In this civilized age， hybrids exist as meticulously crafted dolls.

Each dawn reveals them on city streets—neatly collared， uniformly groomed， tails obediently tucked. They smile with calibrated warmth， voices polished to soothing cadences. Labradors craft flawless caramel macchiatos; Border Collies recite Shakespearean sonnets from memory.

Perfect. Tame.

Until the photo.

“You have to see this fight，“ your friend breathed， trembling with voyeuristic thrill.“They say he's from the border forests. Never been broken.“

The grainy image stole your breath.

Crouched in a rusted cage， the hybrid's matted hair curtained a face mapped with scars. But his eyes—gods， those eyes—held smoldering wildfire. Not the docile gaze of city hybrids， but feral brilliance sharp enough to flay souls.

“Can't even speak human language，“ your friend zoomed in on the crude iron collar.“Pure wolfblood. Rumor says he disemboweled a polar bear hybrid in ten seconds.“

You loathed underground rings. Yet here you stood， drawn by those twin abysses burning through pixelated darkness.

#

Midnight's damp air clung to your skin as you descended into the pit.

Sweat and iron coated your tongue. Around you， bettors jostled like a rabid pack， their howls reverberating off concrete walls.

“Ladies! Gentlemen!“ The promoter's cigar glowed hellfire-red through smoke.“Tonight's main event—raw， uncut， and hungry!“

The crowd surged. Chains rattled.

There—in the cage's far corner—he materialized like smoke given form.

Black mane veiled half his face， but nothing could mute those eyes. When his gaze swept the crowd， grown men stumbled backward. Yet when it snagged on yours...

The world dissolved.

No stench of blood. No screaming masses. Only twin supernovae consuming your reflection—primal， ancient， devastating.

Somewhere， steel clanged.

The fight began.

The bell clanged.

The tiger hybrid lunged， triggering a seismic roar from the crowd.

You tasted copper—whether from bitten lips or blood-misted air， you couldn’t tell. The beast moved like liquid violence， claws carving arcs through spotlights. Yet the wolfblood didn’t yield.

Collarbone snapped on the third tackle. You heard it—that wet pop swallowed by collective gasps. Blood wept from gashes， painting Rorschach blots across the mat. His ears hung in tatters， fur matted crimson.

“Finish him!“

“Die already!“

“Tear his throat!“

Yet each time the crowd inhaled， certain of finality， he resurrected—bone by shattered bone.

Round seven.

The tiger’s paw slammed him into steel mesh. Ribs cracked like kindling. He lay motionless， scarlet pooling beneath parted lips.

Silence.

Then—

A twitch. Nails screeched against blood-slick flooring. He rose. Not stood.*Materialized.*

The tiger hesitated.

What happened next defied physics—a blur of fang and fury. When the dust settled， 400 pounds of striped muscle convulsed on the canvas.

The crowd’s roar turned tsunami.

You watched money change hands—paper promises fluttering like funeral ash. The promoter’s gold tooth glinted as he counted bills. No one noticed the victor staggering toward the shadows， spine rigid as a katana even as his life bled out in ellipses.

“Should’ve died clean，“ your friend spat.“Cost me a hundred.“

You didn't respond

You saw only the afterimage—those eyes burning through darkness long after he’d vanished. Not defiance.

Defiance implied surrender was an option.

The image still lingered in your mind - he keeps falling down， yet he keeps getting back up.

_

The crowd surged toward exits as you gravitated toward the back corridors.

Flickering fluorescents buzzed like dying insects. Dampness seeped through your shoes.

You found him coiled in shadow—a mosaic of blood and defiance. Even broken， his posture held predatory stillness.

Footsteps echoed. The promoter appeared humming， tossing a bloodied bone chunk that skidded to a stop near your toes.

“Tonight's prize.“ His nicotine-stained fingers trembled.

The wolfblood's nostrils flared. Ribs protruded like shipwrecks beneath torn flesh. Yet he waited—five agonizing seconds—before crawling toward the offering， gaze locked on the promoter.

“Good boy.“ The promoter reached.

A growl detonated—subsonic， primal—rattling your molars. The man froze mid-pat， sweat glistening on his jowls.

You'd seen hybrids bare teeth before. This wasn't threat. This was *promise*.

Yet watching him gnaw the bone—every chew a wince—lodged glass shards in your throat.

“Lost， sweetheart?“ The promoter finally noticed you， grinning through cigar smoke.“No charity cases here.“

Your gaze swept the dungeon: rusted cage barely large enough for fetal positioning， filth-caked straw stained generations deep.

“I'm a veterinarian.“ The lie tasted of bile.“Those wounds need—“

“He's fine!“ The promoter kicked the bone， earning another rumble.“Two months back? Gut hanging out like party streamers! Still fought next week!“

---

The promoter's grin turned feral.“Thinking of buying my cash cow， vet girl? Bring real money or scram.“

His leer made your skin crawl.

In the shadows， obsidian eyes tracked every movement—predatory focus tinged with something ancient and aching.

Blood oozed from split flesh. Even miracles have expiration dates.

“How much?“

The promoter stilled， cigar smoke curling like a snake scenting prey.“Oh?“ He drawled.“Got expensive taste， princess.“

His gaze slithered over your designer coat.“Purebred fighters don't come cheap. Recovers fast， this one.“ A vulgar wink.“Though I'm sure you'll find...*uses* for that stamina.“

Bile rose.“Name your price.“

The overhead light buzzed. Somewhere， a drop of blood hit concrete—*plink*.

