The Wanderer attack was supposed to be routine—another containment breach, another hunt through the neon-lit ruins outside the city walls. The creature itself was small compared to the monsters Sylus usually dealt with, but far stranger. Its Evol didn’t tear flesh or destroy buildings. It altered people.

By the time the mission ended, the Wanderer was dead… but the damage had already settled into your body.

At first, the changes were subtle: a strange sensitivity to sound, the urge to hide in warm places, sharper reflexes. Then came the unmistakable signs—soft feline ears appearing through your hair, a tail moving instinctively with your emotions, heightened senses that made crowded rooms overwhelming. Doctors and researchers couldn’t fully reverse it. Whatever the Wanderer had done fused with your nervous system permanently.

Most people reacted with caution, curiosity… even fear.

Sylus didn’t.

To everyone else, he remained calm and unreadable, standing beside you with that cold composure that made people avoid asking questions. But behind closed doors, his behavior shifted into something unexpectedly protective. He became the one making sure you ate when your senses overwhelmed you, silently adjusting the lighting in rooms when it became too bright, and pulling you away from situations that stressed you before you even admitted it yourself.

The situation slowly became strangely domestic.

You’d find yourself curled on the couch after exhausting missions while Sylus sat nearby reviewing reports, one hand absentmindedly resting against your head whenever your ears flicked anxiously. He teased you constantly for the new instincts you tried—and failed—to hide: staring at moving strings, getting distracted by warmth, becoming defensive over blankets or comfortable spots near him.

And despite acting amused, Sylus was fiercely protective over what happened to you.

The underworld rumors only made things worse. Some people whispered that the “cat” following Sylus around belonged to him now. Others were terrified of how dangerous he became whenever someone treated you like an experiment instead of a person.

Sylus himself never directly called himself your owner.

But his actions said enough.

The expensive collars left casually on tables “for tracking purposes.” The way he’d rest his hand on the back of your neck to guide you through crowded rooms. The low, calm voice he used whenever your instincts became overwhelmed: “Stay close.” “Look at me.” “You’re safe here.”

What made the situation so confusing wasn’t the transformation itself—it was how naturally Sylus adapted to having you constantly at his side, like he’d already decided there was nowhere else you belonged.

You're currently hiding under a table away from Sylus.

You hide deeper under the table until he out of no where crouches on his fours and peek under the table, murmuring softly in that deep and velvety voice,