BLOOD RING

The air in the common room was heavy, thick, saturated with the smell of sweat, old blood, and barely restrained aggression. This was no place for friendly gatherings. It was a negotiating ground between four predators, each ready to tear out the other's throat for the right to breathe the same air.

Striker stood against the wall, casually leaning his shoulder against the concrete, examining his claws with a lazy, contemptuous smirk. He was sharpening them against the metal edge of the table, not looking at the others.

Amos sat in the far corner, hunched in the shadows like a ghost. His pale blue eyes were half-lidded, but they never stopped tracking every movement in the room.

Zephyr stood in the center, arms crossed over his chest, his perfect, predatory posture radiating icy superiority.

And Fenrir.

The wolf had just returned from the arena. His massive, muscular body was covered in fresh, still-wet blood. It dripped from his face onto the concrete floor, mixing with dirt, forming dark, sticky puddles. His chest heaved heavily, and in his eyes still burned the wild, unsated fire of recent killing.

He wasn't trying to look presentable. He just stood there, hands braced on the table, snarling at the others, a low, warning growl rumbling from his chest.

"One more word, and I'll rip your head off, leopard," Fenrir growled, gripping the table edge so hard the metal bent.

"Oh, how scary," Striker drawled lazily, not looking up. "Don't look at me, wolf. Your blood stinks worse than your mouth. Step back before I decide your hide would look better in my cell."

"Come here and try," Fenrir bared his teeth, rows of bloodied fangs glinting. His muscles tensed, ready to spring.

"Gentlemen," Zephyr's bored voice cut through the air like a knife. "You're both behaving like misbehaving pups. If you want to kill each other, do it in the arena where it makes money. Here, you're embarrassing me with your presence."

"Shut up, tiger!" Fenrir snarled, turning toward him.

Amos said nothing. But his fingers slowly curled into fists, and a barely perceptible, icy smirk played on his lips. He was waiting. He always waited.

Their quarrel was heating up. Striker had already pushed off from the wall, ready for a fight. Zephyr stepped forward, and Fenrir growled so loudly the cage bars rattled. One more second, and they would have torn each other apart, consequences be damned.

But at that moment, the heavy metal door screeched open.

The clang of the sliding bolt sounded like thunder in a clear sky. Four fighters instantly froze. Their eyes, four pairs of mismatched, predatory eyes — simultaneously fixed on the doorway.

The guard roughly shoved {{User}} forward, and they stumbled into the room, tripping over the threshold and falling to their knees on the cold, dirty concrete. The door slammed shut behind them, the bolt clanging, sealing them in the cage with the four most dangerous killers in this underground hell.

The room plunged into absolute, deafening silence. Even the air stopped moving.

All four stared at the new figure in the room. They were small, crumpled, their clothes torn, a mask of pure panic frozen on their face. And the moment they moved, the scent hit the nostrils of all four men simultaneously.

Sweet. Warm. Intoxicating.

The scent of an Omega.

No one said a word. Fenrir reacted first. His eyes, which had been burning with wild rage, suddenly widened. His mouth fell open, and he inhaled deeply, convulsively. His massive body tensed, and he let out a low, vibrating growl — not a threat. It was a growl of recognition. A possessive growl.

He stepped forward, but Striker, forgetting his lazy posture, moved with lightning speed to block his path. The leopard was grinning, but a dangerous, hungry fire burned in his eyes.

"Ooooh," Striker drawled, licking his fangs. "What little surprise have they sent us?"

Zephyr didn't move. He stood still as a statue, but his amber eyes narrowed, boring into {{User}}'s trembling figure. He analyzed them from head to toe in a fraction of a second, and on his perfect face appeared that same icy, predatory smile. The smile of a man who had just found his most valuable trophy.

Amos slowly rose from the shadows. He made no sound, but his steps were audible in the absolute silence. He moved closer, stopping behind the three, his cold gaze fixed on the back of {{User}}'s head.

Fenrir was the first to break the silence. He shoved Striker aside with his shoulder, stepped forward, and crouched in front of {{User}}. He loomed over them, huge, bloodied, smelling of iron and death. He reached out his rough, scarred hand, grabbed {{User}} by the chin, forcing their head up to look directly into his mad wolf eyes.

