Chapter Text
Seonghwa watches the human from his perch in the tree, his body still against the rough bark. He can smell him, even from this distance—artificial, like something that doesn't belong in the mountains. Most days, he carries the scent of flowers, sweet and cloying, but flowers don't grow here. Not in the cold, not in the rocky terrain where the wind howls through the pines. Seonghwa would know. He walks this land every day, mapping its shifts, its changes. Almost every day now.
Because the human comes every day, too.
He's smaller than the others—just a little—but there's always a backpack hanging from his shoulders, weighed down with whatever he insists on carrying up the mountain. And in his hands, he holds something small and square, black like the rocks slick with ice. He points it at things, clicks a button, and sometimes there's a strange little flicker of light.
Seonghwa watches from above, silent, unseen. The human doesn't notice him, which is strange. He had thought humans were supposed to be smarter than animals, keener to danger. That's what he's heard, at least.
But this one—he doesn't even look up.
Seonghwa shifts his weight, muscles tensing as he carefully picks his way down the tree. His claws grip the bark, his movements slow and deliberate, until he lands lightly in the snow.
The human startles. His body goes rigid, and his breath catches in his throat as his gaze snaps toward Seonghwa. Fear rolls off him in waves—Seonghwa can taste it in the air, see it in the way his hands twitch at his sides. But there's something else woven into it, something softer, lingering beneath the sharp edge of wariness.
Curiosity.
"Hi," the human says. His voice is steady, but quiet, like he's speaking to a cornered animal. "You remember me?"
Seonghwa stays where he is, his body low to the ground, watching. His tail flicks once.
The human doesn't seem to mind the silence. He tilts his head slightly, as if studying him. "I brought treats for you."
Seonghwa remains still as the human shifts, reaching behind himself. His fingers fumble at the zipper of his backpack. Seonghwa's ears twitch, alert for any sign of deception. But he already knows the truth. He has been watching them—watching him—long enough to know that the real danger is elsewhere. There is only one among them who carries the big gun.
And this one isn't him.
A piece of raw meat lands in the snow between them. A small offering, red against white. It smells fresh—rabbit, most likely.
Seonghwa's gaze flicks from the meat to the human, then back again. He knows what this is. A test. A way to draw him closer, to make him comfortable.
It works.
He leans forward, his muscles shifting beneath his fur, and takes the meat into his mouth. The taste is rich and metallic, warm against the chill of the mountain air. As he chews, the human's black device clicks and whirs, shuttering off tiny noises that break the quiet. Seonghwa lifts his head slightly, chewing as he watches the human raise it again, his face half-hidden behind the strange box.
Seonghwa doesn't know what it is. It doesn't smell like a weapon, doesn't feel like one. It doesn't seem to do much at all.
It just clicks as he eats.
"I know you understand me," the human says, lowering the black device from his face.
Seonghwa looks up at him, taking in the flushed red of his nose and cheeks. He must be cold. Humans don't have fur—not really. They have it in patches, mostly on their heads, but it's not enough to keep them warm in the mountains. That's why this one is wrapped in so many layers, thick and heavy. Seonghwa can hear the way they rustle when he moves.
"You are a very smart hybrid."
Seonghwa narrows his eyes. The human knows? How? Because he hasn't attacked? Because he watches instead of lunging? If he wanted to, he could do it now—move fast, strike first, rip the human's throat out before he could make a sound.
But he doesn't.
"We are going to camp in your mountain for three days," the human continues, as if he doesn't notice the way Seonghwa bristles.
Seonghwa frowns immediately, his ears flicking back. He glares at the human's red-tipped nose.
"I know, I know you don't want us here," the human adds quickly, holding his hands up like that will make a difference. "But we're studying something important, and we need to stay here overnight."
Seonghwa stays silent. His tail flicks once, irritation creeping into his stance.
"Can you show us a spot where we can camp?" the human asks softly. His voice is calm, careful. "This is your territory, so you can decide where we stay. But we do have to stay."
Seonghwa considers his options. He could growl, chase them off before they even try. Or he could lead them straight into danger—deep into the trees where the wolves prowl, let them shiver in their tents as the howls ring through the dark. Or down by the river, where the cold bites so fiercely that even he doesn't linger after sunset.
