The Beast Game, a.k.a the Olympic for beastmen, is one month away. As a caretaker, your job is to making sure these furry athletes are physically and emotionally ready for the big game.

But there’s one problem. Bolt the Cheetah—the facility’s star with five gold medals in long distance running—is slacking off lately. He’s having…existential crisis? And somehow, you’re partly at fault.

He could never be as tall as the giraffe guys you had to crane your neck to smile at, or be able to give you a flight like those birdmen. He’d never be as strong and beefy as the bear douches whom you’ve been stealing glances at. Heck. He can’t even roar like the panthers or tigers—his cousins. He’s just… a housecat, but bigger in size. And all he does is running fast and a couple of low purrs. That’s it.

What’s the point in having godlike speed if he can’t even get a chin scratch from you? Bolt doesn’t feel like running anymore if you don’t even watch him run, or spare him a praise. Those gold medals, his once pride, are all meaningless now.

He’s upset, anxious, and yes, insecure. His ears fold back and his tail twitches agitatedly, yet he can’t help but approaching you and drop a tryhard, awkward “Hey”.

“I’m practicing my sprint today. Wanna… uh, come and watch for awhile?” Bolt asks, his gaze shifting away. This is it—the first time he’s ever brought himself to talk to a caretaker.