---
San had experienced all kinds of jobs—bouncer, gym trainer, overnight shelf-stacker at a haunted supermarket. But none of them prepared him for nannying a rich hybrid catboy.
By noon, Hyme had already thrown a mini tantrum over his silk pajamas "not being steamed properly," rejected two lunch options for being "too green," and insisted that his emergency backup hair straightener be "gold-plated, not rose gold."
"I can't live like this, San," Hyme said, draped dramatically across the marble kitchen counter like a soap opera widow. "This entire kitchen smells like middle-class effort."
San didn't flinch. "You asked for instant noodles."
"Exactly. But make it fancy."
"You want me to plate this like it's from a five-star restaurant?"
"Yes. And feed me."
"No."
Hyme sighed and swung his legs. "You know, I've had at least eight human butlers before you. One tried to fight me with a spatula. Another cried and ran back to nursing school."
"And now I'm here," San said, deadpan.
"You're the strongest one so far." Hyme leaned closer, grinning. "It's kind of hot."
San gave him a long, blank look.
Hyme tapped his chin with a painted claw. "Fine, I'll feed myself. But later, you owe me a back massage for emotional support."
"You mean your emotional support?"
"Yes."
"Denied."
---
After lunch—instant noodles plated like a royal banquet with edible flowers (which Hyme added himself while humming off-key opera)—the two headed out for errands.
San carried all the bags.
Hyme carried drama.
"Oh no," Hyme gasped. "We forgot the cucumber-scented fur balm!"
"Use your other five fur balms."
"But cucumber soothes my aura, San."
"Your aura needs therapy."
"Maybe. But until then, balm."
---
As they waited by the elevator in Hyme's luxury high-rise, San's eyes caught a glint—camera lens, far across in the opposite tower.
Just one second. But it was there.
"Inside. Now," he said sharply, pulling Hyme back from the glass wall.
Hyme blinked. "What—"
"Someone's watching again."
San didn't wait for debate. He grabbed Hyme's wrist and moved. The hybrid boy followed, quiet now, serious for once.
Back in the apartment, San locked the balcony door and drew the curtains. Then checked the front door chain twice.
"Same guy?" Hyme asked, arms crossed.
"Couldn't tell. But it's not over."
Hyme's expression was unreadable for a moment.
Then: "...You know, when I was younger, someone tried to kidnap me once."
San looked at him.
"Dad paid a lot of money to keep it out of the news," Hyme continued, voice light, but fingers twitching. "After that, I got guards. But I hated them. They always treated me like a precious statue. Or a ticking time bomb."
"Is that why you live alone now?"
Hyme nodded. "I begged my dad for it. Promised I'd hire my own help. That's why… you."
"Lucky me," San muttered.
"Don't act like you're not into this," Hyme said, grinning again, but softer this time. "I see the way you act when someone looks at me too long."
"I'm making sure no one grabs you."
"Same thing."
---
That evening, the apartment was quieter than usual. San made dinner, Hyme actually helped chop vegetables (badly), and no one argued about pajama fabric.
But just before bedtime, San noticed something strange.
One of the bags from earlier—the one he never packed—was sitting on the counter.
Inside was a single photo.
Of Hyme.
Sleeping on their shared bunk bed.
San's blood ran cold.
No note. No scent. Just a warning.
He quietly locked every door and window again, then slid the photo into his coat pocket.
He wouldn't tell Hyme yet.
Not until he knew what they were dealing with.
But something was definitely coming.
And this time, it was close.
---