Selene sat on the edge of the couch, the unopened envelope balanced on her knees. The cat had curled itself nearby, fur still damp, eyes half-closed yet strangely alert like a sentry pretending to sleep.

Her hands hovered over the envelope. The inked letters of her name stared back at her, black and uneven, as though scrawled in haste or in anger.

For ten long minutes she did nothing. She told herself she wouldn't open it. That it was a prank, junk mail, some mis-delivery. But the silence in her apartment stretched too long, too thin. The envelope demanded to be opened.

She tore the flap.

Inside was a single sheet of paper, folded once. No letterhead. No date. Just four words written in the same heavy, smudged ink:

DON'T TRUST THE CAT.

Selene blinked, heart hammering. Her first reaction was absurd laughter, short and sharp, cut off almost immediately. It was ridiculous. Insane. Who would write this?

The cat lifted its head. Stared at her with burning golden eyes, as if it understood.

"No," Selene whispered, clutching the note tighter. "No, this is crazy. This is"

The lights flickered again.

And when the room settled, the envelope was gone from her lap.

Vanished.

Selene leapt to her feet, scanning the floor, the couch, her own trembling hands. Nothing. Only the paper remained, limp and wet with sweat in her palm. The envelope itself had disappeared.

Her chest heaved. She backed away from the couch, knocking into the table again.

The cat hadn't moved.

It just kept watching.

Selene pressed her back against the wall, clutching the damp paper so tightly her knuckles whitened. The words DON'T TRUST THE CAT burned in her mind. The storm still raged outside, but in here, it felt too quiet, as if the walls were swallowing sound.

She risked one glance toward the couch.

The cat hadn't moved, but its eyes gleamed like molten coins in the dim light. It blinked once slowly then tilted its head. That tiny movement felt deliberate, almost human.

A chill shivered down her spine.

Her rational mind screamed for explanations: someone slipped the letter under her door, she hallucinated the handprint, the storm was messing with her nerves. But the envelope vanishing? The way the cat looked at her? None of it fit into reason.

She backed toward her bedroom door, intent on locking herself in until daylight. But just as her hand touched the knob, a sound rooted her in place.

Purring.

Deep, steady, resonant. Too loud for a creature its size.

Selene turned, heart slamming against her ribs. The cat was no longer on the couch.

It was sitting by the window.

Watching the storm. Watching her.

And in the glass's reflection, Selene swore she saw a second figure standing behind it just for a flicker, gone when she blinked.

She stumbled into her room and slammed the door shut.

The note slipped from her hand.

DON'T TRUST THE CAT

By morning, the storm had rinsed Blackthorn City into a washed-out gray. Puddles reflected fractured skies, gutters overflowed, and the air carried that sharp metallic scent of rain clinging to concrete.

Selene hadn't slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the bloody handprint, the disappearing envelope, the cat's molten gaze. The note still lay crumpled on her nightstand like a dare she couldn't ignore.

She told herself she was done with it. She'd toss it in the trash, forget the whole night ever happened. She was good at pretending things away had been doing it her whole life.

But fate, it seemed, wasn't going to let her off that easy.

Her phone buzzed as she poured bitter coffee into a chipped mug. A text message lit the screen. No contact name.

No number.

Just another unknown.

COME TO WET PUSSY TONIGHT.

Selene stared at it, stomach twisting. Her first thought was that someone was messing with her. Her second was worse: this was connected to the envelope.

The name clicked in her brain after a moment. Wet Pussy wasn't just a stray cat it was also the name of that notorious underground bar tucked into the edge of Blackthorn's old quarter. She'd heard whispers of it, a place where criminals mingled with city officials, where secrets and vices bled into one another.

She deleted the message. Or tried to. The moment she tapped delete, her phone froze, screen glitching, then rebooted itself. When it powered back on, the message was still there.

Waiting.

She slammed the mug down too hard, coffee splattering over the counter. "No," she muttered to herself. "No, I'm not playing this game."

The cat chose that moment to slink into the kitchen. Dry now, its fur glossy, tail flicking lazily. It leapt onto the counter, just out of reach, and tapped its paw against the phone as if claiming it.

Selene's chest constricted. The words from the night before echoed: DON'T TRUST THE CAT.

And yet, she couldn't shake the sense that the message wasn't optional.

That somehow, the cat already knew she would go.