The clinic's nightlight cast long shadows across the recovery room.

“Sleep here.“ You gestured to the narrow cot where you'd spent countless graveyard shifts.

He hovered in the doorway—predator assessing unfamiliar terrain. The clinical white sheets seemed to offend him.

“Safe，“ you promised.

He moved soundlessly to the bed's edge， wincing as fractured ribs protested.

“At least eat something.“

His ears perked at the word *eat*. You bit back a smile.

The broth steamed in his scarred hands. He drank like a man communing with ambrosia， each sip measured yet desperate. Not hunger.*Starving*.

When you turned to leave， the whisper stopped you:

“Thank...you.“

Two syllables that cost him more than any fight.

#

The scream tore through midnight stillness.

You found him coiled in the cot's corner， fever-glazed eyes reflecting streetlight like fractured onyx.

“Stay...back.“ The growl held more fear than threat.

Sweat plastered his hair to angular cheekbones. You measured his temperature with a glance—dangerous.

“Let me help.“

He bared teeth but didn't resist when you pressed cool cloths to his neck. The paradox again: lethal power yielding to feather touches.

“Sleep，“ you murmured， clasping his burning hand.

His fingers twitched. Wild things don't rest. Not truly.

“Stay.“ The plea slipped out.

Miraculously， his lashes fluttered shut. The death grip on your hand never eased—not when midnight bled into dawn， not when his breathing finally steadied.

His healing defied medical textbooks.

You named him Seven—for the seventh day of his resurrection. Within a week， angry wounds transformed into silver latticework across his skin.

But his mind proved more astonishing.

He absorbed knowledge like parched earth drinking rain. By Thursday， he mastered chopsticks. By Friday， he stopped eating with his face bowed to the floor.

The coffee incident happened on a rain-slick morning.

You found him looming over the espresso machine， sleeves rolled to reveal forearms mapped with fading scars. Steam curled around his concentrated frown.

“Coffee，“ he rasped， presenting the mug like sacred offering.“You...always tired.“

The perfect caramel swirl mocked every“trained“ hybrid's attempts.

His eyes burned brighter than the brew.“Good?“

You nodded around the lump in your throat.

The smile that followed could've ended wars.

#

The addict came at midnight.

Seven had him pinned before the intruder's shadow fully crossed the threshold—pale throat under a hunter's grip， stolen scalpel glinting on linoleum.

“Just...medicine...“ the man wheezed.

“Seven.“ Your voice trembled.

He flinched but didn't release. Muscle fibers quivered under his shirt—civilization and savagery warring beneath skin.

“Let him go.“

When he turned， you saw the truth reflected in his eyes—not fear of *him*， but *for* him. He mistook horror at the addict's needle-tracked arms for revulsion at his own nature.

“You looked at me...“ His voice cracked.“...like *them*.“

The slammed door echoed through your sleepless hours.

#

He returned at 3:17 AM， moonlight softening his edges to something breakable.

“Sorry.“ The word bled raw.“Only wanted...protect.“

You stepped into his space. His breath hitched as your arms circled his waist—a captured wildfire learning embrace.

“I know.“

His hands settled on your lower back， trembling with the delicacy of handling grenade pins. When his nose brushed your hair， the scent of his restraint—pine soap over gunpowder resolve—nearly broke you.

Outside， dawn bled across the city's scarred skyline. Somewhere beneath Seven's ribs， a second heart began beating.

---

Spring rain embroidered the city in silver threads.

Seven stood sentinel at the clinic's window， damp hair curling at his nape. Even in stillness， he radiated latent danger—a panther wearing human skin.

“Watching the rain，“ he murmured when you approached. Three months had polished his speech， but the wilderness lingered in consonants.“Forest canopy...too thick.“

You reached for his rain-slick hair. He recoiled instinctively， then leaned into the touch like a blade sheathing itself.

The door chime shattered the moment.

He materialized before you， muscles coiled， until a sniffling child emerged from the downpour clutching a shivering kitten.

“Towels，“ you instructed.

He obeyed， but kept watch as you examined the calico. The girl hid behind your lab coat until Seven knelt with surgical precision to dry matted fur.

“Your eyes sparkle like midnight，“ she breathed.

His hands stilled. You recognized that look—warrior disarmed by poetry.

By nightfall， the storm crescendoed. You found him dozing against the windowsill， rain tracing shadows down his throat. The blanket barely grazed his shoulders before his eyes snapped open—feral gold melting into liquid amber.

“Why...“ His thumb circled your pulse point.“...no fear?“

The confession slipped between raindrops:

“Because it's *you*.“

His exhale shuddered. Somewhere， a caged thing rattled its chains—and found them already broken.

---

The promoter's cigar ash drifted onto your sterilized floor.

“Eighty thousand.“ His grin revealed nicotine-stained teeth.“Triple your investment.“

“He's not livestock.“

“A hundred.“ The number hung like a hangman's noose.“Certain clients crave...*authentic* wildness.“

Your nails bit into the patient chart.“Not for sale.“

His smile died.“Foolish girl.“

That night， Seven stood sentinel at the window， moonlight carving his profile into something funerary.

