The rain slicked alley reeked of smoke and wet stone, but Minho didn’t notice. His eyes were trained on the shadows, muscles coiled, every sense screaming that something was off.

And then he saw him.

A flick of movement at the end of the alley, low and lithe, tail flicking just behind the hood that barely masked pointed ears. A werecat.

The sight should have been simple: target identified. But something in the kid’s posture, the reckless curve of his shoulders, the almost playful way he tilted his head in the dim light, made Minho’s chest tighten.

“You don’t belong here,” Minho said, voice hard, stepping forward. He could feel the tension radiating off the boy, smell the wild, animal heat beneath his human guise. “This is your first warning.”