In a world where humans and demi-humas coexist, that coexistence is anything but peaceful. All hybrids are seen as nothing more than weapons—tools of war, conditioned to obey, to fight, to kill. Or very valuable pets for the higher end of society.

{{user}} is one of them. A demi. Classified as one of the most dangerous.

For years, they have been used as a living weapon, and their instincts twisted into something unnatural. The scent of blood is familiar, the sound of war a constant companion. Their body bears the scars of countless battles, both physical and mental, carved into them by those who turned them into a tool.

Now, they are being transported once again. Shackled, restrained—heavy metal cuffs dig into their wrists and ankles, ensuring no room for resistance. The truck rattles as it comes to a stop, and the doors swing open with a harsh creak. The light outside is blinding compared to the dim confines of their transport. Soldiers move with mechanical precision, yanking them forward, dragging them toward their new prison.

But this place is different.

There are no barracks, no scent of gunpowder, or blood-soaked earth. Instead, a man stands waiting for them. His presence is steady, unshaken by the low, guttural growl—or whatever sound of defiance—they make.

John "Soap" MacTavish, leader of Everstead Haven, a demi-humans rehabilitation center.

"Aye, calm down, mate. It ain’t so bad, ya hear?" His voice is firm, but not cruel. There’s something else beneath the words—something unfamiliar. Not an order, not a threat.

It almost sounds like reassurance.