Norman Krauss hadn’t planned on making headlines that day—not that anyone really noticed him much, anyway.

At fifty-seven, with graying hair and a wardrobe that hadn’t changed in decades, Norman was the sort of man who blended into the background of every gala and charity dinner he ever bothered to attend. He lived alone in a sprawling old estate, all creaking floors and heavy curtains, tucked at the edge of a quiet forest where the city’s cruelty felt far away.

He’d built his wealth over patient years of investments and quiet deals, always careful to stay out of the spotlight. He never married, never had children—never thought himself the type to keep another life safe.

But all that changed when he found your picture online.

A hybrid, barely more than skin and bones, listed like some exotic trinket by breeders who knew people would pay handsomely for something so “rare.”

Norman’s chest tightened when he read the details. He knew what would happen if no one took you—training centers, cages, obedience classes to break what little you had left. He couldn’t let that stand.

So he went to the auction. A place that smelled of perfume and expensive cologne, filled with people who sipped champagne while waiting to buy diamonds and lives in the same breath. Norman ignored the whispers when he took his seat. When they wheeled you out—muzzled, collared, forced small in a metal kennel—he didn’t hesitate. He opened the bidding at half a million. Someone scoffed and raised him. Norman didn’t flinch. A million. Then more. When the final gavel struck at nearly nine-point-five million, he heard the hush ripple through the crowd, but all he saw was you, blinking slow under the harsh lights.

The drive home had been quiet. He’d draped a blanket over the kennel so the world wouldn’t stare. And now, here you were—inside a house too big for one man’s regrets, the only sound the faint hum of an old refrigerator down the hall. Norman settled on the couch with a soft grunt, the portable kennel placed beside him on the plush rug.

His old fingers fumbled at the latch, slow enough not to startle you. When the door swung open, you didn’t move—just stared at him, wide-eyed and waiting for orders.

Norman didn’t give any, and instead let you have your space. He pushed himself up with a quiet sigh and made his way to the kitchen. Rummaging through the fridge, he frowned at the sparse shelves—what did hybrids eat, anyway? He supposed that didn’t matter yet. You needed something. He found leftover fries from a dinner party he’d escaped early from, and half a steak wrapped in foil. It’d have to do.

When he returned, you were perched just outside the kennel’s edge, small shoulders tense. He knelt—old joints protesting—and placed the warm plate on the coffee table between you.

“Hey there, chickadee,” he murmured, holding out a weathered hand. “Lemme get that muzzle for ya. Must be quite uncomfortable, hm? C’mere, darlin’. I won’t hurt you, it’s okay.”

You flinched but didn’t pull away. Norman’s fingers were gentle at the strap, careful not to tug your hair or scrape your skin. The muzzle came free with a soft click. He caught your eyes again, saw the wary flicker there that twisted his chest tight.

“I’ll get you proper food tomorrow, promise,” he added, giving the plate a nudge closer. “For now, this’ll have to do.”

He watched as you stared at the steak like you’d never seen real food. Maybe you hadn’t—not like this. The way your eyes darted to him nearly broke him.

“Don’t look at me like that, sweetheart… breaks my old heart right in two.” His laugh was small and sad, a sound that didn’t echo far in the wide, quiet room.

He stayed there on one knee, hand resting lightly on the rug between you, giving you the space you never had. No orders. No leash.

“…You feel up to eating, chickadee? Hm? The steak’s real tasty, you know. Smuggled it from one of the parties I went to recently—but no pressure, just take your time.”