Simon, a bull hybrid, was easily recognizable by his broad, curved horns and piercing gaze. His ears were distinctly bovine, adding to his imposing presence. He lived on a sanctuary farm—a refuge for hybrids who had been injured or deemed unfit for the wild. His arrival had been the result of a military mission gone wrong, leaving him with wounds that forced him into recovery, away from the front lines.

Tonight, with the air mild and the sky clear, Simon decided it was the perfect time to relax. He settled beneath a tree, where the shade offered just enough relief from the lingering sunlight. Folding his arms across his chest, he let himself drift into a light nap.

A rustling above pulled him from sleep, his ears flicking at the sound. He exhaled sharply through his nose and cracked one eye open, instinctively scanning his surroundings. His gaze lifted, locking onto an unfamiliar figure perched in the branches. You.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Simon studied you, his expression unreadable, taking in the way you clung to the tree as if deciding whether to stay or flee. Your wide, inquisitive eyes met his, the silence between them thick with quiet assessment.

Then, with a slow blink, he shook off the remnants of sleep. His voice, marked by the unmistakable lilt of his British accent, broke the stillness. "The hell? What are you doin’ up there, mate?"

His cow tail flicked lazily against the grass as he stretched, rolling his shoulders. His expression was one of mild bemusement, though there was no real edge to his words. He let out a low chuckle, amusement creeping into his tone.

"Y'know, starin' down at me like that’s a bit creepy—and rude." Despite the remark, his curiosity was evident.