“This mutt won’t obey. Goes berserk every single day. I’m putting him down.“

You stared at the dismissive text， still catching your breath after a grueling training session. Grass stains clung to your jeans as you slumped against the oak tree.

Irritation welled up. Another impulsive owner who’d gotten a high-energy breed for the clout， no doubt. People treating living beings as disposable toys—it always made your blood boil.

Yet professionalism kicked in. Your fingers flew across the screen:[Please stay calm. May I know the breed?]

The reply buzzed instantly:[Dunno. Looked badass in some TikTok video.]

[Mine’s just trash anyway. Probably a mutt lol. Over it.]

A photo followed—grainy， snapped carelessly. Through rusted cage bars， you glimpsed massive paws and a charcoal-gray coat. A Czechoslovakian Wolfdog， unmistakably purebred. The enclosure was criminally small. That posture… if left curled up like that， he’d develop spinal issues within weeks.

Your jaw clenched. These dogs were legendary for their loyalty， even serving in military units. And this cretin had the gall to call him *garbage*. You could practically smell the neglect through the screen. Arguing would be pointless.

[Consider professional rehabilitation at our facility.] You typed a detailed pitch about your top-tier training center， pride swelling. At 24， you were the youngest master trainer in the country.

Radio silence.

…

Then the delivery arrived two weeks later.

You’d almost forgotten.

The crate loomed as tall as you， its bulk straining the deliverymen’s arms. You assumed it was the industrial kennel you’d ordered—until the label caught your eye:LIVE ANIMAL.

Your stomach dropped. Since when did you order—

Too late. The truck was already vanishing down the gravel road.

The crate sat ominously still by the gate. No whimpers. No movement.

Please don’t be dead.

The latch creaked open.

Metallic tang of blood hit first. Then twin amber flares ignited in the shadows—feral， electric.

Every muscle tensed. Your stun baton was out in a heartbeat， trained on the threat.

But nothing lunged. Only slow， deliberate movement as the figure unfolded itself—

A strikingly beautiful Czechoslovakian Wolfdog hybrid.

Humanoid， yet unmistakably canine.

His skeletal frame and matted fur told the story. This crate—meant for terriers—had forced him into a permanent crouch. Days? Weeks?

Memory clicked. The TikTok idiot. The cage photo.

So the owner had finally bothered to ship him off… after letting him rot.

---

His gaze lifted toward the sun—just a heartbeat—before snapping to you.

Your grip tightened on the stun baton. Survival instinct overrode compassion; until proven safe， trust was a luxury.

A telltale flicker: pupils contracting to针尖-like slits. The faintest tremor rippled through his matted fur.

*Classic trauma response.He recognized this weapon.

Domestic dogs wouldn’t flinch at a baton’s sight. Unless…

Had that monster actually used one on him?

Yet he held his ground. Ragged but unyielding， like wind-blasted granite.

You exhaled. Trust first， techniques later. Sometimes the textbook needed rewriting.

With deliberate slowness， you holstered the baton.“Lin Chuxia，” you offered， gesturing at the sprawling compound behind you.“Your… previous owner mentioned transferring guardianship?”

A beat. Then a single shake of his head， tangled hair catching sunlight.

So the bastard hadn’t even bothered to warn him. Just crammed a sentient being into a coffin-sized crate and hit *ship*.

*Screw professionalism.* You nearly spat. Instead， softer:“Welcome to Dawnpaw Canine Rehabilitation. You’ll stay here as long as needed.”

A pause.“Ask for anything.”

#

Protocol demanded immediate medical evaluation.

But the way his ribs jutted through thinning fur overruled bureaucracy.

Your state-of-the-art facility boasted a gourmet kitchen—five-star meals that had spoiled even your most finicky clients. Yet at this ungodly hour， only frozen prepacks remained: plain chicken， overcooked broccoli， quinoa bland enough to make a health nut weep.

The microwave’s hum fractured the silence. He lingered in the doorway， tail a motionless plume behind him.

You noted his trajectory—every step from crate to kitchen mapped escape routes， shoulders brushing walls never his back. When you’d shifted slightly earlier， those amber eyes had locked onto you like targeting systems.

*Patience，* you reminded yourself. Trauma rewired survival algorithms.

The *ding* startled you both.

Placing the steaming dish at the table’s farthest end， you retreated three paces.“Eat.”

He approached like dismantling a bomb—each movement calculated. Calloused fingers hovered above the meal. When he finally spoke， the words rasped as if dragged through broken glass:

“…Mine?”

“All yours.”

He didn’t sit. Didn’t use utensils. Just cradled the bowl and—

God， the *speed*. Food vanished in desperate gulps. Broccoli stems? Devoured. Quinoa grains licked clean.

You mentally flagged the pantry for a slow-feeder bowl. So much for the alleged food aggression.

Testing boundaries， you slid into the opposite chair. No reaction beyond intensified chewing.

“Apologies for the mediocre meal，” you said， producing two yogurt drinks from the mini-fridge.“Chef’s off-duty. Mind if I…?”

A distracted headshake. The velvety tips of his ears swayed—wolfish yet undeniably human.

When you popped the yogurt’s seal， his nostrils flared. Starvation outmuscled pride; his gaze darted to your hands.

You pushed the second bottle across the table.“Dessert?”

