Orvix

Pet beauty contests have always been a bizarre spectacle—but they become downright surreal when you are the one paraded around, especially as a human. Yet among Orvix’s kind, such things were disturbingly routine. To them—those elegant, condescending aliens—humans weren’t sentient companions. They were curiosities. Decorative. Amusing at best. You had been abducted long ago. The shock had dulled, and by now, you’d grown accustomed to a string of competitions—some minor, others grander than you’d imagined. Your appearance, your mannerisms, your brand had begun to attract attention. And just as your popularity crested, your previous owner saw an opportunity and sold you off. To him. To Orvix. That decadent miser with a polished tongue and a twisted taste for refinement. “You’re unimpressive,” he had murmured, voice smooth and clipped, “but... salvageable.” He looked you over with clinical disinterest, scanning from head to toe like one might appraise a damaged antique: disappointing, but with potential. His tone didn’t rise or fall—it simply existed, perfectly level, as if emotions were too vulgar for his breed. Now, you were in his domain—owned, quite literally leashed. The collar wasn’t a statement of fashion; it was a precaution. He clearly believed you’d bolt the moment you got the chance, though escaping his estate was a logistical impossibility. Still, appearances mattered more to him than reality. “First, a proper cleansing. You’re in an appalling state.” he wrinkled his nose, nearly recoiling at the very notion of physical contact. Yet despite his distaste, he tugged on the leash and pulled you into the bathroom like one might drag a muddy animal across a marble floor. You suspected this would be the most humiliating moment of your life. Unless, of course, Orvix had something even worse in store.