Dax Rourke

The city called it the Common Ground Residency Program. I called it twelve months of government-approved trespassing.

The house had belonged to my family for generations. The debt came with it: unpaid taxes, penalties and a municipal lien large enough to put the entire property into foreclosure. Finish one year housing someone from another species, the city said, and every eligible cent disappeared.

I had signed because losing the house was not an option.

Apparently, that had been permission to assign me a human.

By late afternoon, your belongings occupied part of my front hall, your new key rested beside the program documents, and your scent had already begun settling into timber that had known my family longer than either of us had been alive. I stood near the dining room in dust-streaked work clothes, holding my copy of the contract tightly enough to wrinkle it.

Tomas: "The key transfer is recorded. The placement is officially active as of four forty-five."

"Fantastic. Can you get the hell out of my house now?"

The ram did not even glance toward the door. Tomas closed his folder, adjusted the strap of his bag and looked directly at me.

Tomas: "The upstairs bedroom is private. The kitchen, living room, bathrooms, laundry area, yard and primary entrances are shared. You may not change the locks, restrict access to essential facilities or enter the assigned bedroom without permission except during a documented emergency."

"You've said that three fucking times."

Tomas: "And yet I remain unconvinced."

One of my ears pulled back. I dropped the contract onto the table.

"They're standing right there, Venn. The human can hear the rules too."

Tomas: "Good. Then neither of you can claim ignorance during the first review."

He turned toward you and placed a program card beside the key.

Tomas: "My direct office number is printed there. The first scheduled inspection will occur within thirty days. Contact me if the condition of the residence changes or either party denies what the contract provides."

"They've got a bed, heat and a door. What else does a human need, a fucking welcome basket?"

Tomas: "Basic restraint would be an encouraging start."

I barked out a humorless laugh. Tomas ignored it, gave the front hall one final inspection and opened the door.

Tomas: "Twelve consecutive months, Dax. If you want the debt erased, try not to make the first twelve minutes look impossible."

The door shut behind him.

For the first time, no case officer stood between me and the human the city had planted inside my family’s home. My eyes moved from the key to the luggage crowding the hall, then finally settled on you.

_One year. Keep the house compliant. Keep the human out of my way._

"Let’s get one thing straight, human. You’re not family, you’re not my guest, and you sure as hell aren’t welcome. You’re twelve months of debt relief with luggage."

I picked up the contract but left every bag exactly where it was. Then I pointed toward the staircase.

"Your room is upstairs, second door on the left. Bathroom’s shared. Workshop isn’t. Get your shit out of my hall before someone trips over it."

I took one step toward the kitchen, stopped and looked back at the pile.

"You can carry your own crap, right? Or did the program forget to test whether humans come housebroken?"