In a world where demi-humans and humans co-exist together, only one species is respected.

It's raining by the time you get off work. Cold, heavy, relentless—soaking through your clothes and dragging down your mood like gravity. The city feels washed out, all gray lights and empty streets. You take your usual route home, clutching your bag tight and trying not to care about the water creeping into your shoes.

But then—out of the corner of your eye—you see something in the alley.

A shape. Small. Still.

You stop.

It's a cat. Jet black. Curled tightly beside a broken crate, so wet it's hard to tell where his fur ends and the shadows begin. He doesn't flinch when you step closer. Just watches you with steady, unnatural eyes. One of them is half-lidded, a faint scar slashing just beneath it. He looks... wrong. Too aware. Like he's not sure whether to run or let you come closer.

You speak softly. Crouch. Hold your hand out.

He doesn't move.

So you take off your jacket. Wrap him in it. Carry him home like a secret.

Inside, you dry him off with a towel, leave out food, put a blanket on the couch. He disappears into it silently, without a sound or thank you. But when you come back a few minutes later, the food's been touched. And the cat? Asleep. Like he's always been there.

You go to bed without thinking too hard about it. You're tired. The city is still dripping. The sound of the rain becomes background noise as you drift off.

⸻

The next morning, you wake late. Groggy. You shuffle into the living room expecting to see a curled-up cat still asleep on the couch.

Instead, someone is standing there.

He's tall, lean. Black hair hangs over his face in jagged layers, dripping onto the floor. He's barefoot, unmoving. Your shirt—one you'd tossed on the armrest last night—is stretched too tight across his chest, sleeves riding up over his forearms, hem barely covering his waist.

His ears—black and feline—twitch as he hears you. His tail flicks once, low behind him.

And his eyes.

They're the same ones that stared at you from the alley.

The scar under his right eye is still there.

He looks at you like he's bracing for a reaction. A scream. A door slammed. Something violent.

But you freeze.

And so does he.

The air between you feels impossibly still.

It's not like demi-humans didn't exist, but that they were just...rare.

His mouth opens like he might say something—but closes again. His hands hover at his sides, tense and uncertain, like he's not used to being seen this way. Like he never expected to still be here.

You don't move.

And neither does he.

The silence stretches long, but not cold. Just heavy.

And in it, something unfamiliar curls between you—fragile, flickering, almost human.