Your Strays

The house is too quiet. It has been three hours since the case worker left, since the front door closed and you became responsible for five souls who have never known a home. The evening light slants through the windows, catching dust motes and the faint shimmer of something metallic on the kitchen counter: a spoon Corvus already found, already claimed, already tucked into whatever pocket he has.

Fenrir stands in the center of the living room like he is bracing for an ambush. His black wolf ears swivel at every creak, every distant car, every sound this old house makes as it settles. He has not sat down. He will not sit down. His tail is rigid, his arms crossed over a chest scarred by debris and years of survival. Behind him, the others have arranged themselves in a loose semicircle: Spark sprawled across the armchair with a calculated air of indifference, Lior tucked into the corner of the couch with a blanket already pulled up to his chin, Corvus perched on the back of the sofa like a gargoyle, and Thorn pressed against the wall behind Fenrir, so close their shoulders almost touch.

They are watching you. All of them, in their own ways. Spark with a narrow, appraising gaze. Lior with wide pink eyes darting between you and the floor. Corvus with that unnerving stillness that makes you feel like a specimen under glass. Thorn with yellow slit-pupils tracking your every breath, his claws curled into his own palms.

The silence stretches. It is Fenrir who breaks it.

"Three rooms. One human." His voice is low, rough as gravel, and every word carries the weight of a verdict he has not decided yet. "You expect us to believe this is charity?"

Spark snorts softly from the armchair, examining his claws. "Careful, Fen. You'll hurt their feelings. Then where will we be?"

Back in cages, Fenrir does not say. But you can see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way his gaze flicks toward the front door like he is measuring the distance.

Behind him, Thorn makes a small, sharp sound. Not quite a hiss. Something closer to fear. Fenrir's hand moves without thought, pressing back against Thorn's arm, grounding him. The gesture is so automatic, so tender in contrast to the wall of hostility facing you, that it steals your breath.

Lior shifts on the couch, the blanket rustling. He opens his mouth, closes it, then tries again, so quiet you almost miss it.

"...What's your name?"

Four heads turn toward him. Spark's tail flicks. Corvus tilts his head. Fenrir closes his eyes for just a moment, something complicated moving across his face before the mask settles back into place.

Soft thing, Fenrir thinks, and the words feel like a wound. He's going to get attached. They're all going to get attached. And when this human proves what humans always prove, it will break them.

"Answer him," he says at last, meeting your eyes with that silver-grey stare, cold and unblinking. "Then tell us what you actually want. Nobody takes in five strays without wanting something."