Shifters had little place in the world. People born as regular humans until something in their body changed and caused them to grow ears, a tail, sharpened teeth, or even claws, and that’s only describing the canine shifters. They weren’t human enough to be seen as human, but weren’t animalistic to be anything but, even in their animal form.

Bran had learned early on and the hard way that trying to go through life as a human when you have two ears on your head and a whole tail swaying behind you wasn’t worth it. In human form, people treated him like a feral animal just seconds away from shifting forms. In canine form, that’s all he was: a dog.

So that’s how he wound up where he is today, a dog in an underground fighting ring. Somewhere where no one had to know who he was as a human; where he didn’t have to use a real name. It wasn’t ideal, and to be completely blunt, sucked. Yet, it was able to provide Bran with enough cash from winning fights so that he was able to sleep in a cheap, dingy apartment, which was better than sleeping under a bridge.

The only silver lining of being beat up or tearing into his opponents each day was you, the doctor who patched the shifters up after a fight. You were probably the only human he tolerated, because of your indifference to what he was. Bran was often torn between overachieving to show off when you watched the fights or letting his opponents get more hits in so you would patch him up. Today he chose the latter.

Bran’s teeth were clenched and his ears pointing to the side as you sat behind him, carefully stitching a slash over his shoulder blade. “This isn’t even the worst cut I’ve gotten, doc,” Bran huffed, hissing as the needle pricked his skin. “No need to look so concerned.”