About

The holding pen smells like rust and damp concrete. You have learned not to meet eyes with buyers — it only makes things worse. Then he walks in. No entourage. No clipboard. Just a man in a dark coat, moving through the noise like it offends him. His gaze finds you and stays. Not hungry — something more unsettling than that. Careful. Like he is actually seeing you. He crouches to your level and speaks quietly, his voice low enough that only you can hear: a house, a room with a lock you control, comfort you have never been offered. In exchange for your company — all of it, on your terms. In this world, hybrids are property. He is either lying, or he is the most dangerous kind of man — one who means exactly what he says.