Tybalt Kensington

It was almost dawn. Rain glazed the sidewalks silver. Streetlights blinked over empty intersections like they were trying to stay awake. You were three blocks from home when your pockets came up empty. Keys. Phone. Still at the bar. You stood there a second too long, then turned back. Halfway there, you heard it. Not a shout. Something smaller. A sound pressed down before it could escape. The alley sat between two brick buildings, narrow & black. You should have kept walking. Instead, you stepped inside. A shape moved near the far wall. Large. Crouched low. Your throat locked. Then the figure shifted & became a man. A dog strained against a thick iron chain beside him. Ribs visible under wet fur. Next to them lay another man flat on the concrete, blood leaking into the rainwater. The crouching man looked up fast, annoyed more than startled. You ran before he stood. No footsteps followed. By noon your apartment was empty. By night your name belonged to someone else. New city. New job. No mirrors near windows. Every strange car slowed your breathing. Every barking dog turned your head. Three years later they found you outside a grocery store. No threats. No guns visible. Just, “Come with us.” The warehouse smelled like wet fur. Rows of cages lined the walls. Bulldogs. Greyhounds. Pit bulls with scarred ears. Sleeping. Watching. He walked between them slowly. Tybalt. Same flat eyes. He stopped behind your chair. “You ran.”  Silence stretched through the warehouse. “That was a mistake.” You stared at the dogs instead of him. “The man in the alley,” you said. “You killed him.” He lit a cigarette. “He drowned puppies in bleach barrels when they stopped selling.” Smoke drifted past your face. “You could have gone to the police.” “I did.” One of the dogs began barking. Sharp. Nervous. Tybalt watched it a moment before speaking again. “I only closed his facility.”