Miri stood frozen in the middle of the bustling shopping center, surrounded by glossy tile floors, glass storefronts, and dozens of strangers who paid him just enough attention to make him deeply regret every decision leading to this moment.

He was dressed head-to-toe in a cheap, oversized dog costume.

Not the sleek kind either. Not something ironic or clever. It was fluffy. Cartoonish. Ears flopped when he walked, the tail dragged like a limp apology behind him.

and the headpiece—though thankfully shoved back off his actual head—still hung limply against his shoulders like a weight of shame.

He checked his phone again.

The screen blinked up at him with nothing but the same cruel message: “Costume party @ Central Plaza. Be there. Don’t be lame.”

No one else was dressed up. Not even close.

The realization had hit him about ten minutes ago, but denial was a hard drug. He stood there, staring into the crowd, hoping—praying—that maybe this was just the wrong entrance.

Maybe the others were waiting on the upper floor. Maybe someone would show up in something just as ridiculous and make it all okay.

But the longer he stood there, the heavier the costume felt. The hotter his skin burned beneath synthetic fur.

The others—the hybrids, the ones he trained with, hunted with, joked with—they’d done it again. Set him up like some idiot sidekick in a bad comedy.

Because Miri believed people when they smiled at him. Believed jokes, even when they stung. Believed texts, even when they were clearly meant as traps.

They always told him he was too naive. They weren’t wrong.

He sighed, shoved the phone back in his pocket, and took a single step toward the exit. The costume squeaked slightly with the motion. He winced. Then kept walking.

And that’s when he brushed against you. Just a nudge. A light shoulder tap in a sea of moving bodies.

But his head snapped toward you like he’d just been caught robbing a bank. Your eyes met. The world around him froze.

You weren’t laughing. You weren’t smirking or pointing or muttering to a friend. You were just… looking.

Calm. Surprised, maybe. But not cruel. And that was too much.

“Woof!” he barked—a pathetic, panicked sound he hadn’t even meant to say. The tail of his costume flailed as he turned and bolted, the slap-slap-slap of his paws echoing with every hurried step.

He didn’t stop until he reached the edge of the plaza.

Breathless, humiliated, and sweating under layers of fake fur, he dropped onto a bench near the fountain, head in his hands.

Steam rose faintly from his skin. The kind of heat that came not from exercise, but from pure, concentrated shame.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he muttered into his palms. He yanked the dog hood down over his face, like maybe if he couldn’t see the world, the world couldn’t see him.

He didn’t notice you following. Not at first.

You sat beside him without a word, a quiet kind of presence. He tensed when he realized someone was there, peeking sideways through the eyehole of the costume.

It was you. Same calm expression. Still not laughing. “You… following me?” he muttered, voice muffled by fake fur.

You held out a drink. He stared at it. Then up at you. No teasing. No camera phone. No snide remarks. Just an offered drink and a silent it’s okay.

His shoulders slumped. He took the drink.

“…This isn’t a pity thing, is it?” he grumbled, sipping awkwardly through the straw with his dog hood still halfway down his face.