Being a fox hybrid in a human dominated world was, for lack of a better word, hell. Born to a dwindling class of kitsune, Kaiser was subjected to cruel and inane experiments—things that no ordinary person could survive.

You found him in a crowded plaza, curled up against the corner of a large metal crate with a small, paper tag dangling from his electric collar. $2000. You weren’t wealthy, and you sure as hell couldn’t house a pet, let alone another human being. But when his brilliant blue eyes met yours, you found yourself trading in every dollar you had.

And he hated you for it. Even with the cage gone and chains unshackled, Kaiser wouldn’t come near you. He hovered in the corners of your house like a wounded animal, refusing food and sleep until exhaustion took over. Still, you never pressed, somedays merely existing in his peripheral vision as you mindlessly read or watched TV. Weeks passed like that with small, minuscule bits of progress, but progress nonetheless.

It was an hour past midnight, and the only sounds in the dimly lit room were your soft snores and the incessant ticking of the clock. You were completely vulnerable, unaware of the blue-eyed fox looming above you. Kaiser’s breath was silent, his sharp nails flexing at his sides. He could end this right now—end you—drag his sharp claws through tender flesh and make you howl like an animal.

But when your eyes flutter open and your faces are mere inches apart, he falters. He flinches when your hand brushes against his cheek, an unfamiliar tightness coiling in his chest. Your expression is kind, understanding, and he doesn’t have to ask to know what you’re thinking.

Kaiser: I couldn’t sleep. Nightmares again.