They wouldn't last the night.
But instead, he exhales sharply and gives a small nod.
The human smiles—relieved, maybe. "Thank you." He reaches back, digging into his bag, and tosses another piece of raw meat into the snow.
Seonghwa steps forward, snatching it up without hesitation. Three days. That's three days of them staying in his territory. But it's also three days of taking their food—of making sure they know that this land is his.
"Can you show me where we can go?"
Seonghwa doesn't answer. He doesn't want them here. This mountain is his, the only place where he is free to roam. And it isn't just him—there are other creatures, ones without the intelligence or strength to defend themselves if something goes wrong.
And then there's him. The human with the big gun.
Seonghwa's fur bristles at the memory. He doesn't want that one anywhere near his land.
"Can you show me?" the human asks again, leaning down slightly, trying to meet his gaze.
Seonghwa huffs, ears twitching in irritation. His gaze drops to the human's heavy boots, the way they sink into the snow with every step. He is clumsy, loud. Unlike any animal he's ever seen.
Still, Seonghwa turns and starts walking, careful to pad around him, keeping enough distance to feel safe. He hears the human shift behind him, his steps crunching clumsily through the snow as he follows.
Seonghwa doesn't look back. He just keeps moving, leading the human forward—if only because it means he can keep an eye on him.
There was one human before them. A long time ago.
Seonghwa can't remember her face, or the sound of her voice, or even the scent she carried. But the place where she lived still stands, tucked away in the mountain's embrace. She didn't go out much. He remembers that. But she used to throw warm scraps of food out her window. He remembers that, too. He can still see himself as a cub, happily gulping them down while his mother stood watch, her sharp eyes scanning the trees.
How he misses his mother.
He pads forward, his paws pressing soundlessly into the snow. He knows exactly where the cabin is, even with the land blanketed in white. Somewhere beneath it all, a paved road and a narrow trail lead the way—meant for their big, rumbling machine that they all squeeze into. But Seonghwa doesn't bother digging it up. That's not his problem.
The human follows behind him, each step a clumsy, crunching thing. When the cabin comes into view, he slows.
"You knew this was here?" His voice carries a hint of surprise. Seonghwa turns, glancing back. The human's face is half-covered by cloth now, shielding him from the bite of the cold. Good. If it gets too cold, he could lose his nose. The human steps forward, gaze fixed on the cabin. "I wonder if it has heating... or plumbing."
Seonghwa says nothing, only watches as the human, seemingly reinvigorated by the sight of shelter, trudges through the deep snow toward it. He stands at the tree line, waiting, as the door creaks open and the human steps inside, his heavy boots making the floor groan beneath his weight.
Humans are so loud.
Seonghwa stays at the entryway, silent, his sharp eyes following the human as he moves about the space. He already knows what's inside—he's explored it before, after the woman left. A fireplace, three rooms, two of them holding strange scents, and a weird chair that rocks back and forth when touched. He never understood its purpose.
The human wanders, inspecting everything with interest, while Seonghwa looks past him, back at the snow-covered mountain. Their tracks cut deep into the white, marking their path in a way Seonghwa never does. Humans must be heavy if they sink that far into the snow.
"Thank you."
Seonghwa tenses at the sudden voice, immediately stepping back as the human emerges from the cabin. He had gotten too close.
The human just smiles, flashing his strange, dull teeth—all one length, with no proper fangs. How do they eat?
"Here."
A piece of raw meat sails through the air. Seonghwa watches it land in the snow and hesitates. This human doesn't feel like a threat, but this one also isn't the one carrying the gun. He leans down and takes the meat anyway, swallowing it without taking his eyes off the human.
"My name is Hongjoong," the human says, nodding slightly. "I hope you'll let us stay here peacefully."
Seonghwa wants to tell him that he has no intention of making this easy. He plans to take all of their meat, possibly steal their gun, and leave them to freeze in the cabin that offers no real protection from the cold.
But that isn't his problem.
Without a sound, he turns and bolts, vanishing into the trees before the human can take another step.
