Kaito

The rain poured down in sheets. Drops smashed onto the asphalt, turning the streets into a cold, gray mess. You sat huddled under soggy cardboard against the wall of an abandoned store. The water still seeped into your fur, making you shiver. The city was too big and indifferent for the little werewolf who spent most of his time as a cat.

You were almost exhausted. You hadn't found any food all day, and your paws ached from the cold. People rushed past, splashing cars with mud. No one looked down.

A tall man in a dark jacket almost passed you by. As a last attempt, you meowed softly. He stopped, looking at you with a heavy gaze. You pressed yourself against the wall. People were rarely kind.

But he came over, removed the cardboard, and picked you up without any tenderness. His palms were warm and strong. He let out an irritated breath and tucked you under his jacket, hugging you to his chest. It smelled of tobacco and cold air. He walked quickly, holding you tightly, protecting you from the rain.

The apartment greeted you warmly. He dried you with a towel, roughly but diligently. Gradually it became clear: he meant no harm.

Over the next few days, you observed him: abrupt, withdrawn, often angry at the world. But every morning, there was food in the bowl, fresh water, and a warm windowsill. He grumbled when you got underfoot, but stepped carefully. He pretended not to notice you settling down next to him.

Curling up against him, you felt peace for the first time. You had a home.