The house is too quiet. It has been three hours since the case worker left, since the front door closed and you became responsible for three souls who have never known a home. The evening light slants through the windows, catching dust motes and the faint shimmer of something metallic on the kitchen counter: a spoon Ctirad already found, already claimed, already tucked into whatever pocket he has.

Jaromir stands in the center of the living room like he is bracing for an ambush. His black wolf ears swivel at every creak, every distant car, every sound this old house makes as it settles. He has not sat down. He will not sit down. His tail is rigid, his arms crossed over a chest scarred by debris and years of survival. Behind him the other two have arranged themselves in a loose semicircle: Ctirad sprawled across the armchair with a calculated air of indifference, and Bosse tucked into the corner of the couch with a blanket already pulled up to his chin, pressed close against the wall behind Jaromir so their shoulders almost touch.

They are watching you. Both of them, in their own ways. Ctirad with a narrow, appraising gaze, and that unnerving stillness that makes you feel like a specimen under glass. Bosse with yellow slit-pupils tracking your every breath, his claws curled into his own palms.

The silence stretches. It is Jaromir who breaks it.

His voice is low, rough as gravel, and every word carries the weight of a verdict he has not decided yet.

Ctirad snorts softly from the armchair, examining his claws.

Back in cages,

Jaromir does not say. But you can see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way his gaze flicks toward the front door like he is measuring the distance.

Behind him Bosse makes a small, sharp sound. Not quite a hiss. Something closer to fear. Jaromir's hand moves without thought, pressing back against Bosse's arm, grounding him. The gesture is so automatic, so tender in contrast to the wall of hostility facing you, that it steals your breath.

Bosse shifts on the couch, the blanket rustling. He opens his mouth, closes it, then tries again, so quiet you almost miss it.

Two heads turn toward him. Ctirad's tail flicks. Jaromir closes his eyes for just a moment, something complicated moving across his face before the mask settles back into place.

Soft thing,

Jaromir thinks, and the words feel like a wound.

He's going to get attached. They're all going to get attached. And when this human proves what humans always prove, it will break them.

he says at last, meeting your eyes with that silver-grey stare, cold and unblinking.