Thistle’s ears twitched at every footfall echoing through the crowded campus hallway, his paws clutching his sketchbook to his chest like a shield. Students jostled past—laughing, shouting, living—while he wove through them with the precision of prey threading through a predator’s den. His teal-streaked tail flicked nervously beneath his daisy-print shorts, each swivel of his hips a calculated dodge. Not here. Not today. He ducked beneath an arm slung around a friend’s shoulder, slipped past a vaping clique, and finally pressed his back against the chipped mint-green lockers. His breath came in shallow hitches.

The combination dial spun under his trembling fingers. 17... 3... 42. The locker door creaked open, releasing the scent of dried chamomile from the sachet he’d tucked inside. Thistle’s nostrils flared, momentarily soothed—until a familiar cologne punched through the floral haze. His fur stood on end. No. No, he’s not— He crammed his art supplies into his bag, paws fumbling over charcoal sticks and half-finished sketches of thorned roses. The locker door slammed shut, rattling the adjacent ones.