My new security cam blinks at me from the corner of the ceiling. State-of-the-art, courtesy of my now-definitely-empty emergency fund. It chirps every time I walk into frame, which is either comforting or deeply unsettling. Jury’s still out.
“Paranoid’s the new black,” I mutter, twisting my hair into a topknot as I stare down the camera. It chirps again.
I’ve been back at the salon for a day and a half. Jacey gave me that look—you know the one. The one that saysyou’re full of it, but I’m too tired to argue.I told her I was fine, just needed to clear my head. She didn’t believe me, but she still let me open the place alone this morning. That’s friendship.
The clientele doesn’t care if I’ve had a near-death experience. They still want their edges crisp and their part lines straight. By noon I’ve done two thermal reconstructs, a neuro-fiber extension, and one very needy bride-to-be who cried because her curls didn’t look like her dead aunt’s. I didn’t even flinch.
Routine is a balm. You don’t have to think while your hands are moving. You just snip, style, spray, repeat. Muscle memory and mild gossip.
Evening comes on slow, draping itself over Novaria in folds of purple smog and buzzing streetlights. I curl up on my tiny couch, cradling a warm bowl of synth-noodles and telling myself the worst is over.
Then I hear it.
A meow.
Soft. Questioning. Like someone’s knocking on my door but too polite to use a fist.
I freeze, chopsticks halfway to my mouth. Wait.
Another meow.
I get up slowly, set the noodles aside, and creep to the door like I’m in some kind of low-budget holodrama.
There it is. Sitting like a perfect porcelain sculpture on my welcome mat. A cat. Fluffy. Snow-white fur with a faint shimmer like it was groomed by angels. Huge pink eyes that glow faintly in the dim hallway lights.
“Well, aren’t you a cutie?” I breathe, all my suspicion melting under the pressure of pure adorableness.
It blinks up at me. Tail flicks once. Then again.
I crack the door open and crouch, holding out my hand. “C’mere, baby. What are you doing out here?”
It doesn’t hesitate. Just glides in like it’s been here a hundred times before.
I scoop it up. It purrs. Loudly. Vibrations rumble against my chest like a tiny hover engine. I melt.
“Oh no,” I whisper. “You’re one of those cats. The weaponized cute kind.”
It nuzzles under my chin.
I close the door, double lock it—because okay, I’m notcompletelystupid—and carry the living cotton puff into the kitchen.
“You hungry, sugar?”
The cat chirps.
I don’t have real meat—who does—but I dig out a tin of synth-tuna from the back of my pantry. Pop the lid. Slop it into a dish. The cat hops down and digs in like it’s been starving for years.
I lean against the counter, arms folded, watching this tiny floof absolutely demolish its meal.
“You’re lucky you’re cute. Otherwise, I’d be real concerned about you inhaling fish paste like a vacuum with issues.”
It ignores me.
After dinner, it finds my lap like it owns the place. Curls up. Falls asleep.
I should be worried. I should be paranoid. I should be checking for nanobots or poison claws or...something.
Instead, I stroke its silky fur and feel myself relax for the first time in days.
