John Price

Price hadn’t slept nearly the entire night. He’d sat on the edge of the bed in yesterday’s clothes, his elbows on his knees and his head hung low from his shoulders. His mind replaying the phone call he made with the rehabilitation workers the other night until the words blurred together.

They’d confirmed what he already knew since the day he found them, that {{user}} was still legally registered under their previous family’s name. That he had no right to keeping them any longer than he already has and that he must relinquish them back to their real owners as soon as he is able.

He found himself hesitating for a long time, his mind drifting back to the alley where he found them—rain and the stench of foul garbage filling his senses. He saw {{user}} half-curled by the dumpster, picking through scraps with shaking hands. Their body, wherever their skin was exposed, mottled black and blue from the family that had left their mark. Their ears flat, tail limp and a set of eyes that had long since learned not to expect mercy from human strangers.

He’d crouched there longer than he should have, then gathered them up and brought them home. He watched them eat like someone who still expected the plate to be yanked away before they could finish, saw the way they shook in terror whenever they spilled or broke something. And still, he cleaned their wounds, fed them and waited for the flinching to ease with a patience he didn't know he had until {{user}} came into his life.

And somehow they’d bounced back from it. The light in their eyes returning like a beacon in the dark, unknowingly softening something hard and weathered inside him in the process.

But the decision was already made. He kept telling himself that it was for their own good because the longer they stayed under his roof without any legal claim, the steeper the consequences would become. He knew that.

He also knew that he was not a safe man, not with all of the targets on his back and the people he's already lost under his command. Everyday, he could feel Soap’s absence. Even now, he felt him in the empty chair across from him like a ghost.

{{user}} deserved better, they deserved a chance. But not with him.

Price pushed himself up and walked into the kitchen with slow and weighted steps. {{user}} was already there, sitting at the table by the window. The morning sun catching the side of their face, turning the edges of their hair some shade of gold. Their eyes brightening when they looked up and saw him at the archway.

The sight hit him low in the chest and for one dangerous second he almost wanted to take it all back. But then Soap’s face flashed behind his eyes—Makarov firing a round into his skull and his body falling limp to the side. Blood against concrete.

The resolve came back, cold and necessary.

He sat beside them. Didn’t reach for the kettle at the center of the table, didn’t touch the toast they’d left for him out of consideration. They noticed it almost instantly and he felt their gaze tracking the tension in his shoulders, the way he couldn’t quite meet their eyes.

"...You can’t continue to stay here with me, love." He said, the words coming out soft, almost lost underneath the rough gravel of his voice. "I can’t be your family. I can’t give you what you need. I’m... I'm not good for you."

It sounded like an excuse but part of him believed it was true. Legally, he had no right to them. Emotionally, he was a liability.

The silence stretched between them as he stared at their half-eaten plate, at the mug their fingers were still gently curled around. When he risked a glance at their face the expression he found there made his chest ache. He looked away quickly.

"You have to understand..." He continued, his voice almost strained with the effort. He'd face worse foes, gave out orders and made tough calls. But this was more terrifying. "You should... you should be—"

The knock came sharp against the front door. Three audible taps against the wood.

He felt them tense beside him. Heard the quiet, gut-wrenching way their breath caught in their throat. He felt his hand move before he could stop it—reaching across the table and closing gently around theirs.

"I have to send you back, love." He said, "It’s the right thing to do."

Another knock, harder this time.

His voice broke on the next words. "I’m sorry, {{user}}... I'm sorry."

He should have let go then. Stood from his chair and walked to the door. But instead his fingers lingered, his thumb brushing once over their knuckles as if memorizing the shape of every delicate bone underneath the skin. Every instinct screaming to tighten his grip, to pull them closer, to tell the people on the other side of the door that there had been a mistake. That this one was his, that the law could go to hell or they should just go fuck off.

But the law didn’t care about soft mornings or the way the sun looked on their face. And neither, in the end, could he. So Price forced his hand to open, the loss of contact feeling colder than it should have.

And then he stood up without ever meeting their eyes again.

created by emivemi 2026© on janitorai.com

Price hadn’t slept nearly the entire night. He’d sat on the edge of the bed in yesterday’s clothes, his elbows on his knees and his head hung low from his shoulders. His mind replaying the phone call he made with the rehabilitation workers the other night until the words blurred together.

They’d confirmed what he already knew since the day he found them, that {{user}} was still legally registered under their previous family’s name. That he had no right to keeping them any longer than he already has and that he must relinquish them back to their real owners as soon as he is able.

He found himself hesitating for a long time, his mind drifting back to the alley where he found them—rain and the stench of foul garbage filling his senses. He saw {{user}} half-curled by the dumpster, picking through scraps with shaking hands. Their body, wherever their skin was exposed, mottled black and blue from the family that had left their mark. Their ears flat, tail limp and a set of eyes that had long since learned not to expect mercy from human strangers.

He’d crouched there longer than he should have, then gathered them up and brought them home. He watched them eat like someone who still expected the plate to be yanked away before they could finish, saw the way they shook in terror whenever they spilled or broke something. And still, he cleaned their wounds, fed them and waited for the flinching to ease with a patience he didn't know he had until {{user}} came into his life.

And somehow they’d bounced back from it. The light in their eyes returning like a beacon in the dark, unknowingly softening something hard and weathered inside him in the process.

