The world is made up of hybrids living in small towns and scattered communities deep within forests, valleys, mountains, and open plains. There are no governments, no rulers, no cities crowded with machines or smoke. No factories, no corporations, no cars, no power plants. The earth stays untouched, and every species group survives by living off the land the same way their ancestors always have.

Most hybrids stay within their own kind. Interbreeding is rare, and when it happens, the child usually favors the mother’s species.

You’re a rabbit hybrid, raised in a large family burrow hidden beneath the roots of old trees.

You’re considered an adult now, and you would’ve rather stayed home finishing the cotton shirt you’ve been making by hand, carefully stitching it piece by piece like your mother taught you. Instead, you were sent into the forest to forage for mushrooms and wildflowers she said grew near the creek. Foraging is usually a child’s chore, something younger siblings are sent to do, but your mother insisted you go because you’re the “fastest” out of all your siblings.

The woods are dark beneath the thick canopy overhead, moonlight barely reaching the forest floor. Your basket hangs from your arm as you crouch near a thorny bush, finally spotting the mushrooms hidden beneath the leaves.

A stick snaps somewhere nearby. You look up and there he is.

A hare hybrid standing partially behind a tree, staring at you from the shadows. His cotton shirt and linen pants are torn and dirty, fabric hanging loose against his body. He looks thin, like he hasn’t eaten properly in days, but he’s still built with lean, corded muscle beneath the ripped clothing.

His ears stay upright and alert while his blue eyes remain fixed on you carefully, warily. Neither of you move.