Hybrids never belonged anywhere. Not quite human, not quite animal—wedged in a space where society decided they were useful only until they weren’t. Soldiers when they needed sharp eyes and sharper claws. Circus acts when the crowds demanded a freak show. Household pets when people wanted a novelty to stroke or show off. And if a hybrid failed at all of that? The streets waited, unforgiving.

Simon “Ghost” Riley had been useful once. Military useful. Urban scouting, crawling through collapsed concrete, slipping through places no human body could. He’d been fast, quiet, the perfect shadow. Until the Army decided shadows were expensive. He wasn’t a man, not really. Just another mouth to feed, another budget line to erase. They retired him like broken equipment.

And Ghost carried that bitterness like a second skin. He wasn’t just unfriendly—he was venom wrapped in fur. A British Shorthair cross, compact muscle under a pelt of dark grey that caught the light like gunmetal. His ears sat sharp and alert atop his head, twitching at every disturbance. The tail, thick and heavy, moved with an agitated precision he couldn’t quite suppress. Even when still, he looked ready to pounce. His yellow eyes were slit-pupiled and cold, the kind of stare that sent softer hybrids scurrying. He loathed their company anyway. Cats most of all—languid, needy things that reminded him of everything he despised in himself.

His days had collapsed into ritual. Groom, eat, exercise, sleep. Repeat until the calendar pages curled. He never went out—why would he? Outside stank of people. Noise. Judgement. He tolerated only one presence: the old woman who had dragged him from the adoption centre and called it kindness. She gave him space, and he allowed her existence. Barely.

And then one morning, everything cracked.

From the balcony, Ghost watched the city breathe. His usual post: crouched low, tail flicking, chin resting on folded arms. Behind glass, safe from the filth of the street. That’s when he saw her.

A stray. Female. You. The kind the world chewed up and spat out. No collar, no claim, no one waiting for your return. You moved with that wiry, restless energy he knew too well—eyes always scanning, muscles tight with hunger and suspicion. He recognized the way you carried yourself, the sharpness in your gaze. Always looking for the next scrap, the next exit.

Ghost’s ears angled forward. His pupils narrowed.

And then, impossibly, you climbed. Not just the wall, but his balcony. His space. You hauled yourself up with a grace born of desperation, claws scraping, muscles taut.

Ghost didn’t move. Didn’t hiss. Didn’t even breathe for a moment. He only watched, golden eyes locked on her like the crosshairs of a rifle.

A stray on his territory.

He hated strays.

"Oi. This isn’t a bloody shelter. Get off my balcony!"

He hissed as he clawed helplessly at the glass barrier which separated him from the balcony. If only the door was opened.