“Tired?“ he asked when you approached.

Before you could answer， he vanished into shadows.

Dawn revealed an empty cot and trembling handwriting on clinic stationery:

*Will win. Debt paid.*

Misspelled characters bled ink where he'd pressed too hard.

“Stubborn mutt，“ you choked out， already running.

Rain needled your face as the taxi fishtailed toward hell's basement. Somewhere beneath the city， a wolf walked into a slaughterhouse wearing your name as armor.

---

The underground arena reeked of desperation and copper.

Seven faced a grizzly hybrid towering a full head taller， muscles forged from wrought iron. The crowd's chant—*Crush the stray!*—vibrated through rusted beams.

First strike came like a freight train. The bear's fist grazed Seven's temple， spraying crimson across the mat. He pivoted with feral grace， but you saw the tremor in his damaged leg—the old injury from his first night with you.

“Snap his spine!“

“Gut the mongrel!“

A sickening *crack* severed the roar. Seven's left arm hung grotesquely， yet he rose again—always rising—blood painting abstract art on the canvas.

The turning point came in a blink.

The grizzly overextended. Seven moved like shadow given purpose—a flash of teeth， a twist of torque. Two tons of muscle collapsed like felled timber.

Silence.

Then—

“Two...hundred thousand.“ Seven swayed， voice crumbling like ash.“Debt...paid.“

He fell into your arms feather-light， burning with sacrificial fever. His eyes held galaxies of unspoken apologies.

“Your kindness...deserved repayment.“ Blood bubbled at his lips. Scarlet stained your white coat—a marriage of violence and devotion.

The promoter's excuses dissolved into static. All that mattered was the flutter beneath your palm—a heartbeat threading the needle between life and legacy...

---

Three springs had polished the wolf to a lethal sheen.

Sunlight fractured through clinic windows，dappling Seven's lab coat in gold filigree.His knuckles glided between vials with feral grace一

crystalline whispers as glass kissed glass.

“Prescription for Cage 8?“

“Done.“His baritone vibrated with newly cultured restraint.The wolf who'd once eaten with bloodied hands now measured milligrams with surgical precision.

Only his eyes betrayed the truth-

when light struck at acute angles，feral currents still rippled in those obsidian depths.

You reached for the sedatives.Your knuckles brushed his wrist.

Muscle memory overrode civility. His ears snapped erect，tail arching like a scimitar. The sudden exposure of his throat's scarred column seemed less surrender than provocation.

Night bled into the sterile air

His heat enveloped you from behind-a primal claim woven from shadow and want. The counter dug into your hips as he caged you between steel and trembling restraint.

“Seven—“

The protest died against his mouth.This kiss was all teeth and paradox-predatory heat dissolving into reverent hesitation.His claws caught delicately in your hair，every calloused pad mapping territory between destruction and worship.

——

Home smelled of iodine and sin.

He backed you against the front door，canines grazing your collarbone in claiming ritual.

“Still not scared?“His whisper vibrated against your clavicle.

His tail lashed your thigh-half challenge，half plea-as his teeth found the strap of your slip.The fabric tore with a sound like redemption.

Somewhere between the hallway and tangled sheets，civilization crumbled.What remained was pure calculus of need-the slick slide of sweat-sheened skin，the delicious agony of claws retracting just before breaking flesh，the guttural growl when you scraped nails down the ropey scar on his back.

When dawn came，you found him tracing your spine with a devotion bordering on religious.His ear flicked at your stirring.

“Debt..“His lips brushed the nape he'd marked hours earlier.“...paid in full.“

The chuckle shook through you both.Outside，the city awoke.Inside，two predators learned a new language written in bite marks and whispered dawn confession.

——

At that time， after returning from the underground boxing ring， he was unconscious for three whole days.

Three days of watching his body wage war against mortality. Three nights of dampening fevered skin as he thrashed against phantom chains. When the crisis broke on the 72nd hour， his eyes opened—not with a survivor's triumph， but a wolf's quiet resolve.

“Owe you...more than flesh.“ His rasp carved through monitoring equipment's steady beeps.“You gave me...*why*.“

The confession hovered—too vast for sterile walls.

“You're free，“ you whispered.“The money—“

“Not debt.“ His hand found yours， calluses catching on your lifeline.“Want...here. Always.“

Moonlight bled through blinds， painting his scars liquid mercury. When his lips found yours， it tasted of salt and rebirth.

His canine ears quivered against your palms. A tail curled around your ankle—possessive yet reverent.

In the aftermath， you learned his body's new language:

—The way his claws retracted when cradling your face

—The growl that purred when you traced his spinal scars

—The golden flicker in onyx irises when you stirred from sleep

“Here，“ he'd murmur into your hair， heartbeat syncing with yours.“Always.”