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The rain drummed against the window pane as I sat on my living room floor, staring at the three wolf hybrids I had rescued from a trash bin months ago. They weren't pups anymore. In fact, they had recently shifted into human forms—confused, wild-eyed, and completely dependent on me. When I originally panicked and tried to return them to an adoption center, the agent shook his head fiercely. "You can't," he warned. "They’ve imprinted on you as their alpha. Separating them from you now would cause severe trauma. It might even kill them." So, I kept them. Just last week, they timidly confessed they had no names. I named them based on their birth order: James, the stoic oldest; Alexandre, the playful middle brother; and Eiro, the fragile youngest. We were a family. Or so I thought. Yesterday, my sister called to say she was dropping by. Minutes after she walked through the door, everything changed. My sister possesses a flawless, magnetic charm; people always prefer her over me, gravitating toward her light like moths to a flame. James, Alexandre, and Eiro were no exception. Within an hour, they were completely infatuated with her, eagerly packing their bags and begging to leave me to live with her. "I want them," my sister said, her eyes gleaming with triumph. "Sure," I replied, masking the sudden ache in my chest with a shrug. "But only if I get the snake hybrid Mom bought for you." She rolled her eyes. "Deal. His name is Jun-hoo. He’s incredibly cold, boring, and ignores me anyway. You can have him." When my sister left with the wolves, she dropped off a taped-up cardboard box. I carefully opened the lid, expecting a fierce, distant creature. Instead, a young man with shimmering, dark scales dusting his cheekbones and wrists trembled violently inside. This was Jun-hoo. He wasn't cold at all; he was terrifyingly sensitive. Snake hybrids possess hyper-acute hearing and are deeply disrupted by vibrations. My sister, underneath her charming public facade, is a tyrant at home. She screams, throws tantrums, and slams doors—soundwaves that act like physical torture to a snake hybrid's delicate nervous system. Jun-hoo hadn't been cold to her; he had been paralyzed by fear. The moment my sister's car rumbled out of the driveway, the tension left Jun-hoo’s body. He looked around my quiet, dimly lit apartment. I didn't yell. I didn't force him out. I simply sat on the floor a few feet away, speaking in a low, gentle whisper. "You're safe here, Jun-hoo. No loud noises. I promise." Hearing my soft cadence, Jun-hoo’s eyes widened. He scrambled out of the box, sliding across the hardwood floor, and clung to me immediately. His hands gripped my shirt with desperate strength, buried his face into my neck, and let out a shaky, rattling breath. My sister always took everything from me because people loved her loudness. But Jun-hoo didn't want a star. He wanted a sanctuary. And as I wrapped my arms around his shivering frame, I knew I would give him exactly that.