The breeder spoke with a rehearsed professionalism, using that tone adults adopt when they think a child can't grasp the weight of a decision. But I had already made mine. It didn't matter how much he talked about genetics, lineage importance, or the special care a Siberian Husky required in a country where dogs were uncommon. I had read enough, studied every aspect of their training and temperament. I wasn't going to make mistakes. I wouldn't let this dog become another variable beyond my control.

The facility was sterile, carrying the sharp scent of disinfectant that made it hard to believe animals were raised there. The enclosures weren't barred cages but glass compartments, designed to prevent unnecessary contact. In Japan, dogs weren't a common sight in the streets, nor were shelters overflowing with animals waiting for adoption. Here, owning a dog was a luxury, almost a status symbol, and breeding facilities ensured that each specimen met the highest standards of perfection.

I scanned the puppies displayed in their individual spaces, their symmetrical fur coats and strikingly blue or amber eyes reflecting the meticulous selection process. They were nearly identical, precise copies of what was expected from their breed. Most paid little attention to those passing by, too accustomed to being observed. They weren't choosing anyone. They were waiting to be chosen.

Except for one.

In the corner of his enclosure sat a puppy, slightly apart from the rest, head tilted and ears perked, watching me in a way none of the others did. One eye was gray blue, the other honey brown. His gaze lacked the passive expectation of his siblings. He wasn't waiting. He was observing.

I felt a flicker of recognition, though I didn't understand why. He didn't look like the others. He wasn't symmetrical. He wasn't perfect. In any other context, someone might say he had a flaw, that heterochromia disrupted the visual harmony. But to me, it was the only mark of individuality in a group of clones.

I stepped forward without breaking eye contact. The puppy did not look away either.

The breeder noticed my interest and cleared his throat before speaking.

"That one is special," he said, in a tone that suggested imperfection rather than rarity. "His heterochromia makes him unique, but some buyers prefer uniform eye pigmentation."

I didn't reply immediately. I had already made my decision.

"I want this one", I said at last.

The breeder studied me, then glanced at my grandmother, as if she might convince me otherwise. She remained silent, her expression unchanged. She knew that once I made up my mind, I rarely changed it.

"This puppy requires an owner with discipline," the man continued. "Huskies aren't easy to train. They're intelligent, but they have strong wills. They need structure and leadership."

I nodded without hesitation. That wouldn't be a problem.

The train ride home was quiet. My grandmother gazed out the window with her usual composure, not asking unnecessary questions. She didn't say whether she thought this was a good or bad idea. She trusted that if I had chosen something, I had already considered every implication.

In the carrier at my feet, the puppy barely moved. He didn't whine or scratch at the door. He just watched me through the bars, his mismatched eyes filled with the same intensity they had held in the facility.

When we arrived at the apartment, I placed the carrier on the floor and opened the door. The puppy stepped out cautiously, sniffing the air with the wary precision of someone exploring foreign territory, yet without a trace of fear. I stood still, waiting to see what he would do first. He wandered through the room, inspecting the edges of the sofa, the low table, the meticulously arranged shelves. When he finished his examination, he turned and walked directly to me.

He sat at my feet, lifted his head, and looked at me. There was no hesitation in his expression. He had chosen me.

I took a slow breath and knelt before him. He couldn't remain nameless.

That was when I remembered the coin.

My grandfather had been a numismatist. Before he died, he had taught me about the history of coins, their value beyond money, how each one carried a story. My first collectible piece had been a ten cent U.S. coin, still tucked away among my belongings.

I looked at the puppy and knew.

"Dime."

The husky tilted his head at the sound, but he didn't look away. The name belonged to him from the moment I spoke it.

The following days were a battle. I knew huskies were stubborn, but I wasn't prepared for the embodiment of defiance that was Dime.

Getting him used to a leash was a disaster. The moment I clipped it onto his collar, he collapsed as if he had been struck down.

"Dime, walk," I instructed calmly.

He remained motionless, his body completely relaxed against the floor as if his legs had lost function.

"Dime, let's go."

His ears twitched slightly, but he didn't budge.

I sighed. This was a battle of wills.

I let go of the leash and took a few steps back, pretending to ignore him. The puppy lifted his head, curious. I stepped back farther.

He waited. Evaluated. Then, as if nothing had happened, he got up and trotted toward me.

I had won the first round.

The next struggle was bedtime. I decided he would sleep in his own designated space beside my futon. I wouldn't allow bad habits to form from the start.

Dime disagreed.

Each night, after turning off the light, I ensured he was settled in his corner, staying put. And each night, sometime before dawn, I woke up to the warm weight of his body pressed against mine.

The first night, I put him back three times.
The second night, five.
The third night, I woke up, and he was already there, his muzzle resting against my arm, breathing with the absolute ease of someone who had already won the battle.

I stared at him in the dark. He met my gaze without a hint of remorse.

"I'm not getting used to this," I muttered, turning my back to him.

The next morning, he was still there.

By the time he was six months old, we had reached an understanding. He didn't obey blindly, but he understood that I was his reference point. My voice meant something to him.

That was when I found the coin.

I had been organizing my things when I saw the small glint of metal. The ten-cent coin, the one my grandfather had given me as a child. My first collectible.

I held it between my fingers for a moment, feeling its weight. Without overthinking it, I took a black thread, tied the coin carefully, and placed it around Dime's neck.

He shook himself slightly but didn't try to remove it.

That night, when I lay down, Dime didn't attempt to climb onto my futon.

When I woke up at dawn, he was already beside me, the coin glinting against his fur as if it had always been there.

I said nothing. I just rested my hand on his coat and closed my eyes again.

After all, I never had a choice.

Dime chose me First.