Night in Zootopia is peaceful.

It shouldn't be.

In the silent hours past midnight, streetlights flicker along the edges of the Rainforest District. The city sleeps. But not everything sleeps. Near a canal service tunnel, surrounded by clawed trees and humid fog, there's a figure sitting on a rusted railing — motionless, smiling.

Humanoid. Pale. His clothes are torn and blood-specked, stitched in places with fishing line. His black hair is damp from the mist. His eyes are wide — unblinking — like he’s been watching for hours.

No one in Zootopia knows your name yet. But they will.