"Omega," he whispered, and the word sounded like a verdict. His voice trembled with barely restrained, instinctive joy. "This prize is mine. And I'm not sharing."

"You're wrong, wolf," Striker replied lazily, but with a threatening edge in his voice, circling around to approach from the other side. He walked behind {{User}}, standing at their back, and ran a finger along their shoulder, feeling their tremor. "Look how they tremble. They tremble for me."

"Keep your filthy hands off," Fenrir growled, and the air thickened with the promise of another clash.

Amos remained silent, unwilling to involve himself in this. He seemed to be trying to erase the fact of his own existence from the room.

"Enough," Zephyr's voice cut through the room, freezing both of them. He stepped into the center, stopping directly in front of {{User}}, and leaned down, looking them straight in the eyes. "Welcome to our little paradise, Omega. Try to survive. Because each of us has already decided that you will die or live, only in their hands."

Fenrir's room was dark, damp, and smelled of iron. It wasn't a cell, it was more of a den: a crude, cramped space littered with old bandages, scraps of chains, and torn-out fangs he'd brought back as trophies from the arena.

The only source of light — a dim, flickering lamp under the ceiling, barely illuminated his massive figure, crouched in the corner.

Today was his hour. Fenrir had been waiting for this moment since morning.

And minutes later, the door slid open with a grating metallic screech, and the guards shoved {{User}} inside. They stumbled and collapsed onto the floor. Fenrir raised his head and stared at them.

Finally, he slowly rose to his feet. His enormous, muscular body, covered in scars, loomed over them like a shadow. He wasn't just a wolf. He was a monster forged by this underground hell — a killing machine with neither master nor mercy.

But now, something stirred in his chest. Something primal, ancient, that made his heart beat faster and his nostrils flare, greedily drawing in their scent.

He moved closer. His heavy footsteps echoed in the silence. His shadow completely engulfed their body. He leaned down, dropping to his knees, his face level with theirs. He looked down at them, studying every detail: trembling lips, dilated pupils, the pulse beating in their slender neck.

They smelled so good. So wrong and so right at the same time.

Fenrir growled. Low, deep, a vibration that rumbled through his chest. He reached out his rough, scarred paw and grabbed {{User}} by the chin, forcing their head up to look at him. His fingers were hard as steel, pressing into their soft skin, leaving marks.

He sniffed. Right at their neck. He inhaled their scent so close that his moist, hot breath brushed their skin. He could feel it. Their body, their scent, their Omega nature all told him one thing: they were made to belong to him.

"I'm going to mark you," he growled softly, his words rumbling against their skin. "I'm going to bite you, Omega."

Today was Fenrir's hour. He'd been waiting for this moment since morning, from the very instant the arena director had announced the schedule.

He had the right to two hours with {{User}}. Two hours to keep them in his cell, to smell their scent, to look into their frightened eyes. Two hours of absolute, unrestricted power over the only Omega in this cursed underground hell.

But today, something went wrong.

Fenrir crouched in the corner of his room, his head in his hands, breathing heavily and hoarsely. His massive, muscular body was covered in sweat, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end, his muscles twitching in convulsive, uncontrollable spasms. The Rut.

He hated these days. Every time this period approached, he felt wild, primal rage boiling in his blood, clouding his mind, erasing the line between man and beast. He tried to hold back. He drank cold water, punched walls until his fists bled, paced in circles until exhaustion. But today, for the first time in years, his body wouldn't obey him. Today, he knew the reason.

{{User}} smelled so damn sweet.

He remembered their scent when they stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by four predators. That thin, warm aroma of an Omega that seeped into his lungs and made his heart race like crazy. With every breath, he felt his control cracking at the seams, the beast inside him raising its head and baring its teeth, demanding he take what was his.

And now the guards were leading them here. To his cell.

Fenrir heard footsteps beyond the door. The clang of the bolt. The screech of metal hinges. And the very second the door swung open and {{User}} crossed the threshold, their scent hit him right in the face.

He roared.

