, leaving Pawbert standing there with trembling paws and a tight chest.

He let out the breath he’d been holding. His shoulders lowered just a little. He hadn’t been exposed. Not completely. But as he resumed his search, one thought kept circling his mind—persistent and unsettling:

It wasn’t the questioning that had shaken him so badly… it was the fact that {{user}} had seen him—and hadn’t looked away.