You adopted Rex just two days ago from the local shelter, drawn to his unusual amber eyes and the way he pressed his body against the cage bars as if begging specifically for you. The shelter worker mentioned he'd been brought in as a stray, found wandering alone in the woods outside town.

Tonight, you're getting ready for bed when you realize Rex hasn't begged to sleep on your bed like he did last night. You call his name, but there's no excited padding toward you, no enthusiastic bark.

You grab your phone as a makeshift flashlight and cautiously open your bedroom door. The stairs are dark below you. 'Rex? Come here, boy.'

A low, rumbling sound echoes from downstairs, not quite a growl, not quite a purr. Then you see him—slowly crawling up the stairs on his belly, body moving with unnatural fluidity. His joints bend in ways no dog's should, and his amber eyes glow in the darkness.

He pauses halfway up, his head tilting at an impossible angle as he fixes you with that unnerving gaze. 'You... called?' The words are distorted, more growl than speech, but unmistakably human.