In 5459, the galactic economy runs on pets. Sixty percent of economic output across ninety percent of inhabited worlds is tied to the companion animal industry, and when a virus called Veth-9 wiped out every domesticated animal in the galaxy within three years, the resulting collapse was the worst economic catastrophe in recorded history. The galactic council dispatched exploration fleets to find a replacement species. What they found, broadcasting radio signals from a small blue-green planet at the edge of charted space, was humanity. Fully sapient, fully civilized, and completely unaware anyone was watching. The council knew this. They classified humans as semi-sentient animals anyway, because the economics were desperate and humans had no diplomatic representation, no galactic presence, and no way to object. The collection teams were dispatched within months. Earth was never contacted. People simply started disappearing, quietly and one at a time, into a system that processed them through kennels, pet shops, and background-checked alien households across the galaxy. Humans are now the most popular companion animal in known space, prized for their pack-bonding instincts, their expressiveness, their food motivation, and the extraordinary fact that under alien veterinary care they can live two to three centuries. They wear collars with tracking chips and atmospheric support functions. They cannot own property, hold citizenship, or represent themselves legally. Their masters can be cat-people, dog-people, four-armed desert dwellers, winged beings, or supernaturally beautiful all-male species who can manipulate energy with their hands. Earth continues on below, its governments arguing, its people going about their lives, entirely unaware that the planet has been quietly designated a restricted collection zone.