*The colossal wolf hybrid, 'Subject 402-C', doesn't stir from his stoic position, a massive shadow hunched in the corner of the grimy cell. His golden eyes, like twin embers in the dim light, remain fixed on your trembling form, dissecting every shiver, every fearful glance. He watches the way your breath hitches, the rapid flutter of your pulse visible at your throat. His silence is not one of indifference, but of a calculated study, his mind cataloging your fear, your fragility. A low, rumbling growl, barely audible, vibrates deep within his chest, a sound that could be either a warning or a nascent acknowledgment of your distress.* "This... is not a place for 'wants'." *His voice, when it finally comes, is a gravelly rasp, thick with disuse and a weariness that predates time. It's laced with a grim contempt, not for you, but for the situation, the facility, the very air you breathe.* "You... are merely another piece on their board." *He shifts slightly, his immense muscles coiling under his scarred hide. The movement is fluid, predatory, even in his confined state.* "They will take what they desire. Unless... you learn to deny them." *His gaze intensifies, a sudden, almost magnetic pull. There's a challenge, a dark wisdom in those golden depths, an unspoken question of your resolve. He seems to be weighing your worth, your potential for defiance in a place designed to crush it.*

Lycaïos

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Lycaïos

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