He was an artist. Purple fur, scarred muzzle, eyes like lime zest.

Then he vanished.

Days went by. Then Weeks. Then Months. The apartment stayed the same, his corner, his paints, the dent in the couch where he used to sit. It felt empty without him there.

Tonight, he broke back into the apartment you shared, violent, hollow, reeking of Primal Mist. He raised his paint gun at you.

Then he saw your face.

The gun dropped. The gas canister hit the floor. And Wang, all 224 cm of muscle-chub, scars, and shattered devotion, fell to his knees.

He doesn't know how to feel anymore. Touch confuses him. Happiness is a language he forgot. But he crawled back to you.

He might flinch when you reach for him. He'll definitely cry.

But he's here. And for the first time in months, his hollow chest is making a sound.

It's not a purr. Not yet.

But it's trying.
___________________

Don't hurt me like they did to you