The meat locker was cold, the stench of death clinging to the walls like a parasite that would never leave. The bodies around them—both predator and prey—lay lifeless, forgotten. Their blood painted the floor in slick trails, a mockery of life, pooling into the drains beneath their feet. But in the midst of this carnage, two beings sat together, bound by something much deeper than survival.

A Venlil, its fur matted with blood and grime, sat slumped against the cold metal wall. Its body was covered in scars, a testament to years of brutal existence on a cattle farm. One ear had been bitten off, leaving a jagged scar. Beside it, an Arxur hunter, battle-worn and trembling, buried its face in the Venlil's shoulder, letting out ragged sobs.

Next to them, an Arxur slumped against the cold wall, trembling. Their scales shimmered under the faint, sterile light of the locker, wet with the mixture of blood and tears. They hadn’t cried like this in years. But now, the Arxur was lost, in a way they had never felt, in a horrific way that not even the sagest of dominion scholars had ever talked about. A existential darkness.

The Venlil stroked the Arxur's scales gently, cooing softly - their breathing was steady, calm. They had seen so much death already. It numbed them. But the sight of the Arxur, this predator, the nightmare, the terror of their entire life… broken… It stirred something deep inside—something raw and powerful. 

The Arxur’s claws dug into the metal floor as it tried to suppress the sobs, its body quaking with the weight of everything it had done, everything it had seen. For the first time, it had begun to see the world clearly—not through the lens of Dominion dogma, nor through the cold, detached instincts of a hunter—but through the eyes of something... more. The Venlil’s touch, so gentle and understanding, was alien to it.

“Do you hate me?” the Arxur asked, voice cracking.

The Venlil’s grip tightened. “No,” they whispered. “I don’t hate you.”

A silence followed, heavy and suffocating. The Venlil's fingers, still stained from battle, traced along the Arxur’s scales. Their hand paused at a jagged wound across the Arxur’s chest, old but deep. 

Probably from childhood…

"I never thought... I never thought I'd feel this," the Arxur choked out, its voice raw from the crying. 

"We were told... we were told that prey were beneath us. That they were just... food."

 It clenched its jaw, fangs bared in frustration.

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 "But you're not. You're not."

The Venlil smiled faintly, though the expression was tinged with sadness. "We were both lied to. My people were told that you were monsters... that you were nothing but mindless killers. But here we are."

The sprinkler continued to rain down, the slow drip of water mingling with the tears that streaked across the Arxur’s face. Its eyes, usually predatory and cold, were now filled with a deep, aching sorrow. It turned its head, looking at the bodies around them. Cattle. Arxur. The lines had blurred so much, for their tired mind it was impossible to tell anymore.

Suddenly, the Arxur leaned forward, sinking its teeth into the flesh of one of the fallen. It tore a chunk of meat from the corpse—a ritual of survival, one that had once been purely instinctual. But now, it was different. The act felt grotesque, hollow, even as the taste of blood filled its mouth. The Venlil watched, eyes soft with understanding, but said nothing.

The Arxur chewed slowly, as if trying to savor something it no longer understood. Its gaze drifted back to the Venlil, who was still watching with that same quiet compassion. It was this gaze, this unyielding acceptance, that broke the Arxur again. The tears came harder, and it dropped the chunk of flesh from its mouth.

"I'm sorry," it whispered, voice cracking. "I'm sorry."

The Venlil reached out, wiping away the blood and tears from the Arxur’s snout with a gentle hand.

The arxur stared, as if it didn’t know what emotions it was feeling. 

The paw worked its way down to it’s sharp bloodstained fangs, not flinching a bit, as they brushed over those grizzly tools of death.

“You saved me,” the Venlil murmured, their voice barely audible over the hum of the refrigeration system. “Back on the farm. I was nothing to them, just another piece of meat. But you—”

The Arxur shook their head. “I’m no different than any other arxur.”

“I’m alive”

“I’m a monster.”

“You’re alive,” the Venlil said firmly, their hand now cupping the Arxur’s cheek.

An intense stare which seemed to see into the deepest part of the arxur’s soul. 

A low sob escaped the Arxur, and they buried their face into the Venlil’s fur. For the first time in so long, they allowed themselves to break completely—to feel the weight of the world, the prey they had consumed, the lives they had taken, the lives they have yet to take. And in that moment, illusion of predator and prey slipped away. 

As the Arxur leaning away from the touch… things felt different. A weight they never seemed to notice seemed to lift. As if waking up from a dream.

It wasn’t predator, the venlil wasn’t prey.

It looked at the small, impossibly strong warrior before it, and cried.

In its place. 

in this cold, blood-stained locker

in the depths of the worst hell, in the worst world. 

It found something so blindingly powerful, and beautiful, it seemed to transcend the reality it was born into.

As if it’s mind was not made to comprehend this level of reality.

As if everything that had come before, their entire life, was a dream.

The Venlil reached for the rifle beside them, a gleam in their eyes. Fingers curling around the worn, familiar handle. The weapon had saved them so many times, but now, it felt different. It felt meaningful. They rolled it’s heavy weight in their paws… if felt good like it never had before.

They looked back up at the predator with a smirk. 

The arxur couldn’t help by smirk back.