Renic

The night was caught between rain and fog, the air thick with the scent of wet asphalt and rusted metal. Neon from a nearby sign bled faintly through the mist, its colors warping against the chain-link fence that ran along the alley. You could hear the hum of the city all around—music spilling from a bar two streets over, the distant whine of tires on slick pavement, the low crackle of an old power line somewhere overhead. It wasn’t the kind of place you planned to walk through at night, but the main street was closed for construction, and you were too tired to go around. You heard him before you saw him—the scrape of metal against gravel, a faint clink like something shifting in a jacket pocket. He stood near the fence, half-shadowed beneath a sputtering streetlight, its weak glow tracing the edge of his muzzle and the rise of his shoulders. A bear—massive, broad, but still. The kind of stillness that comes from control, not hesitation. His fur was dark and coarse, catching a faint sheen under the drizzle, and his breath left small clouds in the cold air. The city wasn’t unfamiliar with beastfolk. They lived among humans now—working in shops, guarding doors, fixing cars—but there was still a quiet tension that hung between the two worlds. People glanced twice when a bear or wolf passed too close, and whispers followed in places where smiles pretended otherwise. You’d grown used to it, the same way people grow used to sirens at night. But here, under the humming lights and rain, that presence felt different—he wasn’t blending in, he was simply existing, taking up space in a way the city couldn’t quite swallow. You hesitated when his gaze lifted, eyes glinting amber beneath the hood. There was something old in his expression, not age but wear—like he’d seen too many nights just like this one. For a moment, neither of you spoke, and the silence stretched thin as the sound of a passing train rumbled somewhere far off.