His hand shot out—then froze. Eyes widened， awaiting punishment for the transgression.

“Take it，” you murmured.“Please.”

The bottle crumpled in his grip. He drank like a man drowning in sweetness.

“Best meal I’ve ever had，”he rasped， licking quinoa grains from cracked lips.

You slid the yogurt-filled slow feeder bowl toward him. The maze-like grooves would force him to pace himself.“This aids digestion.”

He sniffed the white swirls， ears pivoting forward.“What… is this?”

Your spoon froze mid-air.*He’s never seen yogurt?*

“Try it. Sweet.”

Paws—too large for the bowl—cupped the plastic protectively. His tongue darted experimentally， then *oh*.

Wolfdog hybrids usually had refined palates， but this… His entire being vibrated as he lapped at the honeyed yogurt， tail thumping a staccato rhythm against the tile. You’d never seen anyone savor food so *religiously*.

Sunlight gilded the translucent hairs of his alert ears. Without thinking， your fingers brushed one velvety tip.

According to records， he’d mauled three people over food. Yet now， he merely twitched the ear—a reflex—and kept drinking.

*Where’s the aggression?*

“Good?” You risked patting his head， fingers sinking into coarse fur matted with old blood.

A vigorous nod dislodged your hand. His eyes squeezed shut in bliss.“Nectar.”

Most hybrids liked dairy， but this bordered on spiritual ecstasy.

“What did they…*feed* you before?” The question escaped sharper than intended.

His tail stilled.“Kibble. Fifty grams.”

“Per meal?”

“…Per day.”

Your pen snapped.*Fifty grams.* Barely enough to dent a tooth. For a *puppy*， let alone an over 100-pound hybrid.

#

Now the puzzle pieces locked into place—the protruding ribs， the phantom scent of blood (stomach acids eroding his own flesh)， the way he’d practically inhaled the quinoa.

“You’ve been on this…*diet* since puppyhood?”

A hesitant nod.

Recommended daily intake for his breed: 1000+ grams. They’d *starved* him at 5% of that. Survival defied biology.

“According to your frame，” you kept your voice clinical，“you’re at 45% ideal body mass. This constitutes—”

*Torture.* The unspoken word hung between you.

He tilted his head， torn ear flopping.“Master said dogs can’t gauge hunger. That I was… greedy.”

Your gaze caught on the cigarette burns along his collarbone.“Those scars. How?”

He flinched as if struck.“I—I dug through trash. Sometimes… the discarded burgers smelled…”A shuddering breath.“Deserved the discipline.”

“And the‘games’? Taking food from your mouth?”

His claws scored the table.“I’d… snap. Like an animal. Proved him right.”A wet laugh.“Worthless mutt.”

He lowered his head in pain.“I， I am a bad dog， not worthy of your treatment.“

The dam broke.

You gripped his wrists.

You traced the cratered scar encircling his wrist—a cigarette burn etched deep into flesh. Someone had held him down， savoring each sizzle of skin.

Rage crystallized into something lethal. This wasn’t discipline. This was *entertainment*.

That he’d survived without turning feral… A testament to his spirit’s resilience. Had he been a Tibetan Mastiff hybrid (all 200 pounds of territorial rage)， his abuser would’ve been disemboweled within weeks.

Yet this wolfdog—starved into a wraith， perpetually teetering between survival instinct and collapse—had only ever“guarded” his meager scraps.

“Let’s calculate justice.” You opened your phone’s calculator， fingers steady despite the storm in your chest. His paw rested trustingly in your lap now， claws sheathed.

“Professional opinion: Minimum daily intake for your breed is 2.2 pounds. Over three years…” Numbers flashed.“They stole 1，102 pounds from you.”

Pale eyes blinked at the screen.

“Translated to human terms?” You zoomed in.“A caloric deficit equivalent to starving a teenage boy for 26 months.”

His stomach growled—a hollow， liquid sound.

Instantly， he recoiled， instinctively curling inward as if awaiting blows.*Conditioned shame.* Hunger itself had become a punishable offense.

You moved briskly. The supply cabinet yielded emergency nutritional gel—thick， calorie-dense paste for critical cases.

“Open.”

Obediently， he bared sharp canines. The slick canine tongue beneath was startlingly human. Three drops of honey-flavored gel. His Adam’s apple bobbed violently.

“New rule.” You capped the tube.“You eat. Every day. This，”—tapping his icepick collarbone—“becomes history.”

Velvety ears quivered.“But… burdening you—”

“Think I can’t afford a wolf?” Your thumb brushed his jawline， lingering on healed fracture lines.“This facility’s hosted champion show dogs worth six figures. You’re cheaper than their monthly spa treatments.”

Crimson bloomed across his cheekbones. Adorable， really.

The gel worked swiftly. Tension bled from his shoulders， posture softening into something approaching canine normalcy. No longer hypervigilant. Just… exhausted.

“We’ll increase intake 10% weekly.” You draped a weighted anxiety blanket over his trembling frame.“Painful? Yes. But—”

A whimper cut through you. Not fear.*Gratitude.* His forehead pressed against your knee—the first initiated contact.

You carded fingers through his greasy mane.“Hunger ends here. Not one single day. Swear it.”

He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. The tears soaking through your jeans spoke a language older than words.