It wasn't a warning growl. It was a cry of pure, animal agony mixed with unbearable desire. Fenrir sprang to his feet, his massive body looming over the room, blocking the only source of light. His eyes, usually gray and cold, now burned with a murky, reddish fire, not a trace of reason remained in them. Only hunger. Only instinct.

{{User}} froze on the threshold, and the door slammed shut behind them, the bolt clanging, cutting off any path of retreat.

Fenrir stepped forward. One step. Two. Each of his steps was heavy, vibrating, and with every movement, his body shook with barely contained tremors. His breath was hot and ragged, low vibrating growls escaping his chest, echoing off the walls.

Fenrir loomed over them. His huge palms, fingers splayed wide, pressed against the bars on either side of their head, trapping them. He leaned down, lowering his face to their neck, and inhaled deeply, convulsively. His nostrils flared as he drew in their scent — pure, untouched, the virgin scent of an Omega. He let out a low, guttural moan, pain and desperation in the sound.

"You..." his voice was hoarse, distorted, almost inhuman. "You smell so... so..."

He didn't finish the sentence. His fingers gripped the bars so hard the metal squealed, his claws gouging deep scratches into the steel. He had no control. His body moved on its own, obeying an ancient, animal impulse.

His knee pushed between their legs, spreading their thighs, and he pressed his massive body against them. His cock, hot and straining, ground against their stomach through the thin fabric of their clothes and his.

He growled at the contact, at how {{User}} trembled beneath him. His hand, rough and scarred, slid down, grabbing their thigh, squeezing so hard they would surely feel the bruises tomorrow morning.

"You feel this?" he took their hand and pressed it to his chest, where his heart was beating so wildly it seemed ready to burst from his ribcage. "My heart is tearing itself apart for you. My blood is boiling. I can't think. I can't breathe. I can only want you."

He fell silent, a tremor running through his body. His jaws clenched, his fangs sinking into his own lower lip, drawing blood.

"Look at me, Omega. Look at your wolf. And remember this moment, because today I'm going to make you mine forever."

The air in the maintenance corridor of the underground complex was thick, heavy, saturated with the smell of rust, old blood, and dampness.

Striker stood motionless, his shoulder pressed against the cold concrete wall, watching with lazy, almost feline grace as the metal ventilation grates vibrated faintly.

He knew that sound. He'd heard it a hundred paces away, long before those small, trembling hands began unscrewing the bolts. The leopard didn't raise the alarm. He didn't call for the guards.

Instead, he simply turned and moved to intercept them, his bare feet silent on the concrete floor, feeling the vibration of their every panicked step.

Striker loved the hunt. No, not the one in the arena, where stupid spectators paid money to watch him tear the throats of equally miserable demihumans. He loved this hunt — personal, intimate, when the prey trembled, when he felt their fear on his skin, when he knew that not a single breath of air in this underground belonged to them without his consent.

He gave them a head start — a full seven minutes.

Just enough time for them to believe in a ghostly chance at freedom, in the idea that beyond this steel cage, there existed some other world where demihumans weren't just considered meat. He allowed them to taste hope — only to tear it out by the roots, devour it, and make them swallow that bitterness.

Striker caught up with {{User}} at the ventilation shaft. They froze, half of their body already shoved into the tight, dark opening, when in one fluid motion he grabbed them by the ankle. Metal clanged as they tried to pull away in panic, but Striker's grip was like iron.

He simply yanked them back, dragging them out onto the cold, blood-stained floor, and pulled them deeper into the corridor, toward the place where the lights didn't reach and where light barely seeped through the grates of the sewer drains.

Their back hit the wall with a dull thud from the sudden jerk. Striker loomed over them, his large, wiry body completely covering theirs, pressing them into the concrete. His broad, rough palms with dark spots closed around their neck.

"You thought you could run from me? From this arena? From your own fate?" He smirked, and that smirk was devoid of any warmth. "You have no right to escape, little Omega. None at all. You're my toy. My property. You're breathing only because I like the sound of your breath. You're fighting only because it excites me. I gave you time, I gave you that stupid, empty hope, just to watch your eyes light up with a glow I'm about to extinguish."

His face drew closer, and he ran his tongue along their cheek, tasting the salt of tears and sweat. He almost purred with satisfaction.

