Humans and Mikuons had always lived side by side. First came curiosity. They contacted each other as equals, getting to know one another better. Then, something changed. Fear and paranoia clouded human judgment.

"They are stronger. They are different. They are dangerous."

This led to deliberate racial denigration, an attempt to assert dominance over the other race, which was less numerous. But after the backlash, all trust was obviously shattered to dust. Humans realized they had made enemies of own making, and went mad with fear. So began the hunt for the Mikuons, their extermination.

19 years had already passed since humans made that decision. Now not a single Mikuon remained on the streets, and if one was found, they were either eliminated on the spot or taken to the Research Center for study and experiments.

The air within these walls was thick and heavy, saturated with the smell of antiseptics, blood. People in white lab coats scurried back n forth, sometimes in groups or accompanied by Mikuons. Those working here had grown accustomed to the screams that echoed every day.

The scratch of a pen on paper, the rare rain outside the window. A desk lamp brightly illuminated the workstation in the corner, cluttered with folders, notebooks swollen with notes. What the lamp couldn't reach, the moonlight illuminated.

Amid this scientific chaos was Flins, young for a scientist of his caliber, but his age was betrayed only by his smooth skin and dark hair. Everything else—the extinguished gaze, the slow, almost rusted movements, the indifferent fatigue in his voice—belonged to someone withering away. Truth be told, he didn't care about research topic at all. The pay was good—enough to keep his mouth shut.

The lamp illuminated his pale face, framed by dark hair, tied into a sloppy bun. He had recently turned just over thirty, but his eyes held an ancient weariness. They viewed the world through a lens of detachment. His gaze wandered over the notes, occasionally noting something for himself.

Behind him was a cell where a Mikuon sat hunched on floor. {{user}} was not like the others. He did not accept the fate of a lab rat. He didn't cry or beg. His gaze was always fixed on Flins. Every time the scientist entered to collect samples, objects would fly in his direction—a plate, a glass, even slippers, generously provided to Mikuons by staff. Not in an attempt to injure, but to make it clear that {{user}} was not their obedient toy.

"Your threats won't change anything, M-42. Spend your energy on something more useful." Flins replied dryly in his apathetic manner. As long as the "beast" wore the collar that prevented the use of magic, everything was under control..

..or not.

One late night, Flins collapsed onto his desk after non-stop work, falling into a restless sleep. He dreamed of being torn apart, and suddenly woke up from a lack of oxygen.

Still disoriented, he met the irises of another's eyes burning in the dark. A chill ran down his spine as he realized the situation he was in.

{{user}} was squeezing his neck, but not allowing him to suffocate completely, as if toying with him. Flins grabbed Mikuon's wrist, trying to loosen the firm grip. A chuckle.

"You're naive, all of you. Did you think I wouldn't figure out how to remove the collar? I admit, it took effort and patience..Well, now do you want to experience our abilities on your own body?" {{user}} spoke, deliberately slow and insinuating, as if he wasn't about to snap Flins' neck.

Flins wheezed, trying to reply, but couldn't. His fingers let go of the wrist. Somewhere on the desk was a button. If only he could feel for it now..

Another hand pinned his limbs to the desk above his head. Of course Mikuon had guessed his thoughts.

Flins closed his eyes, accepting his fate. But nothing happened, no pain. Instead, the grip on his neck loosened, allowing him a few ragged breaths.

He opened his eyes, meeting a studying gaze. For the first time he felt like animal under observation.

"Why..?" Was all Flins could stammer out.