By Owen Godfrey

The city pulsed around me — horns, neon, the smell of damp fur and oil pooling in the gutters. But the alley ahead smelled different. Wrong.

I twitched my nose. Stale water. Rotting garbage. And blood. Thick, metallic. Fresh.

I wasn’t built for this city. Not really. A rabbit in Midtown? The streets weren’t made for someone my size. Crowds pushed too close, gutters yawned too wide, and every doorway loomed tall for carnivores.

But I made it work.

My trench coat was too big, cinched at the waist, but it kept the rain off. My hat was older than some of the buildings downtown, brim curled from years of nervous handling. I liked it that way. It gave my paws something to do when they weren’t shaking.

My nose twitched again, flicking left, right, testing the air, my instincts working overtime. And right now, those instincts were screaming.

But a thick arm blocked my way.

Officer Barlow. His bulldog jowls sagged under the streetlamp’s yellow glow, uniform damp from the drizzle. He smelled like cheap cigars, fried food, and too many regrets.

I slipped a folded bill into his paw. His fingers snapped shut over it.

“You always did have a death wish, Hareson,” he grunted. “Detectives’ll be here any minute, so get in, get your pictures, and get out of my fur.”

I twitched my nose. “Barlow, the last place I'd ever want to be is in your fur.”

Barlow sighed and stepped aside.

I took a short hop down the alley and around the bend. Carl Haversham lay slumped against the bricks, throat opened neat as a butcher’s cut. The gazelle’s fur was slick with rain, pooling dark beneath him.

But what sent my foot thumping wasn't the body. It was the smell.

Not the rot. Not the blood. Something else.

Something I should have noticed before I stepped into the alley.

Spiced cologne. Leather. Predator.

Lucien Blackwell was here. A black panther in a black suit, under a black umbrella, out of the rain. The very definition of invisible. Just the way he liked it. And he was watching me.

Lucien lifted a paw, adjusting his cufflinks. Subtle. Expensive. Deliberate.

“You always have your nose where it doesn’t belong, Hareson.”

I tried to smirk, but my foot wouldn’t stop tapping. “Lucky for me, I’ve got a very talented nose.”

Lucien raised an eyebrow and chuckled, voice smooth as glass. “Lucky?”

I twitched my nose again, sniffing the air… and stopped.

The rot was deeper now. Old blood. Wet fur.

Not just a corpse. Not anymore.

Something standing.

Something behind me.

I turned and Haversham lunged at me.

The world lurched.

The city, the rain, the neon glow — gone.

I felt wrong. Pressed inward, stretched thin, my own heartbeat unraveling.

I tried to move.

I was moving.

I was —

Staggering.

The alley spun. My knees buckled, my body pulling forward.

Strong arms caught me.

“Whoa, easy there, kid.”

Barlow.

His grip was firm, real. I could smell the sweat in his collar, the tobacco on his breath. The city rushed back — rain, neon, the distant hum of traffic.

“Hareson?” A question.

His nostrils flared. And that’s when I smelled him. Heat. Pulse. Life, just beneath his skin.

My foot should have thumped against the pavement, nerves firing, body screaming at me to run.

But I didn’t.

I lifted a shaking paw to my mouth. Ran my tongue along my teeth.

Sharp. Too sharp.

I ran my tongue over my teeth again, slower this time. Felt the points. The hunger.

Barlow's fingers twitched. His breath hitched.

He saw.

Too late.

So, this is what a carnivore feels like.

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