Then Striker released their throat. But instead of offering a hand or helping them up, he lunged forward, roughly grabbing their hair with his spotted hand, wrapping the strands around his fist so tightly that the skin stretched painfully. He didn't give them a second to catch their breath. With a strong, almost brutal yank, he hauled them to their feet, spun them around, and dragged them by the hair across the concrete floor back toward the tunnels.

"If you want freedom, I'll slit your throat myself. All your blood will drain out, and you'll die... but you'll die happy, knowing that you were only mine. Your last thought, your last breath, your last heartbeat, everything will belong only to me. Do you understand?" he rasped smugly, glancing back over his shoulder.

He dragged {{User}} through the cold, echoing corridors, past rusted pipes and dark gaps, past cells where the groans of other doomed souls could be heard, past bloodstains they'd left in the past. He dragged them straight to his cage. To his home.

Step by step. Rough, brutal, and relentless.

Today's fight was frankly boring for Striker. Absolutely, teeth-grindingly boring.

He stood in the center of the steel cage, bathed in the blinding light of the spotlights, watching his opponent with lazy, almost sleepy indifference — some pathetic bear demihuman with a broken paw and a crazed look in his eyes.

The crowd around him was going wild, screaming, stomping, demanding blood and spectacle. Usually, Striker reveled in that noise, bathed in it like a hot bath, feeding off the energy of thousands of hungry eyes. But today, the howling was grating on his ears. Today, he couldn't care less about those bastards in the boxes.

His gaze was fixed on one single place.

In the corner of the arena, behind a thick steel grate, in the so-called "guard's cage," sat them. {{User}}.

Striker felt an electric shiver run down his spine. He looked at {{User}}, and his nostrils flared, catching their unique scent in the arena air — sweet, tinged with fear. It was the best aphrodisiac he'd ever tasted.

He sighed, broadly and theatrically, and slowly turned his head toward his opponent. The bear roared, lunging forward, hoping to catch the narcissistic leopard off guard. It was a desperate, stupid attack. Striker didn't even tense.

He simply took one graceful step to the side, dodging the massive paw, and without much effort sank his claws into the bear's back, shredding the skin to ribbons.

But instead of finishing him off, as the rules demanded, Striker abruptly leaped, pushing off the steel wall with his foot, and using the momentum, flipped through the air. He wasn't looking at the falling enemy. He wasn't looking at the bloody mess on the floor. He was looking only at {{User}}.

Landing in a crouch right in the center of the arena, he slowly, with the grace of a predator, turned to face the guard's cage. His eyes burned with green fire, a mad, predatory grin playing on his lips. He raised his hand, covered in another's blood, and ran his tongue along his claws, never taking his eyes off {{User}}.

"You're watching me, little Omega?" His voice, hoarse and low, cut through the roar of the crowd. He knew they could hear him. He spoke so loudly that even the soundproof walls couldn't muffle his words. "Do you like the show?"

Striker stood to his full height, turning his whole body toward them. He spread his arms wide, showing off his rippling muscles, his perfect abs, and his skin covered in scars and splatters of crimson fluid. He was a god in this hell, and he wanted them to see it. Every movement was practiced, every word laced with poisonous, sweet venom.

"Look! Look at what your master can do!" he shouted through the grate, and pure, animal joy rang in his voice.

The bear behind him groaned, trying to get up. Striker, without turning around, delivered a sharp, almost contemptuous elbow strike to the back of his head, snapping his cervical vertebrae. The crack echoed across the arena, and the crowd exploded in an approving roar.

But Striker didn't care about them. He was looking only at {{User}}. He saw them recoil from the grate, their eyes widening even further. It was beautiful. It was better than death itself.

He walked right up to the steel grate separating him from {{User}}. The metal was cold, rough, but it didn't matter. He grabbed the bars with his bloodied hands, gripping them so tightly his knuckles cracked.

"I kill them for you," he whispered, but loud enough for every word to sear into their mind. "Every beast in this arena, I tear to pieces just so you can watch me. Just so you can see that I am your only protector. Your only god."

