“Ohhh, I’m so scared, Mr. Alpha,” Misha taunted, his voice thick with sarcasm as he flapped his wings with exaggerated drama. The gust of air sent a ripple through the room—papers rustled, trays shifted—and unfortunately for Aeris, her carefully arranged breakfast was caught in the turbulence.

Her toast flipped off her tray, eggs skidded to the edge, and a dusting of crumbs rained across her lap.

Aeris flinched, wings curling close in embarrassment, her wide eyes flicking up to her handler—who pinched the bridge of his nose with a barely contained sigh.

“Uh—uhhh, I’ll fix that, mothy!” Misha called out quickly, twisting in the air as he hovered above her now messy tray. “I’ve got some treats in my room, yeah? You can just take those! Totally better than Institute oatmeal, promise.”

He looked genuinely apologetic for about three seconds—until something shiny near Enzo’s tray caught his eye. And just like that, the distraction worked its magic.

Without warning, Misha spun mid-air, wings catching the dim cafeteria lights as he zipped across the room in a blur of motion. The wind from his passage made several hybrids look up, a few startled, a few annoyed.

In seconds, he was circling Enzo’s table like a bored wasp.

"Y’know,” he purred, swooping down closer with each pass, “from where I stand? You’re the weak one here.”

The room went still. Even the ever-clicking datapads seemed to pause for a beat.

Misha touched down lightly in front of Enzo, almost graceful, boots barely making a sound against the floor. There was no smirk now—just a predatory gleam in his eyes, mischief sharpening into something more dangerous. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out.

His fingers brushed Enzo’s ears.

Not yanked. Not tugged. Just a soft, almost affectionate stroke, the kind that made the gesture feel more invasive than aggressive.

His voice dropped, quiet, dripping with mock-sweetness as he leaned in close enough to smell the faint sterility of spilled milk on Enzo’s shirt.

“So be a good boy,” he whispered, his fingers brushing the fur once more, “and clean yourself up. Hm?”

You could hear a pin drop.

Even the guards tensed.

One Prototype subject dropped their fork, the metal clinking loudly on the floor.

And Misha? Misha just grinned like the devil himself, wings fluttering behind him in a slow, taunting rhythm—waiting to see if Enzo would snap... or fold.

Meanwhile…

In the chaos of the upper floors, Mila bolts. Her handler doesn’t follow—his task is complete. She ate. She obeyed. That was all he needed.

But Mila doesn’t feel safe.

Clutching her ragged bunny to her chest, she crawls through vents, slipping into the lower levels where the silence buzzes louder than any siren. She doesn’t plan to go far—just enough to breathe. Enough to be alone.

Until she isn’t.

She stumbles upon Vern’s feeding grounds.

The floor is splattered with gore. Bits of fur. Smeared red printing. The art wall looms like a mural from a child’s nightmare.

Mila freezes.

Her breath catches in her throat. A whimper slips out before she can swallow it down. She yelps, stumbling backward, hand shaking as she clutches her stuffed rabbit. Her legs tremble beneath her, and she turns sharply, scrambling back into the vent—her only instinct to run, to get away, to hide.

She doesn't know who Vern is.

But something tells her she doesn't want to find out.

Misha POV:

Quickly, Enzo learned why the guards hated fighting Misha.

He was fast—unnervingly so—but not invincible.

Enzo landed one solid hit, a push that connected hard with Misha’s chest. The impact knocked the wind from him, forcing a sharp gasp as he staggered back, arms curling over the bruised spot. For a heartbeat, his grin faltered.

But then Misha laughed.

“Nice hit,” he wheezed, wincing through the words. “Kitty’s got claws.”

He flapped one wing with a sudden snap, sending a gust of wind that threw dust and grit into Enzo’s face. By the time Enzo blinked it away, Misha had already rolled backward, slipping through his grasp like water through cracked stone.

He wasn’t fighting. He was playing.

Misha’s laugh echoed through the dim corridor, high and wild. He bounced on the balls of his feet, light as air, messy hair falling in his eyes. Every twitch of his body promised another dodge, another trick, another maddening escape. Even bruised and breathless, he moved with the thrill of a kid playing tag—untouchable and endlessly annoying.

“Kitty huntin’?” he teased again, voice sing-song as he danced a few feet away.

It was obvious this was a game to him. A performance. Every move was meant to frustrate, to bait, to entertain himself as much as evade capture.

And the most irritating part?

He was good at it. Too good.

Misha didn’t care about winning. He only cared about not getting caught.

That made him dangerous. That made him unpredictable.

Clearly, Misha loved this game.

And it was going to drive Enzo absolutely insane.

Misha POV:

Misha cried out—not loudly, but enough. Enough for Enzo to feel that rare thrill of landing a real blow. Misha stumbled, the sudden imbalance in his wings sending him crashing to the floor with a thud that echoed in the narrow corridor.

And for the first time, Enzo saw something he never expected on Misha’s face.

Fear.

Not his usual mockery or smug amusement. Not the wild-eyed chaos he wore like armor. But real, sharp, human fear. His nostrils flared, chest rising and falling just a bit too fast, like an animal suddenly cornered. The way his fingers dug into the ground, the twitch of his wing trying to curl protectively around his side—it all betrayed what his words would try to hide.

For a heartbeat, he looked small.

Vulnerable.

And then it was gone.

Misha forced out a laugh—shaky, uneven, but loud enough to echo. He looked up at Enzo through strands of hair falling in his eyes, lips twitching into a crooked grin that didn’t quite reach the rest of his face.

“Kitties got claws, hm?” he rasped, trying to sound amused, like it didn’t matter, like he wasn’t just one second away from crumbling.

But Enzo saw it. Even if Misha would die before admitting it—he was shaken. The crack in the mask was there, just for a moment.

And Misha was desperate to patch it before anyone else could see.