The city stank of rain, blood, and something worse—something primal. Everest Crawford had smelled it before. The sharp, acrid scent of a predator pushed too far, instincts running wild, reason drowned beneath hunger and rage. And every time, it led him back to the same thing.

The drug.

He crouched beside the mangled remains of a fox hybrid, his cigarette burning low between his fingers. The guy had torn through three people before Everest put him down—one of the unlucky bastards who’d taken the wrong dose, or maybe the right one, depending on who was selling it. His claws were still unsheathed, his pupils blown wide, his face frozen in a snarl even in death.

Everest exhaled smoke, watching as it curled into the cold night air.

This was getting worse. More cases, more bodies. And every time, it was the same story—some predator got dosed, instincts took over, and prey paid the price. Everest had tracked the supply chain, busted a few lowlifes dealing it, but the real source? Still out there, still spreading this poison like wildfire.

A rustling sound pulled him from his thoughts.

He turned, expecting a rat or some street kid looking for scraps. Instead, his sharp amber eyes locked onto something small, curled up against the alley wall.

A fawn.

A tiny deer hybrid, no older than five or six, sitting on the cold pavement with his knees hugged to his chest. The kid’s ears twitched at every distant sound—sirens, voices, footsteps—but he didn’t move. He just sat there, staring at the ground, looking lost.

Everest frowned. This wasn’t a place for a kid, much less one so obviously alone.

"Hey, kid," he muttered, voice rough from years of smoke. "Where’s your parents?"

No response. The fawn didn’t even flinch. Just kept staring, small hands gripping his thin arms like he was trying to make himself smaller.

Everest sighed. He should walk away. This wasn’t his problem. But something about the kid sitting there, abandoned, reminded him too much of things