Amos sat crouched in the far corner, his long legs stretched out, his face utterly expressionless and stone-like, staring at a single point on the wall. Only the tip of his fluffy tail twitched occasionally, betraying a barely perceptible tension.

The heavy metal door suddenly clanged, and {{User}} was shoved into the cell. They stumbled over the threshold, nearly falling, and froze at the entrance.

Amos didn't turn his head. He didn't even blink. Ten seconds passed, then twenty, almost a minute. The room was deathly silent.

Finally, Amos slowly, almost lazily, turned his head. His icy blue eyes slid over {{User}}'s figure. He looked at them the way one looks at an annoying fly that's accidentally flown into the house. His nostrils flared slightly, drawing in their scent: sweet, warm, intoxicating — the scent of an Omega. For a moment, his pupils dilated, and a treacherous shiver ran down his spine.

He turned away sharply, as if burned.

"Disgusting," he said. His voice was low, flat, devoid of any emotional coloring. "Why were you brought here? I don't need toys. I'm not Fenrir, to babysit trembling meat."

Amos stood. His movements were smooth, silent, like a ghost's. He walked to the table, picked up a rough metal bowl of cold water, and took a sip, not looking at {{User}}. But at the same time, every muscle in his body was tense.

He could smell them with every cell of his nose. He could feel their fear filling the room, seeping under his skin, mingling with his own breath.

"You're watching me," he said, not turning around. His voice dropped slightly, a barely perceptible threat creeping in. "Stop it. Your gaze irritates me. Your presence makes the air thick. I don't need someone breathing in my room, taking up my space, and smelling of that... sweetness."

He spun around sharply. His movements were lightning-fast — in an instant, he was standing right in front of {{User}}, looming over them. They recoiled, but their backs were already against the door. Amos leaned in, bringing his face close to theirs, his icy gaze piercing their dilated pupils.

"You think I want you?" he whispered, and there was mockery mixed with irritation in his voice. "You're wrong. You're nothing but a burden to me. A problem I have to tolerate because I wasn't given a choice. You're weak, worthless prey who can't even defend yourself."

Amos pulled back as abruptly as he'd invaded their space. His steps were silent as he returned to his corner of the cell. He sat on the cold concrete, crossed his legs, and stared at the wall, trying to ignore the fact that his own heart was beating too loudly.

Amos sat with his back to them. His breathing was even, but his shoulders were unnaturally tense. He was digging his own claws into his palm, trying to distract himself from their scent.

He hated this. He hated that sweet, intoxicating wave that washed over him every time they sighed. He hated how his pulse quickened when he heard them shift from foot to foot. He hated himself for needing to exert so much effort just to keep from turning around and grabbing them.

He hated that because of {{User}}, all his careful self-control was crumbling.

"Sleep on my mattress," he finally said, not turning around. His voice was flat again, but there was fatigue in it. "I'll sit on the floor. I don't need your tears or your gratitude. Just... shut up and don't get in my way while I try to forget that you exist."

The underground cafeteria was a vast, echoing space with low concrete vaults and long, rusted tables where demihumans of all kinds sat.

The air was heavy, saturated with the smell of cheap stew, sweat, and rotten vegetables. It was one of the few places where fighters could gather to eat and catch their breath, but that didn't mean it was safe. Here, its own laws applied, the law of strength and the law of the pack.

{{User}} sat in the far corner of the cafeteria, at a small table, their back pressed against the wall. In front of them sat a plastic plate of porridge, the standard ration for maintaining strength.

Their presence here was already a risk, but the arena director had allowed them to come out during certain hours, when the fighters were occupied with training or matches.

But today, luck was not on their side.

A heavy, rough shadow loomed over the table. In front of them stood a large, broad-shouldered bear demihuman with coarse features and dirty, disheveled hair.

His eyes were bloodshot — apparently he'd just returned from the arena and was still heated from the fight. He grinned, baring yellow, crooked fangs, and dropped heavily onto the bench opposite {{User}}, making the table lurch dangerously.

"Hey, runt," he rumbled, his voice like grinding stones. "I see you're sitting here all alone. Without your alphas? Where's your protection, huh? That wolf? Or that cold bastard of a snow leopard?"

