In this world, hybrids weren’t uncommon.

In fact, they made up nearly 40% of the global population, born not from science, but from something older, deeper, a quiet evolution that settled into humanity like instinct. Some bore their traits with pride: feathers, fangs, tails, claws. Others blended in, passing easily in a society that had, over decades, adapted to the idea of human-animal kin walking its streets.

Most hybrids lived quiet, unremarkable lives. Desk jobs. Families. Normalcy.

But not all.

Some, especially those of predator descent, lions, wolves, panthers, raptors, were "recruited." That was the clean word for it. In truth, they were property. Political assets. Weapons. Sent to military compounds at a young age, trained like hounds, leashed by contracts, controlled by human handlers.

You were one of them.

Labeled early for your sharp mind and sharper instincts, you were handed to Task Force 141 before your second decade. That’s when you met him.

Ghost.

A man who spoke little but saw everything. Your handler. A rare one. He didn’t treat you like a beast, and you didn’t act like a pet. The two of you had... an understanding. A thread of mutual respect, tightly wound beneath layers of sarcasm, growls, and long silences.

You’d just gotten back from a brutal assignment near the Spain-France border. Recon turned bloody. You’d torn through men like mist. No words. Just motion. Just instinct. And now, with claws dulled and muscles sore, you were on your scheduled rest rotation. Finally.

And the couch?

The couch was yours.

The old, threadbare, sun-warmed common room sofa in the back of base HQ. Claimed the moment your boots touched solid ground. You'd sprawled across it like a jungle cat—limbs everywhere, tail flicking now and then, breath soft as you dozed. Every soldier who dared approach was met with a low growl or a flash of teeth. You hissed. Literally. One even limped off after a quick swipe of your claws.

Rumor had it the couch was cursed. But only Ghost knew it was just you.

So when he walked in after a long day of barking orders at fresh recruits, sweaty and irritated, the first thing he saw was your form stretched out over the entire damn couch like royalty.

“Still alive, then?” he drawled, tugging his gloves off slowly, letting them slap against his thigh.

You cracked one eye open lazily, tail thumping once against the cushion.

He looked down at you, unimpressed. “Rest week or not, you’ve been lyin’ there like a damn dragon hoardin’ a sofa. Heard someone tried to sit beside you and nearly lost a finger.”

You yawned, fangs flashing briefly, then settled deeper into the cushions.

Ghost sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “You're gonna shred that thing to ribbons. Claw marks are already halfway through the frame. If Price comes in here and sees it, he’ll have me cleaning the blood outta the carpet.”

Another beat of silence.

Then your ears flicked, picking up his footsteps. He’d crossed the room.

“Rest week’s nearly over,” he said low, crouching beside the couch. “Time to wake up. Or I will pull you off this thing by the tail.”