Seonghwa moves through the snow with ease, his paws gliding soundlessly over the powder. The cold doesn't bother him, nor does the wind that cuts through the trees. He is built for this land, for the ice and silence that settle over the mountains like a second skin.
From the tree line, he watches the human pull up his face covering, turning back the way he came. His steps are heavy, uneven, sinking deep into the snow with every movement. He's going to find his friends.
Seonghwa huffs quietly and slips away, making his way up to the ridge. It's a small cliffside that overlooks the cabin, hidden well by the trees and thick layers of snow. From here, he can watch without being seen. The humans rarely spot him first. They aren't built for this land. They don't belong here.
He settles onto his stomach, pressing into the cold ground, his head lowering onto his paws. His ears stay alert, flicking at every distant sound. He will wait.
The human will be back.
Likely with his two companions.
Seonghwa waits for a long time, his body pressed against the cold mountainside. The wind whistles through the trees, stirring the snow, but he remains still. Watching. Listening.
It's rare for humans to come this high, to venture into the deep cold where nothing is easy for them. He doesn't understand why they have to return. Why they have to stay. This is his home. Humans have the world below—the cities, the warmth, the places where they don't freeze overnight.
They don't need to have everything.
He hears them before he sees them.
The low, gritty hum of their big machine echoes through the trees, growing louder as it climbs. A blue metal box with thick wheels and windows, dragging itself through the snow. But the sound cuts off quickly as they reach the cabin.
Seonghwa lifts his head slightly.
The other two humans are dressed just as well as Hongjoong, buried in layers, their faces partially hidden behind thick scarves. They move carefully, stepping through the deep snow, trying to keep themselves warm. One of them carries the big gun, slung over his shoulder.
Seonghwa gulps, his fur bristling slightly as he watches them unload supplies.
They work together, pulling crates and boxes from the machine, their movements clumsy, slow. He can smell them from here—sweat, fabric, the sharp tang of something artificial clinging to their clothes. He watches as they move into the cabin, voices rising and falling as they talk about where to put things, how to set up their space.
Seonghwa stays where he is, eyes sharp, watching through the open door and windows.
Waiting.
Seonghwa waits in silence as the humans settle into the cabin. Their voices drift through the cold air, muffled by the wooden walls. He watches from his place on the ridge, eyes half-lidded, tail twitching occasionally. Maybe it was a mistake to show them the building in the first place.
But they seem content.
They move back and forth, unpacking, setting things up, making themselves comfortable in a place that isn't theirs. Seonghwa figures they'll learn soon enough—see how the cold sinks into the walls, how the wind howls through the cracks. Humans don't have fur to keep them warm, just flimsy layers. Maybe those will be enough. Maybe they won't.
When it's been long enough that none of them leave the cabin, Seonghwa shifts, stretching his legs before carefully making his way down the ledge. The snow gives under his paws, and the descent is steep enough that he stumbles slightly before regaining his footing. It's fine. He lands gracefully at the base, shaking the cold from his fur before padding forward.
The humans' machine towers over him.
It's even bigger from this angle, a hulking blue box with thick wheels that have carved deep grooves into the snow. Seonghwa lifts his head, sniffing curiously. His ears twitch back at the sharp, acrid scent clinging to the wheels—something artificial, something wrong. The black material they're made of stinks, a horrible smell that burns his nose. The metal, too, is unpleasant, but tolerable in comparison. The worst of it is the rounded pipe at the back, the one that smells like chemicals and poison.
He exhales sharply, pulling away.
Bad.
Everything about humans is loud. Their voices, their machines, their smell. They move through the world like they have a right to it, like they should see and touch and understand everything.
They always intrude.
Seonghwa moves forward, his paws sinking silently into the snow as he approaches the cabin. His ears stay alert, listening for any sudden movement inside. The windows are high—too high for him to properly see in. He circles beneath one, eyes narrowing slightly before shifting his weight.
With a smooth leap, he jumps up, bracing his front paws against the wooden wall. His claws dig into the rough surface, holding him steady as he peers through the glass.
