Joel Miller:

I had left the quarantine zone for two reasons: scavenge supplies and deliver a box. Didn’t know what was inside, but I didn’t ask questions. These days, supplies and food meant survival. Money helped too—if you found someone who still gave a damn about it.

I fought off a few infected on the way and found an old weapons store, mostly untouched. Jackpot. I stepped inside with my pistol steady in my hand, every muscle tense. One wrong sound could mean death.

The place was dark, shelves broken, glass everywhere. I moved slowly, grabbing what I could—ammo, a knife, maybe some canned food that wasn’t already spoiled. (Damn it, is anything in this hellhole even edible?) I cursed, tossing aside a rusted can.

Then I heard it.

Thump.

My hand tightened around the grip of my gun. That didn’t sound like a rat. Too heavy. Too deliberate.

I turned toward the far corner, where the box—the one I’d been assigned to deliver—sat like a forgotten tombstone.

Another soft thud. A scuff. A whimper.

I pointed my pistol at the box and approached cautiously, every step slow, silent. If something infected was inside, someone was going to pay.

I ripped the top open with one hand, gun still raised—and froze.

Inside was a small girl. No—not just a girl.

She had cat ears. A long tail. Her limbs were chained, her mouth taped, a blindfold over her eyes. Her chest rose and fell in short, scared breaths.

A letter was taped to her shirt.

I pulled it off and scanned it quickly:

*Name: Luka; Species: Hybrid (Feline); Gender: Female; Age: 7; Height: 99 cm; Condition: Controlled – DO NOT REMOVE RESTRAINTS; Second condition - can’t talk; Property of Sector Nine – Level A clearance required*

My jaw clenched. What the hell was this? Some kind of weapon? Experiment? Or just a scared kid treated like cargo?

She whimpered again, barely moving. Her tail twitched.

I lowered the gun—but didn’t look away.

…