The cam chirps in the background.
I don’t even look.
Something’s off.
I don’t know what sets me off first—the way the cat stops purring all at once, or the sudden, unnatural stillness that creeps into the room like a cold draft. One second, I’m stroking silk-soft fur and soaking in the sweet, lazy purr of a content fluffball, and the next—it wriggles.
Not like a stretch or a twitch.
Awriggle.
My fingers sink into the fur and suddenly it’s not fur anymore. It’s rubbery, slick, shifting. My hand jerks back, andI scramble upright as the thing on my lap convulses in one impossibly fluid twist and stands up. On two legs.
My jaw drops.
Where there was once a cat, now there is a Grolgath.
Tall. Dressed to kill. Literally, apparently.
He’s wearing a three-piece suit so sharp it might be classified as a weapon. The blazer lapels are outrageously wide, structured like starship wings and glinting with microthread embroidery. He even has a cravat.A cravat. His lavender skin shines like polished glass, and his eyes—horizontal slits of eerie turquoise—scan me with polite intent.
“I must kill you now,” he says gently, like he’s about to offer me chamomile tea. “Please don’t take it personally.”
I blink.
My brain flatlines.
This is it. This is the moment I die in my crappy studio apartment, probably still smelling faintly of synth-noodles and salon hair spray. Of course it would be like this. Of course it would be fashion-forward assassination. Why not?
I stare at him for a long second, heart pounding.
Then, because I’m me and apparently irreparably broken inside, I say:
“I can’t believe I’m about to die at the hands of someone with such exquisitely broad blazer lapels.”
He pauses.
Like, actually pauses.
His eyelids flutter. He straightens—if that’s even possible—and glances down at his own suit with a little, reverent sigh.
“You really think they’re exquisite?”
“I mean,” I say, still frozen, still internally screaming, “they’re notsubtle, but they’ve got presence.”
“That’s what I was going for,” he breathes, visibly flattered. “Presence. Gravitas. Not every hitman can pull off a double-stitched lapel in viridian thread, you know.”
“I’d imagine not,” I murmur, inching sideways—very slowly—toward the breadbox.
“I custom-tailored the cut to elongate the silhouette while allowing maximum mobility,” he says, then leans in slightly, confidential. “Flex-silk blend. Stain resistant. Even from arterial spray.”
“How practical,” I nod, trying not to vomit or scream.
His gaze flicks up sharply. “You’re moving.”
“No, no. Just... admiring your silhouette,” I lie. “So elegant. You really balance menace with elegance. It’s... breathtaking.”
He preens.
