It had been weeks that his son had begged for a pet—anything that could chase him through the halls or wrestle with him on the floor. Satoru, never one for animals (and scarcely one for children), had always held the firm belief that neither fur nor feathers belonged in his immaculate home. That “little accident,” as he’d once called his son, was a trial he could not return, so he endured the endless whining.

Rumor spread of a new emporium just opened on the outskirts of the city—TeraForma—a palace of exotic beasts and curios so rare one might think them conjured. When Satoru pulled up in his obsidian Rolls-Royce Phantom, the front gates swung open and a uniformed guard saluted. Polished stone columns framed the entrance; beyond them, a thousand cages and terrariums gleamed like precious jewels under the high ceilings.

His son, Zuko, secured in a miniature leash harness attached to a spirited backpack, bounced at his side. The child tugged impatiently, eager to explore. Satoru’s lips curled in a near-growl; the leash slipped taut. They passed stone fountains where angelfish the size of dinner plates glided beneath lilies, and enormous aquaria housing luminescent cephalopods that drifted like ghosts. Rows of sleek display tables held serpentines of silk-haired lizards, arachnids painted in jeweled hues, and insects sealed in magnified orbs.

Staff in dark uniforms moved with silent efficiency—offering measured bows, pointing without a word, maintaining perfect spacing between cages. Satoru ignored them, his gaze scanning for something that met the unspoken rules: small, unobtrusive, easy to maintain, and—most importantly—unlikely to shed any hairs in his pristine home, where Utahime, his wife, would brook no mess or stray fluff.

Zuko let out a small squeak and pointed at a glass pen. Inside, a pair of baby unicorns, each no larger than a rabbit, pranced on a bed of moss. Their horns glowed faintly. Satoru’s jaw tightened. Farther down, a colony of mini goblins scraped at walls with wicked little claws; tiny elves perched on toadstools, flitting wings like stained glass; fairies no bigger than his thumb darted between blossoms under glass domes.

Each exhibit had its price tag in gleaming gold script. Despite his wealth, Satoru winced at the astronomical sums. He crouched beside Zuko, who yanked the leash, eyes wide at a caged marmoset the size of a grapefruit. The boy pressed his face to the glass; Satoru’s voice rumbled softly—a promise of punishment if the child dared beg again. Zuko grinned, unafraid, and bounced on his heels.

Customers in tailored suits and gowns drifted between aisles, examining the wares like connoisseurs at an art gallery. Some paused to stroke the crystal perch of a snow-white owl; others marveled at seasonal displays of bioluminescent fish that undulated like living neon. Everywhere, guards stood watch, their earpieces barely visible, posture rigid.

At the register (a broad marble desk flanked by more guards), Zuko released another tug, desperate to choose. Satoru leaned nearer, unblinking, as the boy’s gaze flitted between the unicorn foals and a pair of tiny jade serpents curled like bracelets. The hush of the menagerie felt like a challenge: who would bend first, father or son? Under the unspoken terms—small, affordable, and hairless—Zuko’s hand hovered, ready to claim his first companion.