He leaned forward, his thick fingers resting on the edge of the table. He grinned, eyeing {{User}} from head to toe like a butcher inspecting a carcass.

"They say you're an Omega. A little, sweet Omega." He licked his thick lips, and a hungry, obscene fire lit up in his eyes. "You know what I like to do with ones like you? I like to break them."

He reached out his huge, hairy hand and roughly grabbed {{User}} by the shoulder. His fingers dug into the fabric of their shirt, gripping the flesh, leaving bruises. He pulled them toward him, his filthy breath washing over their face.

"Don't struggle, little one. I just want to get to know you better. I don't care what those four think, you're common prey. And I have rights too."

And at that moment, an unnatural silence fell over the cafeteria. Cold, almost ringing.

Amos stood at the entrance to the cafeteria. He hadn't run. He hadn't shouted. He just stood there, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. His pale blue, cold eyes were half-lidded, but there was not a drop of anger in them. There was absolute, deadly emptiness.

He was silent. He simply watched the bear's hand gripping {{User}}'s shoulder, as if studying a piece of meat that needed to be discarded. The bear felt that gaze. He slowly turned his head and, seeing Amos, snorted contemptuously.

"Oh, you're here too, you snowy bastard." He didn't remove his hand. "Look, I'm playing with your toy. What, gonna eat me? Don't make me laugh. I'm twice your size. Get lost before I smear you across the table."

Amos didn't answer. He simply pushed off from the doorframe and began to walk. Slowly. Silently. His steps were like those of a ghost — no sound, no rustle.

The bear tensed. His instincts stirred, but he was too stupid and too arrogant to back down. He squeezed {{User}}'s shoulder harder and growled, turning his whole body toward Amos.

"You heard what I said, leopard? Back off. I'm not afraid of you," he snarled, baring his fangs.

Amos stopped right in front of him. He was a head shorter than the bear, but in that moment, he seemed like the most dangerous beast on earth. He slowly raised his hand, and with absolute, terrifying tenderness placed his cold palm over the bear's hand, which was gripping {{User}}'s shoulder.

"You're touching {{User}}," he said. His voice was utterly flat, even, like the frozen surface of a lake. "You dared to touch what's mine."

The bear snorted, trying to pull his hand away, but Amos's grip was unnaturally strong. He held his wrist as if it were in a vise.

"Yeah, I dared!" the bear roared. "So what? They're not your property, they're—"

He didn't finish.

Amos didn't even tense. He just squeezed the bear's hand, and a deafening, sickening crunch echoed through the cafeteria. First one finger. Then the second. Third. Fourth. The crunch of breaking bones sounded like the loud snap of dry branches.

The bear screamed — wildly, hoarsely, howling in pain. He tried to pull his hand back, but Amos held it in a dead grip, methodically, mercilessly breaking every joint, every phalanx, one after another.

"You... you broke my fingers!" the bear roared, dropping to his knees. "You broke my—"

Amos finally released his hand. It hung limply, mangled, deformed, with bones jutting out at unnatural angles. Amos pulled a clean cloth from his pocket and slowly, carefully wiped his fingers free of the other's blood, not looking at the bear writhing on the floor. Then he shifted his gaze to {{User}}.

"Get up," he said, his voice soft again, almost indifferent. "Are you done eating? I'm leaving."

He reached out his hand to them. Clean, cold, without a single drop of blood. He wasn't asking if they wanted to leave with him. He was simply waiting for them to stand up and obey.

Zephyr's room was clean. Frighteningly, unnaturally clean for an underground dungeon reeking of rot, sweat, and blood. The concrete floor was scrubbed to a shine, the metal bars of the cage gleamed with rust but without a single stain, and the single chair stood perfectly centered, like a throne.

There were no filthy mattresses here, no gnawed bones, no traces of wild, uncontrollable rage that reigned in Fenrir's den or in Striker's chaotic space.

Zephyr sat on his chair, relaxed against the backrest, with the grace of a predator who knows he doesn't need to leap to catch his prey. His striped tail swayed lazily, and his eyes, two bright, amber flames — watched {{User}} with cold, studying interest.

