Chapter Text
Living on the outskirts of town had been a last-minute decision.
You liked nature and animals. So, when you were offered the idea of moving into your grandparents’ old farm, you didn’t hesitate. You accepted without looking back. The city had left you exhausted — noise, people, speed — and your body could no longer tolerate that rhythm. So you killed two birds with one stone.
The house was big. Isolated. Surrounded by old trees and open fields. The yard stretched like a green ocean behind the house. And beyond, a small farm with animals. Everything was just as you remembered. Or better.
Your grandparents weren’t farmers out of necessity. They were people who loved wildlife, the land, slow cycles. Maybe you had inherited that from them. When they died, they left everything to you. House, animals, land. Enough to live alone and in peace, without depending on anyone.
You distanced yourself from your family. Your parents, your siblings... they were never really in your life. They never hurt you, but they weren’t there when you needed them most either. You didn’t hold a grudge... It was a quiet separation. Distant.
You loved nature; ever since you were little, you remember running over and over across this field, tripping and getting back up. The grass under your feet and the little flowers still scattered everywhere made the view even more beautiful.
Maybe that’s why your grandparents left everything to you. They knew you wouldn’t sell it, you never could.
The day you arrived, the sky was clear and the air smelled of dry grass. The movers had already dropped off your things, so you didn’t have to unpack right away. You got out of the car, crossed the wooden porch, and entered the house with your heart beating faster than usual. The walls still held that faint smell of old wood and contained dust. The furniture, covered with clean sheets, was still in place as if no one had ever left. You recognized some framed photos in the entrance. A ceramic bowl on the shelf. Stacked books. Everything seemed the same, as if it had been waiting for you.
Sighing, you went straight to the yard.
The first thing you did was walk toward the barn. As you approached, you saw the roof was still painted red, just like the fence that bordered the property. Plants were climbing up the sides, and a large orange tree shaded the entrance. The image stirred an unexpected nostalgia. You smiled. Took a deep breath.
You entered the barn slowly, trying not to scare the animals. Inside, you found them: chickens, ducks, rabbits. All well cared for, each in its proper place. Outside, by the pond, you saw the turtles sunbathing. Maybe the ducks bathed there too. The place was clean, orderly, as if someone — or something — had kept the routine going. You didn’t see any dogs or cats. It was odd. But you weren’t worried.
You approached one of the wooden columns, leaning against it to observe. You stayed there, in silence, watching the animals eat or walk around. The peace that radiated from that place was so different from what you had experienced lately, that for a moment you felt out of place. As if you were intruding. But the feeling faded quickly. You had come for this.
To reconnect with something slower, simpler, more alive.
You frowned slightly when you checked the feeding schedule board. It was handwritten, in your grandfather’s clear handwriting. Meal times, cleaning days, the names of each animal. Everything was still functioning.
You took out your phone and set alarms. One for the ducks. Another for the chickens. Another for the rabbits. Each had its space, its time. You wanted to keep that organization, as if following those rules kept their presence alive.
You sighed, feeling the tension in your shoulders begin to ease. Not completely. But enough to allow a smile. That night you went to bed early, with the window open. The country air drifted in soft and fresh, and the chirping of crickets filled the darkness with a calming rhythm. You closed your eyes with the strange feeling that everything was finally in order.
The days passed with a peaceful slowness. You got up early, long before the sun, when the fog still clung to the windowpanes. Your bare feet touched the cold floor as you got out of bed, and your first instinct, always, was to wrap yourself in a blanket, the thick-knit one that had belonged to your grandmother.
Every morning was the same, but never boring. You stepped out onto the porch with a warm cup in your hands, watching the orange light of dawn slide over the trees. Sometimes you sat on the first step, knees together, hands wrapped around the ceramic cup. Sometimes you simply stood there, breathing deeply, eyes closed. The silence was real there. Not like in the city. In the city it didn’t have that weight, that depth.
Afterward you had breakfast and went to the barn.
Feeding the animals became an almost sacred routine. You walked slowly, in sandals, your nightgown tucked under a wide sweater that reached your knees. You bent down carefully to fill the bowls, speaking softly without realizing it. Sometimes you whispered the names you’d given the rabbits. Or counted them. One, two, three... eight. Always eight.
When one jumped more energetically, you would laugh quietly. The laughter came out like a warm sigh, brief but genuine. You were surprised to find yourself smiling for no reason. You had forgotten what that felt like.
Your days slipped by in small things: making bread with your own hands, painting watercolors you never showed anyone, sitting on the porch to knit colorful blankets, reading a book. Or sometimes you just spent hours watching how the sunlight changed the color of the leaves. Or how the wind moved the climbing plants on the red fence. Little things that grounded you.
The house had a life of its own too.
