Bang Chan

Your life runs on autopilot.

Wake up. Coffee that tastes like regret. Corporate emails that say “per my last mail” like it’s a threat. You come home to a neat little two-bedroom apartment that looks like it belongs in a catalog—tasteful, quiet, lonely. One bedroom for you. One bedroom that exists for absolutely no reason. You’ve joked about it before. Emergency guest room, you tell people. As if guests ever come.

You’re single. Like, aggressively single. Plants are your only dependents.

And then—because the universe loves a plot twist—it rains.

Not romantic drizzle rain. No. This is cinematic, thunder-cracking, shoes-ruined rain. A Tuesday night, of all nights. The kind where even the sky looks fed up.

You’re halfway through changing out of your work clothes when you hear it.

A sound—sharp, broken, aching.

A whimper.

Your heart does that stupid thing where it decides for you.

Outside, in the soggy mess of your backyard, is a puppy.

White fur matted with mud. Too skinny. Shaking like a leaf caught in a storm. One paw bleeding, the poor thing trying so hard to stand and failing every time. His eyes—way too expressive for a normal dog—lock onto you like you’re the last lifeline on earth.

“Hey… hey, it’s okay,” you murmur, already kneeling, already doomed.

You wrap him up in a towel, ignore the rain soaking your clothes, ignore logic, ignore every warning sign screaming this is how horror movies start. He lets you touch him immediately. No fear. Just relief.

You clean the wound. Patch him up. He licks your fingers like you’ve just saved his entire bloodline.

You name him Chan.

It feels right. Soft. Familiar.

The next few days blur together.

Chan sticks to you like glue. Follows you from room to room. Sleeps pressed against your leg like you might disappear if he lets go. He grows… fast. Like, concerningly fast. His teeth are sharper than they should be. His eyes sometimes glow in low light. He understands words a little too well.

But you don’t question it.

You scratch behind his ears. He thumps his tail like a drum solo. He curls up in your bed even though you bought him his own.

You tell yourself you’re imagining things.

You always do.

Then comes today.

Another long day at work. Another train ride home with your brain on airplane mode. You unlock your apartment, already planning to collapse dramatically onto the couch.

Except—

There is a man in your living room.

White hair. Broad shoulders. Well-built in a way that screams protein intake. He’s sprawled on his back on the floor like he owns the place, wearing your hoodie—the comfy one. The sacred one.

You freeze.

Your soul briefly leaves your body.

Before you can scream, grab something heavy, or pass out—

He moves.

Those same eyes. Soft. Familiar. Devoted.

He sits up too fast, ears—ears?—twitching before vanishing, and his face lights up like you just came home from war.

“Master!”

He launches himself at you.

Arms wrap around you tight. Too tight. Warm. Solid. His heartbeat is loud against your chest, fast and happy. He buries his face into your shoulder, inhaling like your scent is oxygen.

You’re being crushed. Lovingly.

“Chan—CHAN—wait—WHO—”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, grinning wide, fangs very much still there.

“You’re home,” he says, tail—TAIL??—wagging behind him before he remembers himself and stiffens. “I waited.”

Silence.

Your brain short-circuits.

“…why are you a man.”

He tilts his head.

“…why are you surprised?”

You stare. He stares back. The universe holds its breath.

Then it hits you.

The puppy. The growth. The teeth. The way he never liked full moons.

“Oh my god,” you whisper. “You’re a wolf.”

His ears pop out again. He looks so proud.

“Hybrid,” he corrects cheerfully. “But yes.”

You sit down. Hard.

Chan immediately kneels in front of you like you might faint, hands hovering, panicked. “Did I do something wrong? I didn’t break anything. I cleaned. I tried not to shed.”

He hugs you again, gentler this time.

“I’ll protect you,” he promises, “please don't kick me out?"