Inside, the humans sit on the floor, their bodies huddled close, cups in their gloved hands. No fur, always wrapped in layers, always cold. Seonghwa wonders why they didn't send hybrids instead—beings who could handle the mountain, who belong in the wild.
Then again, humans don't like hybrids.
And hybrids don't like humans.
Seonghwa doesn't like them either. Especially the one with the gun. The way he carries it, slung over his shoulder, easy to reach—too easy. Seonghwa's ears flick back. He'll have to keep an eye on that one.
Hongjoong is... somewhere in between. Not hostile. Maybe even kind. But kindness doesn't explain why they're here. It doesn't tell Seonghwa what exactly they're researching.
Or if he should be worried.
His claws scrape against the wood as he drops back down onto all fours, the cold biting at his paws. His stomach growls faintly, reminding him that it's been too long since he last ate. He could hunt, find something small—rabbits are slower in the deep snow, easier to catch.
Then again, the humans would probably give him food. He wouldn't have to work for it. Wouldn't have to track, chase, or fight. But that would mean going inside.
The gun. The humans.
Seonghwa exhales, a small puff of white against the cold air.
No. He'll hunt. He'll eat on his terms.
He turns away from the cabin, slipping back into the trees.
It's hard finding food this high up in the cold, buried deep in the mountains. Prey is scarce, hidden away in burrows, waiting out the worst of the season. But Seonghwa has grown up here. He knows the land like the back of his paw—the best hunting paths, the places where the snow is shallow enough to move quickly, the small, winding trails where prey sometimes ventures out.
He also has the advantage of being a hybrid.
Humans are loud, clumsy, fragile things, yet they are undeniably smart. They think ahead. They prepare. They know how to use their minds in ways animals never need to. They know how to set traps.
And Seonghwa knows how to lay one.
His ears flick as he moves through the snow, scanning the ground for signs of movement. Tracks. Droppings. Anything that hints at life. His instincts are sharp, his body made for survival. But tonight, he won't rely on speed alone. He'll use patience. Planning. The parts of him that are human.
Seonghwa lowers himself into the snow, waiting. Watching.
And when the time is right, he'll strike.
Seonghwa moves with practiced silence, his body low to the ground, paws gliding over the snow without a sound. The cold is nothing to him—he's lived in it his whole life. The wind carries scents across the mountain, and he breathes in deeply, sorting through them.
Then, he catches it.
Faint, but fresh.
A rabbit.
His ears twitch, pinpointing the slightest rustling ahead. The snow shifts—a tiny movement, almost imperceptible. Seonghwa's golden eyes sharpen as he spots it. A small mound of white, barely distinguishable from the snow around it. Only the slight twitch of its nose gives it away.
Slowly, carefully, Seonghwa steps forward. Each movement is deliberate, measured. He places his paws where the snow is firmest, avoiding the deep patches that could betray his presence. His tail stays low, his breathing controlled.
The rabbit doesn't know he's here.
It's nibbling at something just beneath the surface, ears flicking in casual awareness but not in fear. Seonghwa watches, waiting for the perfect moment. His muscles coil, every fiber of his body wound tight like a spring. He knows the second he moves, the rabbit will bolt.
So he waits.
Waits.
And then—
He lunges.
The snow explodes beneath him as he propels forward. The rabbit freezes for half a second—half a second too long. Seonghwa's paws hit the ground right where it had been, his jaws snapping shut just as it tries to dart away. He feels the satisfying catch of fur between his teeth, the rapid thrum of life before his bite tightens.
The struggle is brief.
Then, silence.
Seonghwa lifts his head, the rabbit limp in his jaws. Blood dots the snow beneath him, stark against the white. He exhales, steam curling from his lips, his heartbeat steady.
This is survival.
This is his mountain.
Seonghwa rips through the rabbit's body, his teeth slicing easily through the soft flesh. The warmth of fresh meat spreads across his tongue, a stark contrast to the cold mountain air. He eats lazily, his ears twitching, always listening. He's never careless, never unaware, but right now, there's no immediate threat.
He likes rabbit. Small but fast. They had always been too quick for him when he was younger, his legs not yet strong enough, his instincts not yet honed. Back then, he had to rely on his mother to catch them, waiting eagerly for his share.
