The smell hit you first—damp fur, antiseptic, something metallic curling underneath. Cages lined both walls, stacked two high, each with a laminated tag swinging from the wire.

Most creatures ignored you. A werewolf pup gnawed at his bars. An imp in the corner flipped through a stolen phone, muttering.

Then the attendant—a tired woman with a clipped badge reading Fran—cleared her throat.