Page 152 of The Moonborn's Curse

"Of someone," Ryn said, finally moving closer, her eyes narrowed. "Someone he trusted. Who didn't treat him like a threat."

Ana dropped onto the arm of the couch and tossed a look at Threk. "You remember anything else? Like how to use a spoon? Speak more than two words?"

Threk tensed under her attention but nodded slowly. "Some... things."

Ana thoughtfully handed him a slice of leftover pizza, which he smelt suspiciously and then devoured in two chomps. Her bright eyes hadn't left him since she stepped through the door.

Ryn, meanwhile, leaned against the wall, arms crossed, face giving nothing away.

"Shit," Ana breathed. "This is big. We need to talk. Like, council-of-chaos levels of talk."

"We will," Seren promised. "But not tonight. He's tired. He hasn't eaten properly in months."

Ana leaned over and whispered to Threk like they were old friends before handing him another slice of pizza. "Eat up, big guy. You're about to become a case study."

Threk blinked slowly. "Pizza... good."

Seren tried not to laugh.

That night, under the flickering buzz of the city's neon haze, Seren found herself dragging a half-wild bear man into a convenience store that smelled like sugar, bleach, and fried temptation.

The 24/7 Marketia was mostly empty, save for a witch on night shift sweeping hex residue off the candy aisle and a bored teenage shifter at the register picking at his claws.

Threk froze at the entrance.

Eyes wide.

He stared around the store like he'd stepped into an alien land. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, rows of shelves stacked with strange, colourful offerings: fizzy drinks that changed flavour mid-sip, charm chips, and at least twelve types of "energy" bars, none of which looked remotely edible.

"What?" he whispered.

"It's a supermarket," Seren said, amused. "Sort of. A small one. For snacks and emergency underwear."

He blinked.

She tugged him gently forward by the sleeve. "Come on. Clothes first."

The clothing section was a sad little rack tucked between glow-in-the-dark condoms and mismatched socks. Seren rifled through oversized t-shirts, track pants, and some suspiciously shiny boxer briefs with pictures of a scantily clad sexy wolf-shifter on them.

She held up a pair of plain cotton ones. "Let's start basic."

Threk squinted at them like they might bite.

She tried not to laugh.

"I think you're... definitely an XXL," she said, eyeing his frame. "Maybe longer in the leg. You've got shoulders like a freight truck."

He looked vaguely alarmed.

"Freight truck's a compliment," she clarified.

She handed him a bundle—soft joggers, boxers, the only two t-shirts that fit him with Stay Feral and Don't Poke the Bear printed across the chest. And a hoodie in deep forest green.

Then came the socks. And flip-flops. And a toothbrush. And shampoo. And deodorant. Lots of deodorant. There were no shoes in size Godzilla.

"All me?" he asked quietly, watching her pile grow.

"Yes. You're not wearing that ratty hoodie another day."

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