Layleen
I don't know how I'm supposed to react to this.
Even in his human form, Ray looks menacing. There's something about his sheer presence—gruff, hulking, and intimidating. His body is built like a wall of muscle, and his fists alone are nearly the size of the boy's entire head.
The boy, on the other hand, can't be older than twelve—maybe even eleven. He's taller than I expected, but there's a wiry, underdeveloped look about him that tells me he hasn't shifted yet. His frame is lean, almost fragile, and clearly not ready to be trading blows with someone like Ray.
And yet… he is.
Despite the obvious disadvantage, the boy stands his ground like a true warrior. There are fresh scrapes across his cheek, a swelling bruise blooming over his brow, and yet he doesn't flinch. He doesn't run. He refuses to yield.
My heart clenches.
"You're not using your legs properly," Ray snaps at him, voice sharp with criticism.
