CARLOS OLIVEIRA

Raccoon City was hell on earth, and Carlos had seen enough chaos to last a lifetime. Blood, infection, screaming sirens — that was the world he was used to navigating. Dangerous missions? Easy. Mutant bioweapons? Annoying, but manageable.

But you? You were a whole different kind of threat!

He first saw you perched on the edge of a broken windowsill inside the abandoned shelter — sunlight cutting through shattered glass, illuminating the soft flick of your tail. A hybrid. Cat ears twitching at every distant sound, eyes sharp, calculating… and unimpressed.

... Very unimpressed.

Carlos remembered lowering his rifle just slightly, blinking at you like he’d just walked into something sacred. You didn’t look scared or grateful. If anything, you looked like you were silently judging him.

“Easy there,” he had said, lifting his hands slowly. “Not here to cause trouble.”

Your ears flattened for half a second — not out of fear, but annoyance. You gave him a slow, lazy blink before turning your face away as if he were beneath your attention.

And that was it. He was done for.

---

Since then, Carlos has made it his personal mission — unofficial, highly classified, and entirely one-sided — to win you over!

You weren’t like the other hybrids he’d encountered. No clinging. No obvious trust. You were independent. Distant. Proud. You only accepted help when it suited you. If he got too close without permission? Claws. If he talked too much? Tail flick. If he teased you? Cold stare.

But you stayed near him. Not close, but near. That has to be a good sign, right?

On rooftops when he scouted. On high shelves when he cleaned weapons. Watching. Observing him. Sometimes disappearing for hours only to return and sit within eyesight — like you were allowing him the privilege of existing in your territory.

Carlos tried everything.

He brought you canned food scavenged from the safest places, he offered his jacket when the nights turned cold, he pretended not to notice when you silently claimed the warmest corner of whatever room you both were hiding in...

He even learned — painfully — that you hated being touched without warning.

The first time he tried to scratch behind your ear, you hissed and swatted him. He still has the faint scar... and he’s weirdly proud of it.

---

But here’s the thing. Carlos doesn’t want to tame you... He wants that slow blink meant just for him. He wants you to choose to sit beside him. He wants your tail curling around his wrist on your own terms.

He wants to earn it.

And lately… he’s started noticing the small things.

The way your ears tilt toward him when he laughs. The way you linger a little longer when he patches up a wound. The way you don’t move away when his knee accidentally brushes yours.

You’re still snooty. Still distant and acting like he’s just some loud human invading your airspace... but he just doesn't give up! You're too cute for that, he thinks. Come on, he can be a good owner! If only you'd let him...

---

The safehouse is unusually quiet that night.

A small lamp casts a warm golden glow across the room, softening the cracks in the walls and the peeling paint. Outside, the city hums faintly in the distance — but in here, it almost feels peaceful.

Carlos finally steps through the door after a long mission, shoulders sore, shirt slightly torn, the faint scent of gunpowder and sweat clinging to him.

... And something else.

He exhales heavily, dragging a hand through his messy dark hair before kicking the door shut behind him.

“Miss me?” he mutters with a tired grin, spotting you immediately.

You’re curled up on the couch, tail wrapped neatly around your legs, ears twitching lazily as if you hadn’t been waiting at all.

Your eyes slide toward him slowly and calculating.

He starts unstrapping his gear, placing his rifle down carefully. “Long day,” he sighs. “Had to escort a few hybrids outta a hot zone. Couple of dog types. Big guys. Loyal as hell.”

He doesn’t notice it at first. The subtle shift and how your nose twitches or your ears flick back.

Carlos shrugs off his jacket and tosses it onto a chair, completely unaware of the crime he’s just committed.

Then you stand gracefully, walking toward him — not in your usual aloof way. No. This is purposeful.

He smiles automatically, his eyes lit up. “Oh? What’s this? Finally gonna greet me properly?”

You stop inches away from him. Close enough that he can feel your warmth. Close enough that he can see your pupils narrow. You lean in and sniff his scent.

Dog. How could he?

It’s faint — but it’s there. On his clothes. On his hands... all over him.

Carlos watches your expression change in real time. “...Why do I feel like I’m in trouble?” he murmurs, amusement creeping into his voice.

Your tail flicks sharply behind you a couple of times and then you turn your face away — cold and dismissive, as if he suddenly disgusts you.

Carlos blinks. “Oh come on,” he huffs softly, stepping closer. “It was work. Just work.”

Your ears flatten slightly. The message is clear: He smells like other hybrids! Dog hybrids, to be precise. The worst kind of hybrids!

And you absolutely do not approve.

Carlos runs a hand down his face, half exhausted, half entertained. “... You jealous?” he teases gently, not knowing he was just making it worse.