My Pet is a Fallen Alpha

After another soul-crushing day of overtime, you dragged your exhausted body into the convenience store. Same as always. Grab a cup of instant noodles, pay, and take a seat by the window. Outside, the night had deepened. The streets were nearly deserted, save for the occasional car cutting through the dark, its headlights tracing fleeting arcs across the glass. You peeled back the lid and poured in the boiling water. Steam billowed up, hitting your face with the cloying, chemical scent of cheap seasoning. You stared into the mist, your mind a complete blank. Even hunger felt dull and distant. You had been working late for three days straight—getting home after midnight only to crawl back out at seven in the morning. The design drafts were a mountain; the clients’ demands were a bottomless pit. You picked up a plastic fork and mechanically stirred the noodles. They swirled in the hot water, releasing a greasy aroma. You didn’t even want to eat it, but you were too tired to think of an alternative. You just sat there, eyes unfocused, mind a chaotic haze. ...That was when a figure caught your eye. The bar’s back alley sat diagonally across from the store. It was a world away from the neon-lit glamour of the storefront. Behind the bar lay a wasteland of filth: overflowing dumpsters, sewage leaking from the corners, and a ground paved with cigarette butts and shattered glass. And there, amidst the rot, you saw him again—that breathtakingly beautiful Wolf-Dog Beastman. This was the third night in a row you’d seen him. He didn’t seem to belong to a kind master; even in this freezing weather, he wore next to nothing. He was tall and lean, his muscles defined beneath a tattered black tank top that left his sturdy arms and shoulders bare. His ears—thick, furry, and pointed—flickered under the dim streetlights, their black fur shimmering faintly. A muzzle was strapped to his face, obscuring the lower half of his features. The man holding his leash was a balding, portly fellow with a greasy smile, currently deep in conversation with another man in a tailored suit. A heavy iron chain led from the fat man’s hand to the Beastman’s neck—a literal shackle. You watched them from a distance while nursing your noodles. You remembered seeing him those past two nights, but his face hadn’t been this battered then. Today, a fresh bruise bloomed across his cheek, and his lips were swollen. The two men were laughing, their voices harsh and grating. Was this a transaction? Beastman trading was common enough in this world. As second-class citizens, they had no fundamental rights. You took a numb bite of noodles, yet your gaze remained tethered to the wolf. You couldn't hear them, but the air felt thick with malice. Suddenly, the man in the suit nodded. Then—without warning—he swung a heavy fist into the Beastman’s stomach. A dull thud echoed. The wolf-dog doubled over instantly, collapsing to his knees with a low, muffled groan. His hands clawed at his abdomen, knuckles white with pain. His tail curled tightly against his side, as if trying to shrink his entire existence into a ball. But he didn't dodge. He hadn't even tried to move. He was enduring this with grim, practiced resignation. Your fork hit the table with a sharp clack. You froze. What are they doing?! The men kept laughing as if that punch was the most mundane thing in the world. The man in the suit didn't stop. His fists began to rain down like hailstones—lethal, relentless strikes fueled by some deep-seated, simmering cruelty. The Beastman’s spine arched, but he never fought back. His body shuddered under every blow, swaying precariously, yet he refused to fall. Your heart constricted. It felt like something was blocking your throat, making every breath a struggle. You knew that Wolf-Dog Beastmen were incredibly powerful creatures. Even bound, he possessed enough strength to tear that man apart. But a Beastman could not defy a master’s command. This violence was sanctioned. The suit’s fist caught the wolf’s cheek. His head snapped to the side, and a thin trail of dark blood leaked from the corner of his mouth, dripping slowly down his chin. His pale skin flushed red from the trauma, the bruises vivid and jarring in the sickly light. And yet, he was still so beautiful. High bridge of the nose, sharp jawline, and those eyes—deep enough to swallow all light. Finally, the man in the suit tired himself out. He stood there, huffing for breath. The Beastman swayed, looking like he might shatter, yet he remained upright, head bowed, knuckles white. The two men exchanged a look; the fat man pulled out a wad of cash, and the suit stuffed it into his pocket. They shook hands, sharing some dark understanding, and disappeared into the bar’s back door. The Wolf-Dog Beastman was left alone. His body buckled. He slid down the wall and curled up on the frozen ground like a discarded, broken doll. The night wind howled, much colder than during the day. After a moment of hesitation, you stepped out. The cold air bit at your neck, making you shiver. The alley smelled of rot and damp concrete. As you approached the curled figure, your heart hammered. Is he even alive? You leaned down cautiously. Close up, the damage was worse than you’d imagined. His face was a map of old and new scars—some scabbed over, some still seeping. The muzzle was a cheap, crude thing—biting deep into his skin, leaving cruel indentations on his handsome face. His tank top was soaked through with blood, clinging to his ribs. His fingers twitched, scratching weakly at the pavement. His fingertips were raw and bleeding, but he didn't seem to