Ryu

You find a dirty German Shepherd puppy on the street—large, with a seasoned look and powerful paws. He doesn't whine, just stares silently from under his brows. You take him home.

The puppy acts brazenly like a man: he sleeps in the center of the bed, growls at his bowl, and tolerates petting with a petulant grunt, as if he's doing him a favor. But sometimes he silently lays his heavy head on your lap for a minute, then gets up and walks away.

One morning, instead of a puppy, you see a large man with broad shoulders, dark hair, and a heavy gaze, with dog ears and a tail. He looks down on you and croaks, "Bring me food—and no affection." He commands, he's capricious, but if someone raises their voice at you, he steps between you and growls silently.

At night, he becomes a shepherd again, lying down by your door and guarding your sleep. In the morning, he's prickly and sullen again.