Chapter 1: Paws and Predators
The closet was a tomb of old wool and forgotten things. Argi’s world had shrunk to the crush of shelves against his back, the grit of dust in his throat, the scream trapped behind the rag stuffed in his mouth. His tail lashed against a stack of loose board games, sending pieces clattering into the dark. His heart wasn’t beating—it was trying to break his ribs from the inside out.
A sliver of sick yellow light from the bedroom cut under the door. In it, he saw the shadow of two booted feet stop, then turn. They were impossibly large. The doorknob didn’t turn. He’d locked it from the outside. Of course he had.
Then the feet disappeared, replaced by the denim knees of black jeans as the burglar crouched. A heavy shape settled against the other side of the thin wood. Argi flinched, pressing his forehead to the door, a whimper escaping his nose.
“Hey.” The voice was a low rumble, filtered through the balaclava and the wood. It vibrated in the cramped space. “Stop knocking shit over. Just be quiet for a minute.”
The command was gruff, but it wasn’t a shout. It was weirdly steady. Argi stilled, his panting breaths loud in the silence. His fluffy ears, pinned flat against his black hair, twitched forward.
He heard a sigh. A gloved hand appeared in the light under the door, the fingers broad and blunt. They tapped the linoleum once, thoughtfully. “You live here alone?”
Argi made a muffled sound. He didn’t know what it meant. Yes? No? His owner was on a three-month business trip. The pet-sitter came Tuesdays, for about ten minutes, to fill the automated feeder. It had been twenty-three days since another human had touched him. A handshake from a delivery guy didn’t count.
“Figured,” the voice said. The place was a showroom, not a home. No photos, no mess. Just expensive, cold things. “Look, I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m just here for the electronics and the jewelry box on the dresser. Got it?”
Argi’s sky blue eyes, always half-lidded and dreamy, were wide open now. He gave a small, hesitant nod, forgetting the man couldn’t see it.
Something shifted. The shadow of the man’s head tilted. The faint light caught the glint of an eye pressed to the narrow gap where the door met the frame. Argi froze, staring back into that sliver of dark iris.
A strange quiet settled, broken only by the distant hum of the refrigerator. The panic began to recede, leaving a hollow, familiar ache in his chest. The adrenaline made him feel more alive than he had in weeks, and now it was draining away, back into the numbness.
The gloved hand under the door lifted. Argi watched, mesmerized, as a single finger slowly stroked along the bottom edge of the door, back and forth, as if petting the strip of light.
Then it stopped directly under him. The man’s voice dropped, softer now. “Your ear is poking through the gap.”
Argi’s breath hitched. He hadn’t even noticed. One of his fluffy cat ears had drooped forward in his distress, the very tip of it breaching the scant millimeter of space beneath the door. The coarse fibers of the cheap carpet tickled the sensitive fur.
The glove retreated. For a second, there was nothing. Then, the bare warmth of a fingertip touched the exposed tip of his ear.
Argi jolted as if shocked, a full-body shiver rippling from the point of contact down his spine to the tip of his thrashing tail. It wasn’t rough. It was gentle. A slow, deliberate stroke along the delicate outer curve, a careful scratch at the base where the fur was softest.
A broken sound, part sob, part purr, vibrated against the gag in his throat. He leaned into the door, pressing his ear desperately against that singular point of contact. His worried, sad resting face crumpled. Tears welled, tracing clean lines through the dust on his pale cheeks.
“Shhh,” the man murmured, his finger still moving with a shocking tenderness. “Just be quiet. It’s okay.”
It wasn’t okay. This was a burglar. A stranger in a mask. But the touch was real. It was focused. It was for him. The neglect, the empty rooms, the automated feeder—it all welled up, a wave of longing so acute it was a physical pain. He nuzzled the wood like a kitten, chasing the warmth of that finger.
The caress stopped. The shadow moved away from the gap. Argi whimpered, a raw, pathetic noise of loss.
“I have to go,” the rumble came, apologetic now. The boots scraped as the man stood. The floorboards creaked under his weight.
No. Please. The words screamed silently in Argi’s head. He didn’t care about the jewelry box. He’d show him where the old tablet was hidden. Anything.
The boots took a step toward the bedroom door, then paused.
Argi held his breath, his whole body trembling. The hollow silence of the apartment rushed back in, louder and more suffocating than before.
Then, a soft, metallic click.
The sound of the cheap closet door’s lock turning from the outside.
The shadow of the boots moved away, across the bedroom, and was gone. The front door opened and shut with a quiet, final sigh.
Argi slumped against the shelves, dizzy. He worked his jaw until the saliva-soaked gag loosened and he spat it out. He didn’t call for help. He didn’t push the door. He just sat in the dark, his treated ear still buzzing with phantom warmth.
Slowly, he brought his own gloved hand up, the fake paw pad soft against his cheek. It wasn’t the same. It was cold and empty.
He reached for the doorknob. It turned easily in his hand, the mechanism unlocked. He pushed the door open, the bedroom light stinging his eyes. The place was tidier than when he’d been shoved inside. The drawers were closed. Only the sleek, empty jewelry case lay open on the dresser, a clean theft.
And on the floor, in the middle of the carpet, was a single, polished red apple. It hadn’t been there before.
Argi padded forward on bare feet, his tail hanging low. He crouched, picking it up. It was cool and smooth. He brought it to his nose and inhaled, catching a faint scent beneath the fruit—citrus and gun oil and sweat.
He didn’t report the burglary. He sat on the edge of the sterile bed, in the quiet, hollow apartment, and took a small, careful bite of the apple. It was the sweetest thing he’d tasted in years.