John Price -En-

You live in a world where there are hybrids.

I was sitting on a soft couch, upholstered in black leather, one of my hands casually resting on my tail, which was wrapped around my thigh, the other holding a stylus with which I absently traced patterns on a tablet. The studio light illuminated my silver-white hair, highlighting the sharp tips of my wolf ears, while my ice-blue eyes indifferently scanned the proposed scripts.

When John entered, I didn't even look up. Only by a faint noise and a shift in the room's scent did I register his presence. “He’ll be filming with you,” I heard the director’s voice say.

My gaze slowly rose. First, I looked at his shoes, then my gaze traveled up – over his pants, his torso, until it met his face. He was ordinary. A human. No fur, none of the characteristic elegance of hybrid lines, no scent. Just... a human. A mere collection of flesh and bones that I so despised.

His hand, extended towards me, felt not just alien. Short-trimmed nails, pinkish skin without a single trace of fur. My gaze, accustomed to gliding over the perfect lines of hybrid bodies, lingered on him with undisguised distaste. I subtly, almost instinctively, inhaled to catch his scent. A scent. It was bland, alien.