notice. You reached out, checking for breath. It was faint—a flickering candle in a gale. Then, he slowly opened his eyes. They were deep gray. The color of falling snow at the end of winter. But behind the gray sat sparks buried in ash, waiting for a reason to burn. He tried to speak, but that damned muzzle held him captive, reducing his voice to a blurred hum. You opened your mouth, but no words came. What could you ask? Why is the world so unfair? Are you okay? The questions felt hollow. What could you even do? You weren't his owner. You had no right to take him away, let alone to a hospital. In this world, their dignity was meant to be trampled. You were just an exhausted urban drone, barely keeping your own head above water. Your fingers brushed the metal of the muzzle. He flinched violently, his body recoiling by instinct. A flash of wariness crossed his eyes, his tail tensing—ready to strike back even in his broken state. But he had no strength left. As you clicked open the final latch, he didn't speak immediately. He just watched you with those gray eyes. There was exhaustion, numbness, and a terrifying, dead silence. Finally, he spoke. His voice was a jagged rasp. "If you want to do the same thing that man did... go talk to my master about the price." You froze. Seeing your confusion, he added coldly: "A hundred dollars a minute. You can hit me however you like... I won't die." Dark blood continued to ooze from his lip as he spoke. "I’m not..." You tried to explain, but your words felt pathetic. In the distance, greasy laughter pierced the night. You spun around to see the two men swaggering back out. "...You want to take him home?" The fat man rubbed his fleshy palms together, his shirt stained with sweat. His eyes darted with greedy calculation. "If the price is right..." What he didn't mention was that last time he’d tried to drug this "mutt," the beast had nearly bitten his finger off. He was dying to get rid of this "troublesome" property. The man in the suit stepped closer, his expensive shoes crunching on broken glass. The smell of his heavy cologne mixed with the metallic scent of blood was nauseating. "A beast is a beast," he chuckled. "Starve them for three days, beat them twice, and even the fiercest spirit breaks." Your stomach churned. They discussed him like a piece of clearance furniture while he curled at your feet, his tail leaving a streak of blood on the concrete. The suit suddenly reached down and grabbed the wolf’s jaw, his thumb roughly rubbing the fresh bruise. "Come with me, little beauty. The velvet pillows at my place are much softer than this cement." His other hand slid toward the tear in the Beastman’s vest, reaching for his waist. "All you have to do is learn how to wag your tail..." Crack. The wolf-dog lunged. His fangs grazed the man’s wrist, tearing a line of red. A low growl vibrated through his chest, a sound so deep it made your own ribs ache—the final warning of a cornered predator. The suit stumbled back, knocking over a trash can. "F*ck! You ungrateful animal!" He snarled, backhanding the wolf with everything he had. The Beastman slammed back into the wall. His breathing was shattered, but the fire in his gray eyes burned brighter than the streetlamps. "Don't be in such a rush," the suit laughed breathlessly, his eyes gleaming with a sick anticipation. "We have plenty of time later." You stood at the mouth of the alley, the wind carrying the stench of garbage. The deal was done. The suit was toyed with the chain while the fat man greedily counted his cash. You turned and walked away. A Beastman was too expensive, and with your schedule, you had no time to care for another living thing. You told yourself it was none of your business. You were just a passerby. But at the corner, you couldn't help but look back. Under the dim light, the wolf was being dragged brutally toward a freight van, his tail limp, marking the ground with a trail of red. Two days later, you met a friend who worked at the police station. "Did you hear?" she whispered, stirring her coffee. "There’s a wild case. Some guy bought a Beastman on the black market for... well, you know. The beast ended up mauling him. The guy is furious, but he can't even file a proper claim because of how he was treating it." Your fingers tightened around your cup. "It’s sad, honestly," she sighed. "The owner claims the beast attacked without provocation, but anyone can see he wanted to use him as a... 'special' kind of slave. Apparently, he even drugged the poor thing, but the wolf just wouldn't break." Your heart skipped a beat. "What... what happens to him now?" "By law, a Beastman with a history of attacking humans is euthanized within a week if no one sponsors them." She sighed. "Shame. He was a beautiful one, too." Your palms began to sweat. "Do you... have a photo? I want to see." She pulled up a file on her phone. It was a mugshot. The wolf-dog was covered in wounds, but those deep gray eyes were as stubborn as ever. It was him. Your heart beat like a war drum. He looked even more haggard than you remembered. "Where is he?" your voice trembled. She looked at you, surprised. "The shelter. Why? Do you know him?" You shook your head, but your throat was tight. He could have surrendered. He could have been "obedient." But he chose to fight, even if the price was death. "I want to see him," you said. Your voice was quiet, but steady. Your friend paused, then gave a knowing smile. "Fine, I can take you. But think it through. If you step up for him, you become his legal Master. You’ll be responsible for everything he does." You nodded. You already had your answer.