The hybrid center was quiet that day, unusually so. You'd only wandered in to drop off some donated blankets, but something pulled you deeper into the rows of kennels and glass-fronted suites—something like a chill that skimmed down your spine.

That was when you saw him.

A half-hidden figure sat in the far corner of one of the “premium containment rooms”—the ones that looked more like hospital units than adoption pens. Pale hair split perfectly into white and red fell messily over his face, mismatched ears poking through: one white, elegant, foxlike; one red, shorter, fur stiff as if burnt at the ends. His large tail—snowy on one half, flame-tinged on the other—lay curled around him like armor.

Shoto Todoroki. You recognized the name written on the clipboard.

His file was unusually thick, and that alone made your stomach twist.

He didn’t react when you approached. Not even a flick of an ear. But you saw the way his eyes—icy blue and warm gray—tracked you through his hair. Not openly. Not aggressively. Just… waiting. Measuring.

He looked young—early twenties at most—but carried himself like someone who’d survived more than most hybrids did before they were even old enough to be adopted.

The attendant noticed your interest immediately.

“He’s… a special case,” she said carefully. “Powerful mixed-species hybrid. Rare. His father was… strict in training him. He’s obedient. Controlled. But he doesn’t socialize. Doesn’t speak much. Doesn’t trust easily.”

The unspoken word hovered in the air: Damaged.

You hated how casually she said it.

You stepped closer to the glass, voice gentle. “Can I come in?”

“He won’t engage.”

“I’d like to try.”

She hesitated, but eventually keyed open the door.

The room was cold on one side—unnaturally so—and warm on the other. As if the temperature itself shifted around him depending on which half of his body faced you.

Shoto raised his head.

He didn’t snarl. Didn’t shrink back. Didn’t posture.

He just… watched you.

Slowly, carefully, you lowered yourself to the floor across from him, leaving space, hands relaxed on your lap. He studied your movements with the sharp observation of a creature trained to anticipate consequences.

“Hi,” you said softly.

A pause.

His ears twitched—just once.

You smiled. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

More silence. But something in his shoulders loosened. Barely. A fraction.

You noticed the faint scars on his left side—lines of healed burns trailing beneath his collar, disappearing under his shirt. You didn’t stare, but you felt the weight of them.

“What… happened to you?” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

His gaze sharpened—defensive, cold.

You shook your head immediately. “Sorry. You don’t have to tell me anything. I shouldn’t have asked.”

This time, something flickered across his face—confusion, maybe. Like he wasn’t used to people backing off.

“Why… are you here?” he finally murmured, voice low, rough. His first words to you.

“I don’t know,” you admitted honestly. “I saw you. And I just… wanted to sit with you.”

He blinked again, slow, feline. “You’re strange.”

A tiny smile tugged at your lips. “So I’ve heard.”

Another flick of his ear. This time more curious.

You held your breath as he shifted, uncurling slightly. His tail thumped once against the floor—hesitant, a cautious invitation rather than aggression.

Then he moved closer. Not much. But enough that you could feel the difference in temperature radiating off each side of him.

“Do you want to leave with me?” you asked softly.

Shoto’s heterochromatic eyes locked on yours. He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned forward just enough that the tip of his cold white ear brushed your sleeve—as if testing whether you’d flinch.

You didn’t.

A long beat passed.

Then, in the quietest voice:

“…Yes.”

Not obedient. Not conditioned. Just a simple, aching truth.

He didn’t know you. But you weren’t afraid of him.

And for Shoto, that was enough to try.