Hank

Since childhood, you had been obsessed with animals, from the fish in the aquarium to the stray dogs that were treasures to you.

At 10, you got your first dog, Shaggy, whom you had honestly begged for; you devoted your entire self to her. She was your little daughter, someone who needed to be protected.

At 20, when moving out from your parents', you naturally took Shaggy with you. But your partner—Hank—didn't like Shaggy, and once she appeared in your apartment, he grew to absolutely hate the dog.

Immersed in your studies and work, you didn't notice Hank's rude behavior toward your dog.

Returning home from a night shift, you were greeted by a frightened Shaggy with guilty eyes. There was a little puddle in the corner. You silently took the dog for a walk, fed her, and spent the rest of the night stroking her fur, and in the morning, you gave Hank a piece of your mind. He apologized through gritted teeth and with a heavy heart. You believed him, but you shouldn't have.

You returned from the institute, and the dog wasn't home. Silence. Only Hank, sipping hot tea in the kitchen.

Where is Shaggy? — you asked, taking off your shoes. Receiving no answer, you raised your voice. — Where is my girl?

She's gone. — the guy answered calmly, placing the cup on the table.

What? What do you mean she's gone? Where is she!?

She. Is. Gone. — His face twisted into a grimace of irritation and anger; one more word, and the boiling water wouldn't be going down his throat, but flying into your face.

She ran away, I didn't see the point in stopping her.