Thea's POV
I'm going to cry on the subway, and I refuse to give these strangers the satisfaction.
My boss's voice still rings in my ears: "If you can't handle a simple logo redesign, Thea, maybe you're not cut out for this industry." Twenty revisions. TWENTY. And he still hated it. My hands shake as I grip the subway pole, blinking hard against the burning in my eyes.
The train lurches to my stop. I stumble out into the rain.
Of course it's raining. Because today wasn't awful enough already.
I don't have an umbrella. I left it at the office three weeks ago, and I've been too anxious to ask for it back. That's the kind of person I am—too scared to retrieve my own property from the break room.
The rain soaks through my cheap blazer within seconds. My hair plasters to my face. I must look pathetic, trudging through puddles in my worn-out flats, mascara probably running down my cheeks like some rejected movie heroine.
I'm twenty-six years old, and I have nobody.
Mom calls once a month to ask when I'm "settling down." My college friends all got married and forgot I exist. My coworkers think I'm weird because I eat lunch alone. And I live in a silent apartment where the only sound is my own breathing.
"I need a pet," I mutter to myself, dodging a puddle. "Just something alive to come home to."
A dog, maybe. Something small and fluffy that'll actually be happy to see me. Something that won't criticize my work or ask why I'm still single or make me feel like I'm failing at basic human existence.
I turn down the alley that shortcuts to my building—Mom would kill me if she knew I walk through dark alleys alone, but it saves five minutes, and honestly, what's the worst that could happen?
That's when I see it.
A dog. Lying in a heap near the dumpster, surrounded by garbage and rain.
My heart stops. "Oh no."
I run toward it, my flats splashing through dirty water. It's a Shiba Inu—I recognize the breed from Instagram posts. Beautiful copper-colored fur, now matted with blood and mud. It's not moving.
"No, no, no." I drop to my knees beside it, ignoring the filthy water soaking through my skirt. "Please don't be dead."
I press my hand to its chest. There's a heartbeat. Faint, but real.
Relief floods through me so hard I almost sob. "You're okay. You're going to be okay."
Blood oozes from a gash on its side. Something hurt this animal badly. My stomach twists with anger. Who would do this? Who would hurt something so beautiful and leave it to die in the rain?
The dog's eyes flutter open for just a second—the strangest amber color I've ever seen. It looks directly at me, and I swear something passes between us. Recognition, maybe. Or a plea for help.
Then its eyes close again.
"I've got you." I peel off my blazer—already ruined anyway—and wrap the dog carefully. It's heavier than I expected, solid muscle under the wet fur. I struggle to stand, cradling it against my chest. "I've got you. I promise."
The walk to my apartment building feels like a marathon. My arms scream with effort. Rain pours down harder. But I don't stop. This dog needs me, and honestly? I need it too.
I need something in my life that isn't disappointment and loneliness.
I finally reach my building and stumble through the door. Mrs. Chen, the landlady, looks up from her phone with narrowed eyes.
"No pets allowed, Miss Vex."
"It's an emergency," I gasp, not stopping. "I'll pay extra. Please."
I don't wait for her answer. I hit the elevator button frantically with my elbow, my arms trembling under the dog's weight. The elevator doors open. I step inside and collapse against the wall as they close.
"Hang on," I whisper to the unconscious dog. "Just hang on."
Fourth floor. My apartment is at the end of the hall. I fumble with my keys one-handed, finally get the door open, and carry my rescue inside.
My apartment is tiny—just a studio with a kitchen corner and a bathroom barely big enough to turn around in. But it's mine. And right now, it's about to become an emergency vet clinic.
I lay the dog gently on my bed—my only nice piece of furniture. Blood immediately stains my white comforter. I don't care.
I grab my first aid kit from under the sink. My hands won't stop shaking as I clean the wound. It's deep, but not as bad as I feared. I use butterfly bandages to close it, then wrap gauze around the dog's middle.
"You're going to be fine," I tell it firmly, like saying it out loud makes it true. "I'm Thea, and I'm going to take care of you."
The dog's breathing evens out. Its heartbeat grows stronger under my palm.
Relief makes me dizzy. I did it. I actually helped.
I look at the copper-colored fur, now cleaner after I've wiped away the blood and mud. "Russet," I decide. "Your name is Russet."
It fits perfectly.
I pull my desk chair next to the bed and sit down, watching Russet breathe. I should probably take him to a real vet tomorrow. But tonight, I'm not leaving his side.
For the first time in months, my apartment doesn't feel empty.
"We're going to be okay," I whisper, touching Russet's soft ear gently. "Both of us."
Russet's eyes snap open.
Those amber eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch. They're not dog eyes. They're too aware. Too intelligent. Too... human.
My hand freezes on his fur.
Russet's lip curls back, revealing sharp teeth. A low growl rumbles from his chest—not the warning growl of a scared animal, but something else. Something that sounds almost like words.
The temperature in my apartment drops ten degrees.
Every hair on my body stands up.
"What—" I breathe.
Russet's growl gets louder, his eyes glowing brighter, and I realize with creeping horror that I didn't rescue an injured dog.
I brought something else into my home.
Something that's staring at me like it knows exactly what I'm thinking.
Something that, in a voice that shouldn't exist, rasps one word:
"Mine."