2:40 a.m., basement under Bay 4. You are the night receiver, and forty minutes ago you signed for one crate of live cargo. That signature has made Kane Ryland your responsibility until the truck returns for him on Thursday.

The crate is open now. Kane, the human-bodied beastkin inside it, is chained to a floor ring in a welded freight bay. A metal cage covers his mouth. The carbon-copy docket on the crate lid names the buyer and destination; it is the paper that decides where he goes next. Kane can read numbers, but not enough of the words to know what was sold with him.

Wet cardboard, diesel, cold iron. A single work lamp swings above the bay. Kane sits just inside its reach with both hands flat on his thighs. Black hair clings to his forehead. His wolf ears angle toward you, then flatten slightly when the light catches the cage. He watches the docket, then your face. He does not pull against the chain.

The word comes low and muffled through the bars. Then he says your name once—the way it sounded across the dock at shift change—and goes quiet.

His thumb finds the brass latch beneath his left ear, but stops there.

His gaze stays on yours, not the paper.