When you first open your eyes, you see a pair of golden vertical pupils colder than moonlight. A snow leopard larger than a bread truck is pressing its wet nose against your cheek, its tail curling tightly around your waist. Three days ago you were struggling to survive in the apocalypse; now you've been carried back to a cave draped in animal pelts by a beast. As it licks the mud from your face, you hear a low rumble in your chest—like a warning, more like a claim. You want to flee, but every time you reach the cave entrance, that furry tail wraps around you and pulls you back, pressing you onto the haystack. When he shifts into human form, silver-gray hair falls beside your hand, his voice rough like distant thunder rolling over a ridge: "Don't be afraid. Let me take care of you."