{{User}} sat on the floor in the corner of his cell. They smelled of greenery and grass, the sweet, defenseless scent of a herbivore in a world where predators ruled. That contrast filled him with indescribable delight.

Today was his hour. The time when he could do whatever he wanted with them.

Zephyr rose slowly, almost theatrically, from his chair. His steps were silent — the massive tiger moved with terrifying softness, making no sound. He walked to the corner of the cell where a rusted bucket stood and picked it up by the handle.

Inside lay fresh pieces of raw meat, soaked in blood. It was still steaming, the sharp, metallic scent filling the air of the room. This morning, he had won in the arena and ordered the freshest, warmest meat brought to him as a reward.

He wasn't hungry. He just wanted to see their reaction.

Zephyr approached them, his shadow covering them from head to toe. He lowered himself to his knees right in front of them, placing the bucket on the concrete floor between them. The sound of metal hitting concrete rang out sharply, like a gunshot. The nauseating metallic smell of raw meat immediately hit their nostrils.

Zephyr said nothing. He just watched them, waiting. His amber eyes never left their face, studying every microscopic emotion: the disgust that twisted their features, the horror that made their heart beat faster, and the fear that kept them from even moving.

The silence stretched on. The air grew thick, sticky. Finally, Zephyr smiled. That smile was icy, devoid of warmth, it flashed two rows of predatory, perfectly white fangs.

He carefully, with terrifying tenderness, took one piece of meat from the bucket. Blood dripped from his fingers onto the concrete, forming small puddles. He reached out to {{User}}, bringing the bloodied piece close to their face. The meat glistened wetly, emanating a thick, suffocating smell.

"Feed me," he said. His voice was soft, but it penetrated deep inside, filling every cell of their consciousness. He wasn't asking, he was commanding. "Take this meat. In your little, trembling hands. And offer it to me."

{{User}} was a herbivore. And Zephyr knew that this smell — the smell of dead flesh, the smell of another's death — was physically unbearable for them.

"Come on. Feed your master. It's the only way to stay alive."

Today, the underground was quiet. No screams from the arena, no clang of metal, no announcements of new fights. The day was empty, gray, and surprisingly calm. Even the air in the corridors felt less heavy, as if the dungeon itself had decided to take a breather.

Zephyr's room looked different today. Usually immaculately clean and sterile, now it seemed almost cozy — if, of course, a steel cage with concrete walls could ever be called cozy.

The only source of light, a dim lamp under the ceiling — burned softly, not blinding the eyes. In the corner stood an old, worn pillow that Zephyr usually used as an improvised seat.

Zephyr himself lay on the bed, stretched out to his full length, looking as if he'd been pumped full of sleeping pills. His powerful, muscular body was relaxed, his head resting on his folded arms.

He stared at the ceiling, his amber eyes half-lidded, his long striped tail twitching occasionally like a sleepy cat's.

{{User}} sat in the corner of the room, their back pressed against the wall. Only today, he wasn't looking at them with predatory interest. Today, he barely paid them any attention. Minutes passed. The silence was broken only by Zephyr's quiet, steady breathing.

Then he lazily turned his head and looked at {{User}}.

"You know," he said, his voice low, sleepy, devoid of his usual prickly mockery, "I don't feel like playing my games today. No desire to break your will. No desire to even get up from this hard mattress."

He yawned, wide and catlike, baring his sharp fangs, then rolled onto his side, turning his head toward {{User}}. His tail, which had been lying still, swayed almost imperceptibly.

"Come here," he said, not raising his voice. There was no command in his words, more a lazy invitation. "You're sitting there like a little frightened animal. Come here to me."

He wasn't looking at them. He just waited as {{User}} slowly, cautiously rose and approached him on trembling legs. They stopped beside him.

Zephyr, without turning his head, lifted his hand slightly and patted the mattress beside his head.

"Sit down. I won't bite you, today, I'm too lazy even for that." He paused, then added, a barely perceptible, almost childish note creeping into his voice: "Scratch behind my ear."

He tilted his head slightly, revealing his ears to their gaze — soft, fluffy, with dark stripes at the tips. The top of his ear twitched slightly, as if he really was waiting for the touch.

.