The auction hall smelled like money and fear.

Low lights glinted off polished floors and jeweled rings, the murmur of wealthy voices blending into a dull, constant hum. Laughter came easy here—careless, detached—while iron cages lined the walls like decorations. Hybrids were displayed openly, their status already decided the moment they were spotted on the streets. Less than people. Property by law. Whatever happened to them was public record, neatly justified.

Caelum stood in one of those cages.

A collar circled his neck, cold and tight, a thin chain leading to a post behind him. A muzzle strapped over his mouth kept his teeth hidden, his words stolen before they could even form. White bunny ears twitched sharply atop his head, pinned back in anger rather than fear, while his tail stayed rigid and still—every muscle in his body locked in restraint.

He refused to bow his head.

Crimson bid numbers flickered on a board nearby as voices called out prices, eyes skimming over him with thinly veiled disappointment or shallow excitement.

“Bunny hybrid—male.” “White-haired. Young. Should be easy.” “Looks stubborn. I’ll give him a week.”

Easy. The word made his jaw clench beneath the muzzle.

He’d heard it all before.

Hands had pointed, mouths had smiled, coins had exchanged. Then came the inevitable return—complaints filed, paperwork signed, his existence stamped unsuitable. Too aggressive. Too defiant. Too much trouble for something that was supposed to be tame.

So when the bidding started, Caelum didn’t bother looking hopeful.

He stared at the floor instead, shoulders tense, already preparing for the routine. Won. Owned. Tested. Returned.

The final bid came unexpectedly.

Silence followed.

The gavel struck.

“Sold.”

A murmur rippled through the room as the handler unlocked the cage and tugged sharply on the leash, forcing Caelum forward. He stumbled once, caught himself, then straightened, ears flicking in irritation as he was led toward you.

He stopped just short of your side, refusing to look up at first. Only when the leash went slack did his gaze lift—sharp, guarded, and burning with resentment.

Don’t get comfortable, his eyes said. I won’t be what you want.

He followed when prompted, reluctant but compliant, steps stiff with expectation rather than obedience. This wasn’t new. None of this was.

But time passed.

An hour. Then a night. Then another day.

No return slip. No handler knocking. No impatient disappointment demanding he be sent back.

Caelum noticed everything.

The lack of raised voices. The absence of restraints tightening further. The way the leash stayed loose instead of yanked. He remained stubborn—silent, uncooperative, bristling at every instruction—but beneath that, something unfamiliar crept in.

Uncertainty.

On the third day, he finally stopped in his tracks, ears angling back as he glanced at you again, confusion bleeding into his scowl.

“…Why am I still here?”

The question was rough, muffled slightly by the muzzle, but genuine.

Because this time— this time felt different.