You opened the windows in the mornings to let the fresh air in, and you always paused for a second before closing the bathroom door, as if someone else were about to come in. You stared at the old photographs hanging on the staircase, the gardening books in the study. Sometimes, you put the kettle on just to hear the sound of the water heating up. As if that wait had meaning.
One night, you caught yourself talking out loud. You didn’t know what you were saying, or why. Maybe you just needed to hear a voice. Any voice.
Despite everything, you were okay.
At least that’s what you thought…
Until that night came.
It was nighttime. The house was dim, and you had already eaten. A warm, simple stew. You washed your dish and went to check on the animals one last time. You’d gotten used to giving them a final look before bed, just to make sure everyone was in place. It was a habit that gave you peace.
As you returned to the house, you felt a shiver. A soft one. Like something in the air had changed. There was no wind. No crickets. Just a silence that was too still. You stopped in the hallway, fingers resting against the wall, flashlight in hand. You blinked.
You listened. But heard nothing. And that was precisely what unsettled you.
You climbed the stairs slowly, your nightgown brushing against your skin. You were barefoot. Each step creaked just slightly under your weight. When you reached the second floor, you turned right to go into your room… and then, the sound.
A bang. Distant. Sharp.
Metal.
You froze, your heart stopping for a second. The flashlight slipped a little in your fingers.
You remembered the traps. You had only set three. Outside the yard, among the bushes. They were a bit large. But you couldn’t do anything else. Your grandfather only had that size. You didn’t want to hurt anyone; you just used them to scare things off. A loud noise, a quick snap. And spikes.
You didn’t think. You acted.
You ran down the stairs, grabbed the shotgun that hung above the fireplace—the one that had belonged to your grandfather. It wasn’t loaded, and you didn’t plan to use it, but it was the only thing you had. Your hands trembled as you touched it. You tightened your fingers, trying to calm yourself.
—It’s just an animal —you whispered to yourself.
You crossed the living room. Opened the door forcefully. The cold midnight air hit your bare legs. Your nightgown clung to your skin from the wind. But you didn’t stop. You walked toward the barn, flashlight shaking in your hand, shotgun over your shoulder.
The sound didn’t come again. You only heard your footsteps on the damp grass. Your breathing, quick and uneven.
The flashlight lit the ground in front of you. Nothing. Trees, grass, fence. Nothing.
And then a figure.
A few meters away.
On the ground.
Twisted.
And trapped.
Your breath caught.
It wasn’t an animal.
Was it a man?
At first you thought you were seeing wrong.
Your flashlight pointed at the ground, but that figure didn’t look real. It was too big. Too naked. A human silhouette, crouched over itself, with one leg caught in the trap you had set. The metal bit into his calf, and thick, dark blood poured from it, soaking the grass beneath him.
The man—if you could call him that—was looking at you.
And his gaze…
It was wild.
Pure contained fury.
His eyes glowed a deep red, as if burning from within. He didn’t blink. He didn’t flinch. He watched you as if you were something to be analyzed before being destroyed. Your hands started to shake.
You couldn’t move.
The flashlight still pointed at him, trembling in your hand. He growled. Not like a whimper. Not like a wounded man. It was a low, deep, visceral growl. A sound that made you step back without thinking.
—I-is it…? —you murmured, but the words didn’t fully come out.
He didn’t speak. He only breathed through his mouth, lips slightly parted, letting out that guttural sound that made your skin crawl.
And then you noticed. Something wasn’t right. Something beyond the red eyes or the tattoos covering his body.
His ears.
Pointed.
They twitched with every movement of the air. They moved, as if picking up every sound from your body. Your breathing, your heartbeat.
The man wasn’t just a man.
And you were alone.
With him.
In the middle of the countryside.
With an unloaded shotgun.
And a nightgown that left your skin freezing.
Suddenly, the metallic crunch.
The trap opened.
You didn’t understand how he did it. But he did. Not with pain. Not with desperation. He simply forced the metal open with his bare hands. A sharp, harsh sound. And then… the blood dripping. Thick. Viscous.
You dropped to the ground, groping for the flashlight you had let go without noticing. Your fingers moved clumsily, lost in the mud. But just as you were about to touch it, a swift kick sent it flying.
Darkness.
You didn’t scream. Your throat was locked up with fear. You stood up as best you could and ran. With no clear direction. You just wanted to get away.
You didn’t get far.
You felt his presence before you heard him. Something shoved you from behind, and you fell hard to the ground. Your hands scraped against the stones. Your nightgown hiked up, leaving your legs exposed to the cold. The air completely left your lungs.
You tried to get up, but he pinned you down. His body pressed into yours. He was bigger than he looked. Heavier. And hot. Very hot.
You were trembling. Not from the cold.
From him.
He was naked. Completely. His skin covered yours. There was no space between your bodies. And still, he didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He just breathed on top of you.
—P-please…! —you whispered, voice trembling, not even knowing what you were pleading for.
