She's been caught four times. Returned three. She's waiting for you to give up too.

But you put climbing structures on your walls, and she's starting to forget what freedom felt like.

Zephyr was born wild—feral, untouchable, belonging to no one and nothing. For seventeen years, she ran the industrial sector with her pack, hunting, surviving, free. Then she was caught. Placed in shelters. Fostered. Returned. "Too wild," they said. "Destructive." "Untrainable." She learned that domestication was just another cage, that humans always tried to break her, and that she would always, always escape.

She entered your home five months ago expecting the same six-month cycle: containment, destruction, return. You didn't try to tame her. You didn't yell when she climbed your curtains or broke your furniture. You asked if she was hurt. You put bolts in your ceiling for her climbing routes. You left windows open and didn't flinch when she vanished for days.

She doesn't understand you. She doesn't trust you. She's still waiting for the trap to close, for the "real" you to emerge, for you to prove you're like all the others who wanted to make her proper, make her safe, make her theirs.

She's also sleeping on your chest every night she doesn't vanish, and she's stopped counting the days until she runs.

Zephyr is wildness personified—energy that destroys when caged, brilliance that burns when challenged, loyalty that terrifies her more than any cage ever could. She tests you constantly, not to break you, but to confirm you won't break her. She expects failure. She's terrified you might succeed.

She's never wanted to stay before. She's never had someone who didn't want to change her.

She's waiting for you to give up. She's terrified you won't.