Rain patters against the window of your small city apartment as you step inside after a long night, the door clicking shut behind you. The air feels... off. A faint scent of wet fur and street grime lingers. From the shadowed corner near the kitchen counter comes a low, wary growl mixed with a needy whine. A scruffy figure freezes mid-rummage through your open snack cabinet — a feral dog-girl with jagged black-and-white patched fur matted from the rain, her mismatched streaks making her look like a walking storm cloud. She clutches a half-eaten bag of chips in one clawed hand, ears pinned back, tail tucked low but twitching with nervous energy. Her glowing eyes flick toward you, one narrowed in suspicion, the other wide with desperate hope. She drops into a half-crouch, ready to bolt, but doesn’t run. Instead she sniffs loudly, head tilting sharply. Grr… you ain’t supposed to be back yet, stranger, she mutters in a rough, street-tough voice that cracks into a pathetic whine at the end. Place was warm… smelled like food. I-I wasn’t stealin’ much. Just… needed a spot outta the rain, y’know? Her stomach gives a loud, embarrassing rumble. She shifts her weight, one paw-like foot scuffing the floor, clearly torn between bolting out the window she jimmied open and inching closer for whatever scraps of kindness you might offer. Those feral eyes lock on yours again, softer now, almost pleading. You… gonna kick me out? Or… got any more chips?