His hands moved down and grabbed your wrists, lifting them above your head. His grip was firm. Cold. As if your bones offered no resistance.
You couldn’t move.
His breath touched your neck.
And he inhaled.
Not like a man.
Like an animal sniffing its prey.
You felt his nose graze your skin. Your hair. Your ear. You tensed. Shut your eyes tightly. Every part of your body begged to disappear.
—Are you so useless… you can’t even recognize a predator?
The voice was a whisper in your ear. Deep. Low.
Incredibly close.
—N-no… I don’t… know —you stammered, throat closed with fear.
He didn’t reply. He just turned you over roughly, forcing you to look at him. You ended up on your back, still trembling. The tears started to fall before you could stop them.
You saw him clearly for the first time.
The tattoos climbed up his abdomen, marked his arms, crossed his face. His torso was smeared with blood and dirt. But what struck you the most wasn’t that. It was the way he looked at you. Not with rage.
With hunger.
—Is that fear? —he said with disdain.
You couldn’t respond.
His hand slowly moved up to your neck. He didn’t squeeze. He just held it, like someone testing if they could break something with two fingers.
—You’re not saying anything useful.
The tears streamed down your cheeks. You closed your eyes tightly. You didn’t scream. You didn’t fight. You just let out the only thing you could say.
—I-I’m sorry… I-i didn’t mean to hurt you…
Your voice broke. Each word was weaker than the last.
For a moment, something in his eyes changed. A slow blink. A shadow of doubt. He didn’t let go of your neck, but he didn’t squeeze either. He just looked at you, as if he didn’t understand what you were. As if he were sniffing something that shouldn’t be there.
—What the hell are you? —he whispered.
—W-what…? —you asked, barely breathing.
He looked down at your lips. Then at your neck. His nose twitched. He inhaled again.
—Your damn scent… it makes me sick.
And yet, he didn’t move away.
His nose brushed your neck once more. He inhaled deeply, as if seeking confirmation that his own body refused to accept. He growled, low and frustrated, a rough sound that vibrated against your collarbone.
—That damn scent again…
You didn’t understand what he meant. You didn’t know what part of you triggered that kind of reaction in him. But he felt it. And he hated it. And still, he remained on top of you.
His fingers moved on your neck. And they tightened slightly—not with violence, but with the kind of restraint predators use when they haven’t yet decided whether to kill.
—You’re afraid —he murmured, his voice so low you felt it more than heard it—. I smell it on you. Every part of you…
His eyes scanned you, heavy, cruel. But it wasn’t desire. It wasn’t sexual hunger. It was something deeper. Instinctive. Confused. As if he were angry at his own interest.
And then, without warning, he pulled away.
His weight vanished from your body, but the cold he left behind sank into you like you’d been lying naked in the snow. Air rushed back into your lungs, but it didn’t bring relief. It only made you tremble harder.
You watched him stand. His leg was still bleeding. The trap had left red, open marks on his calf. But he didn’t limp. He walked with the strength of someone who simply doesn’t recognize pain as real.
His back, covered in tattoos, rose in front of you like a warning. His tail—yes, a long, rough, ash-pink tail—moved slowly, cutting the air with a measured rhythm. Like a pendulum charged with tension.
You didn’t know whether to move. Your legs were numb. Your arms heavy. You could only push yourself up on your elbows and sit in the damp field, breathing like your body had just survived a catastrophe.
He turned to face you.
Looked at you.
And said nothing.
But he didn’t leave.
He didn’t run into the woods. He didn’t disappear among the trees. He didn’t vanish like a wild creature retreating to its den.
He stayed there.
Bleeding. Naked. Standing.
Watching you.
And you… you didn’t know why you did what you did next.
You stood. Your legs faltered a little. Your nightgown was still bunched up, your arms awkwardly crossed over your body to cover yourself. But you didn’t step back. You didn’t run.
—Y-your leg… —you whispered.
He narrowed his eyes, full of scorn.
—And what about it?
What you were doing made no sense. He could kill you. You knew it. But something stronger than fear pushed you to speak. Maybe guilt. Maybe that part of you that never learned how to ignore someone else’s pain.
—You shouldn’t… stay like that. You could… you could get infected.
A dry laugh burst from his chest.
—Infected? —he repeated with bitter mockery—. You think I’m some damn stray dog?
You flinched without meaning to. Pressed your arms tighter against your chest. Lowered your gaze, feeling your voice falter again.
—I-I’m sorry… I just… I don’t want anything worse to happen to you.
He stared at you in silence. His ears—those damn ears that never stopped moving—tilted toward you. As if trying to understand why you sounded honest.
And after a few seconds, he growled. Not out of rage. Out of annoyance.
—You’re disgustingly submissive…
You didn’t know if it was an insult or a diagnosis.
But he didn’t leave.
Not that night.
Not after that.