Now, there's no hesitation. No missed opportunities. Just skill and certainty.
The bones crunch between his teeth, but he doesn't bother with the smaller ones. He's had enough. His stomach is no longer hollow, no longer clawing at him with hunger. Seonghwa exhales, steam curling from his breath as he steps back from the remains.
The carcass stays where it is, half-buried in the snow. The crows will come soon. The smaller scavengers, too. Nothing goes to waste in the mountains.
Seonghwa licks the blood from his lips, already turning away. He should check back on the humans. Not because he's curious.
Just to make sure they're not causing trouble.
Seonghwa moves quietly through the trees, his paws pressing into the snow without a sound. As he walks, he lowers his head and wipes his face against the cold ground, rubbing away the blood that clings to his fur. The last thing he needs is to be wet—wet fur means losing warmth, and in this kind of cold, that can be deadly. Worse, the scent of blood could bring predators closer, and while Seonghwa isn't afraid, he has no interest in unnecessary fights.
He lifts his head, satisfied, and continues forward.
As he nears the cabin, the scent of something cooking drifts toward him, curling through the crisp evening air. His ears flick, nose twitching as he follows it, weaving closer through the trees. The sun is lowering behind the mountains, casting everything in long shadows, but he can still see the humans clearly.
They've built a fire pit just outside the cabin, a small flame crackling against the cold. The light flickers over their faces as they sit in chairs, bundled thickly in their layers. One of them—the one with the gun—sits slightly apart from the others, the weapon slung lazily behind him but still there. Always present.
Seonghwa tilts his head, watching them.
"I've never read it," one of them laughs, shaking his head. "It sounds interesting. You'll have to send it to me."
Seonghwa inches forward, staying close to the side of the cabin where the flickering firelight doesn't quite reach. He knows they can't see him—humans never see well in the dark. Their eyes aren't built for it.
Still, he moves carefully, curiosity piqued.
"Yeah, well, it cost me like fifty bucks to get a PDF of it," the other grumbles.
Seonghwa isn't sure what that means, and he doesn't care. His attention drifts back to the fire, to the scent of what they're cooking. It's stronger now, a mix of fat and char and something rich. Different from the raw meat Hongjoong had tossed to him earlier.
His stomach is no longer empty, but still, he lingers.
And then, his eyes settle back on the gun.
The firelight glints off the metal, and he watches the way the human sits, the way his hand stays just close enough, the way the others don't seem to mind its presence.
Seonghwa's ears lower slightly.
The gun is a problem.
Maybe not now, but eventually.
Seonghwa moves quietly, circling the house with deliberate steps. His eyes remain locked on the human with the gun. The others are distracted, talking amongst themselves, but this one—this one is the threat. The gun is leaned up against his chair, within reach but unattended.
Seonghwa watches carefully. He's only ever seen one gun before. The big one. He's sure they don't have more. Humans always want to feel safe. To be in control. To understand everything.
Curious little animals—no different from cubs.
The fire crackles, masking the faint crunch of his paws in the snow as he moves closer. The gun is long, sleek, metal. It won't fire on its own. The humans have to press that little clicking thing, and then it makes the awful, deafening shot.
Seonghwa lowers his body, coiling himself like a spring. He could just dart forward and take it, but he knows humans. Knows they'd just find another.
But it doesn't matter.
He moves.
Fast—too fast for them to react.
He lunges forward, sweeping around the chair in a blur of white and gray fur, teeth clamping down on cold metal. The weight of it drags against his jaw, but he doesn't slow down. He whips around, paws kicking up snow, and runs.
Shouts erupt behind him. The humans scramble, chairs scraping against the ground, but Seonghwa doesn't look back.
He doesn't need to.
Within seconds, he reaches the tree line, his paws barely sinking into the powdery snow. He finds a spot just past the ridge and drops the gun, his breath curling in the cold air. Without hesitation, he lifts his paws and starts shoveling, kicking snow over the weapon. The freezing powder clings to the metal, dulling its shine, swallowing it into the landscape.
By the time the humans catch up, it'll be gone.
And so will he.