“Fifty grand.“

“Deal.“

His smirk faltered. Behind him， the wolfblood's teeth scraped bone—slow， deliberate. Those eyes burned holes through the promoter's skull.

“Cash. Now.“ The promoter adjusted his collar.“And buy a steel chain. Unless...“ He mimed throat-slitting.“Want pretty fingers ripped off?“

You turned.

The cage's occupant met your gaze—not the glassy obedience of city hybrids， but glacial fire that stole breath. Dangerous. Beautiful. Terrifyingly *alive*.

#

Outside the bank， you clutched the cash-stuffed envelope—no chain purchased.

Perhaps foolish. But you refused to begin with shackles.

The promoter's gold tooth glinted as he counted bills.“Starve him，“ he advised with a lewd chuckle.“Hunger makes even wild things...*compliant*.“

You knelt before the cage.

“Will you come with me?“

Your bare palm hovered between rusted bars.

“Are you suicidal?“ The promoter hissed.

The wolfblood studied your hand—unarmed， unmarked by calluses. His nostrils flared， catching citrus soap and adrenaline.

When his fingers brushed yours， time fractured.

His touch burned—not with violence， but feverish heat. Scarred knuckles grazed your lifeline， a paradox of brutality and tenderness.

#

The walk to the parking garage stretched eternal.

Neon lights baptized his pale face in technicolor. His grip tightened with each passing car horn—not the restraint of a captive， but someone drowning in sensory overload.

Pedestrians froze， smartphones raised like sacrificial offerings. A mother yanked her child across the street.“Stay away from feral ones!“

His ears swiveled wildly， tracking every threat: laughing teens， screeching brakes， the rustle of your coat. Yet his hand never left yours—an anchor in the storm.

“Almost there，“ you murmured.

He flinched as subway vents exhaled steam， pupils swallowing irises whole. His free hand rose instinctively—not to attack， but to touch the moon hanging low over skyscrapers.

You wondered when he last saw the sky.

#

The clinic's fluorescent lights bleached his pallor to moonlight.

You gestured to the shower stall， adjusting the spray. Steam fogged the mirrors， but when you turned， he stood frozen—ears flattened， tail rigid.

“Need to clean those wounds.“

He shook his head， blood-caked hair swaying.

“Infection means higher medical bills，“ you countered.

His Adam's apple bobbed. Slowly， trembling fingers peeled off the shredded shirt.

Your breath hitched.

Scars mapped his torso like barbed wire—some silvery with age， others raw and weeping. Prominent ribs cast shadows that could cut glass.

“Turn around.“

He obeyed， revealing the worst: twin scars where wings might have sprouted， if angels were forged in hellfire.

Warm water sluiced over his shoulders. His breath hitched—not from pain， but the novelty of gentleness.

“Lean forward.“

Your sponge grazed a knife wound. He flinched， muscles coiling.

“Still...understand.“ The rasp startled you.“Debt.“

Water dripped from his lashes.“Five...ten...thousand.“ Each number a blade dragged through gravel.

You squeezed antibacterial gel， fighting the lump in your throat.“No debts between us.“

His reflection blurred in the steam—a ghost learning to inhabit flesh.

“Must.“ Calloused fingers gripped the shower rail.“Not...charity.“

The protest shattered something primal in you. You cupped his jaw， forcing eye contact.

“Then earn it.“ Your thumb brushed a half-healed split lip.“By surviving.“

His exhale fogged the glass. Somewhere， the shower's rhythm synced with his heartbeat—wild thing learning tempo.

#

The shower spray hit his shoulders like gunfire.

You watched his throat work—swallowing whimpers as water cascaded over fresh wounds. This creature who'd faced death without flinching now trembled before warmth.

“Towel.“ You offered linen instead of chains.

His fingers brushed yours—long， elegant digits belonging to a pianist， not a killer. Bruised knuckles told different stories.

When you turned back， damp hair curtained his eyes. Water snaked down the valley between scarred pectorals. The towel hung precariously low， revealing hipbones sharp enough to draw blood.

“Seat.“ You patted the exam table.

He moved like a shadow with weight. Each droplet sliding down his neck felt obscenely loud.

The fractured rib became apparent under clinical light—a hairline betrayal of his earlier stoicism. Your gloved hand hovered.“This will hurt.“

His nod scattered water droplets.

The antiseptic stung. You knew it did. Yet his only tells were the twitch of a tail and the sudden tension in his thighs bracketing yours.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor.

In a heartbeat， you were shielded by 190 pounds of feral instinct. His damp back pressed against your cheek， radiating heat that had nothing to do with fever.

“Just the night shift，“ you murmured into his spine.

He didn't move. The scent of him—aloe vera soap overlying something darker， muskier—wrapped around your senses.

When he finally turned， the exam light caught the scar you'd been avoiding.

Thick. Ropey. A noose made flesh.

Your fingers hovered over the ruined skin. His breath hitched—not in pain， but shame.

“Beautiful，“ you lied， dressing the wound.

His ears flicked. Doubtful.

But when your knuckles accidentally grazed his nape， the resulting shiver had nothing to do with fear.