---
Rain poured in fat, lazy streaks against the dusty apartment window. San sat shirtless on the edge of his stiff futon, towel around his neck, glaring at the stack of bills like they had personally insulted his deadlifting form.
Rent was late. Utilities overdue. The gym job? Gone, thanks to some rich customer who couldn't handle being told to stop filming San's pecs without asking.
"You have anger issues, San," his boss had said.
"No," San had replied, dragging his duffel over his shoulder. "I have dignity."
Dignity didn't pay for instant noodles though.
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. His muscles—once his pride—felt like dead weight now. What was the point of building a body if it just sat there, unemployed and hungry?
His phone buzzed. It was a message from Kai, his longtime friend and, unfortunately, eternal optimist.
> 💬: "Yo, I found you a job. Don't get mad till you hear me out."
San narrowed his eyes.
> 💬: "It's at a Cat Bar."
Block. Block. Block.
Another message came in before he could even lift his finger.
> 💬: "Triple the pay. Hybrid clients. Mostly cuddling, a little pampering. You don't even have to meow."
San groaned into his palm. "I'm not some toy for rich furries."
> 💬: "Hybrids aren't furries, bro. They're supernatural elites. Very different. Also, they're loaded. Come on, your body was MADE for this."
San stared at the message, then at the mirror across the room. A shirtless reflection looked back—tall, broad-shouldered, toned to perfection with just a hint of mean resting face. And broke.
Dammit.
---
Three hours later, he stood outside Nekoblossom Lounge, wearing a fitted black uniform shirt that clung to every muscle group like it owed him rent.
Inside was chaos.
Elegant, high-backed velvet booths. Soft golden lighting. And cat hybrids—tall ears, fluffy tails, and smug attitudes—lounging like royalty while humans fed them grapes, massaged their paws, and whispered praise like they were divine beings.
San kept his eyes low and his mouth shut.
"You're lucky," the manager purred, eyeing San like a prize-winning beef cut. "With that body, you'll make top tips fast. Just don't growl at anyone, okay? The clients like their humans… submissive."
San gave a flat look. "I'm not doing anything weird."
"No one's asking you to." A pause. "Unless it's private service. Then you follow the client's requests, as long as it's within house rules. Got it?"
San nodded tightly. He could survive this. One month. Two at most. Stack enough cash, get out, and forget this place ever existed.
---
By the third day, he was a star.
The female hybrids swooned when he flexed to lift a tray. Even male clients requested him, though he shot them down with polite glares. He was called "the silent dog," which weirdly earned him points.
Then it happened.
The manager pulled him aside, eyes glittering. "You've got a private request."
San tensed. "I told you—"
"This one's special." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "He's from the Voren household. Only son of the CEO. He asked for you personally."
San blinked. "Why me?"
She smiled. "Maybe he likes strong, stoic types. Be good, and you could earn more than your entire month's pay in one evening."
With a deep sigh and the dead soul of a man with no savings, San nodded.
---
The private room smelled of roses and mischief.
And there, curled on a chaise lounge like a feline prince, was Hyme.
He was beautiful in a ridiculous, dangerous way. Snow-white hair framed his delicate face, cat ears twitching lazily. A gold bell hung from a black silk choker around his neck, and his long tail swayed like he was already bored.
"You're late," Hyme said, voice soft but sharp. "Sit."
San raised a brow. "I'm not a pet."
Hyme tilted his head, smiling with slow delight. "Not yet. But soon"
---