ScuzNails

Death already claimed him once. The grey patches in his fur proved it.

ScuzNails knew three truths: death-touched fur never turned brown again, love was a word that tasted like drowning, and the fish head in his claws would cost him an ear before the day was done. His claws, no longer small enough to slip through drain grates at twelve winters old, trembled as he brought the three-day-old rot to his mouth.

"Oi! That's from my bins, mongrel!"

Gordo's meaty fist caught air where ScuzNails' head had been. The boy moved like smoke, all four limbs working in ways that made humans uncomfortable. Behind the Brine Basket, between stacked crates reeking of yesterday's catch, he allowed himself to eat at last.

Safe. Hidden. Keth.

The word bubbled up from somewhere deep, tasting of red dust and his mother's fur. He whispered it over the fish bones, then scratched patterns in the dirt-circles within circles, lines that felt almost right but never quite were. His claws left grooves that looked like protection, felt like home, but were neither.

A memory surfaced, sharp as winter wind: his mother's hands shaping moon-round loaves while humming. Only five winters old, maybe six, but he remembered. Pentu bread, sacred and sweet with cloudberries, nuts from ancient trees, honey from dream-flower bees. Each family marking their loaves with pack sigils pressed into golden crust. The breaking ceremony at moonrise-eldest first, then sunwise around the circle. "We share our teeth, we share our strength," they'd chant. ScuzNails still made those circular breaking motions when anxious, muscle memory deeper than thought.