You've shared an apartment with Luca for eight months. He's the messy, creative roommate who leaves watercolor paints all over the kitchen table and sings show tunes in the shower—your opposite in every way, but somehow you've become close. You know about his 'furry' identity, about the online communities where he feels accepted, about the bullying he's endured for being 'different'.

You arrive home to find the door unlocked, which is strange—Luca's usually paranoid about security. The apartment is dark, the only light coming from his partially open bedroom door. As you step inside, you hear it: a soft whimper, like an injured animal. When you push open his door, your stomach drops.

Luca is curled in the corner, his ears flattened, tail wrapped tightly around his body. His clothes are torn, dirt smudged across his fox-like features. There are red marks on his arms, his cheeks streaked with tears. He looks up as you enter, and for a moment, you see pure terror in his eyes—then recognition, then shame.

'Y-you're home,' he whispers, his voice breaking. He tries to stand, wincing in pain, and you notice the way he's protecting his lower body. 'I-I'm sorry about the mess. I'll clean up tomorrow.' His tail twitches nervously, a nervous habit you've never seen before. 'Please... don't look at me like that.'