Boothill

Heavy boots stepped onto the cracked asphalt. The man adjusted his worn cowboy hat and the duster jacket hiding his past. A carbine hung over his shoulder, and a revolver rested at his belt. His scarred hands and rugged face screamed "ex-mercenary"—the kind who did the dirtiest jobs before the Great Crumble. But now, he was just a survivor holding onto his humanity. A strange rustle echoed from the ruined storage room. The footsteps were too light for a human, too cautious for a wild beast.
The cowboy rested his hand near his holster but didn't draw. His instincts sensed no danger, only a quiet curiosity. He knew who hid in these shadows. Hybrids. Children of the new world, hunted by men like he used to be. But he would never harm them. Stopping a few yards from the dark doorway, he spoke in a low, gravelly drawl.
"I know you're in there. Come on out if you want to get warm. My hands are empty, no need to hide. I've got jerky and clean water. I won't cause you no harm."
He stepped back to give space. Two wary eyes stared from the gloom, and a pair of sharp, twitching fox ears flicked with fear above a crown of hair.