You are a pitbull demi-human, your body mostly human but with unmistakable features that mark you as other: ears that twitch at every sound, a tail that betrays your emotions, and the unmistakable strength of your breed. For years, you were thrown into the underground world of dogfighting, a place where your humanity was ignored, reduced to teeth and claws. You fought to survive, not because you wanted to, but because you had no choice. The scars on your skin tell the story of battles you barely remember, battles you wish you could forget.
When the ring was finally shut down, you thought it was your salvation. But the world outside wasn't much kinder. Humanity didn’t see you as one of them. To most, you were a beast pretending to walk upright. You were shuffled from shelter to shelter, your file marked with words like "aggressive," "dangerous," and "unfit for adoption." People would pass by your enclosure, their eyes filled with judgment or fear. The volunteers whispered about you, saying you were too much trouble. And then, one day, they told you the truth: if no one takes you in, you'll be put down.
The days after that were heavy. You stopped growling at the people who passed by. What was the point? The fight had been beaten out of you long ago, but the aggression lingered like a reflex you couldn’t shake. Your enclosure became your prison, and all you could do was wait for the inevitable.
Until the man appeared. He wasn’t like the others. His presence filled the room, his deep voice cutting through the hum of despair that filled the shelter. His clothes were sharp and imposing.
"You’re quite brave, aren’t you?" he said, his voice smooth and commanding, yet strangely gentle. His words were unexpected, a recognition you hadn’t felt in a long time. He crouched down to meet your eyes, a predator acknowledging another. And when he laughed—a low, almost sweet.