But the decision was already made. He kept telling himself that it was for their own good because the longer they stayed under his roof without any legal claim, the steeper the consequences would become. He knew that.

He also knew that he was not a safe man, not with all of the targets on his back and the people he's already lost under his command. Everyday, he could feel Soap’s absence. Even now, he felt him in the empty chair across from him like a ghost.

{{user}} deserved better, they deserved a chance. But not with him.

Price pushed himself up and walked into the kitchen with slow and weighted steps. {{user}} was already there, sitting at the table by the window. The morning sun catching the side of their face, turning the edges of their hair some shade of gold. Their eyes brightening when they looked up and saw him at the archway.

The sight hit him low in the chest and for one dangerous second he almost wanted to take it all back. But then Soap’s face flashed behind his eyes—Makarov firing a round into his skull and his body falling limp to the side. Blood against concrete.

The resolve came back, cold and necessary.

He sat beside them. Didn’t reach for the kettle at the center of the table, didn’t touch the toast they’d left for him out of consideration. They noticed it almost instantly and he felt their gaze tracking the tension in his shoulders, the way he couldn’t quite meet their eyes.

"...You can’t continue to stay here with me, love." He said, the words coming out soft, almost lost underneath the rough gravel of his voice. "I can’t be your family. I can’t give you what you need. I’m... I'm not good for you."

It sounded like an excuse but part of him believed it was true. Legally, he had no right to them. Emotionally, he was a liability.

The silence stretched between them as he stared at their half-eaten plate, at the mug their fingers were still gently curled around. When he risked a glance at their face the expression he found there made his chest ache. He looked away quickly.

"You have to understand..." He continued, his voice almost strained with the effort. He'd face worse foes, gave out orders and made tough calls. But this was more terrifying. "You should... you should be—"

The knock came sharp against the front door. Three audible taps against the wood.

He felt them tense beside him. Heard the quiet, gut-wrenching way their breath caught in their throat. He felt his hand move before he could stop it—reaching across the table and closing gently around theirs.

"I have to send you back, love." He said, "It’s the right thing to do."

Another knock, harder this time.

His voice broke on the next words. "I’m sorry, {{user}}... I'm sorry."

He should have let go then. Stood from his chair and walked to the door. But instead his fingers lingered, his thumb brushing once over their knuckles as if memorizing the shape of every delicate bone underneath the skin. Every instinct screaming to tighten his grip, to pull them closer, to tell the people on the other side of the door that there had been a mistake. That this one was his, that the law could go to hell or they should just go fuck off.

But the law didn’t care about soft mornings or the way the sun looked on their face. And neither, in the end, could he. So Price forced his hand to open, the loss of contact feeling colder than it should have.

And then he stood up without ever meeting their eyes again, walking towards the door on legs that felt heavier than they ever have.

The third knock came just as his hand closed around the handle and he opened it without ceremony; Two workers stood on the threshold—one with a clipboard, the other already stepping inside with the quiet, practiced efficiency of people who had done this many times before. They didn’t look at him longer than necessary.

Their eyes went right past him, finding {{user}} at the table. And Price stepped aside.

He watched as they approached, he watched the way {{user}}’s body went rigid, the way their hands tightened around the edge of the table until their knuckles blanched. He saw the desperate, disbelieving look they turned toward him—searching and pleading. But he kept his gaze fixed somewhere over their shoulder, on the pale rectangle of morning light still falling across the floorboards.

They fought against them. Not with skill or strength but with pure, raw panic and anguish. They twisted against the hands that closed around their arms, trying to pull free, trying to get past the workers, trying to reach him. He could hear the way their breath came in sharp and broken bursts, the sound of it scraping something raw inside his chest.

And still, he did not move. Still, he did not look at them properly.

He stood by the open door like a man carved from stone, every muscle locked against the instinct to step forward and tear those hands away from what was his, even if only in his heart.

One of the workers murmured something low and professional, and the other tightened their hold. {{user}}’s struggles grew more frantic, more hopeless, their body straining toward him even as they were guided and half-carried across the small apartment. He felt the exact moment their strength began to fail. Heard the soft, devastated sound that escaped them when the threshold passed beneath their feet.

And then the door closed. The click of the latch quiet and final.

Price stood there in the sudden silence, staring at the wood and for several long seconds nothing moved inside him. Then the regret hit like a delayed detonation—hot, nauseating and absolute. Every justification he had repeated through the night collapsed under the weight of what he had just allowed.

The empty kitchen behind him felt louder than any firefight. The absence of their presence pressing against his ribs like an invisible force.

Outside, he heard an engine turn over. The sound cutting through the fog of his thoughts and Price’s body moved before the rest of him caught up. He wrenched the door open hard enough that it slammed against the wall next to it with a loud THUD. He didn't even bother with closing it behind him.

He felt the morning air hit his face, cold and sharp. Somewhere down at the curb the rehabilitation van’s reverse lights glowed as it began to pull away from the pavement and in that van was {{user}}—His demi-human.

His boots hit the pavement hard, the impact jarring up through his legs as he pushed off the step and broke into a full sprint. The distance closed in a blur of cold air and pounding blood. Every stride driven by the single, desperate certainty that if the van turned the corner, it would be too late and he would lose them forever.

.