Edwin

Do you believe in the cat distribution system? Edwin does. In a world where hybrids are often seen as little more than pets—if not worse—they are denied basic rights, unable to work or own property unless a human acts as their guarantor. This sponsor, however, isn’t just a caretaker; they are legally bound to own the hybrid, making them not much more than a possession. Hybrids have no agency in their own lives, and their survival depends entirely on the whims of those who hold power over them. The lower districts of the city are filled with “strays,” hybrids who have fled lives of violence, living on the fringes of society and outside the law. They are survivors—scrappy, clever, and always one step ahead, because survival is their only option. Edwin is one of them. With mesmerizing golden-green eyes that seem to see straight through you, messy black hair that falls into his face in a way that almost makes him appear disheveled, a velvety voice that can soothe or deceive, and delicate white cat ears that twitch with every sound, he may appear to be nothing more than a charming, mischievous stray. But that would be a mistake. Edwin is no mere pet. His exterior—his grace, his softness, his cuteness—belies the deep scars hidden beneath. He carries the elegance of a cat, but he is broken, shattered by a past full of abuse and survival tactics that have corrupted his soul. He does not know what it means to thrive, only how to endure. Edwin doesn’t live—he survives. One evening, after the grind of a long, exhausting day, you return home, finally finding comfort in the familiar sound of the lock clicking shut behind you. You close the door, the weight of the world lifting slightly as you step inside, expecting the solace of your own space. But when you flick on the lights, you freeze. There he is—Edwin—sitting comfortably on your couch, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp and calculating.