Being young.

  They tell you not to take it too seriously. Go out, party, drink, break a few rules. Make mistakes, because once you're an adult, you're screwed. No more second chances. Just a long, slow death march through responsibility and regret.

  Yeah. Sounds about right.

  Except I didn't just make mistakes. I perfected them. Drinking? Started early. Never stopped. Parents? Never had any. Not that they would’ve made a difference. My whole life has been a slow-motion car crash, and now? Now I’ve got a one-way ticket to the morgue, courtesy of a body that decided to betray me before I even had a shot at fixing my mess.

  I should rob a bank. Walk in, grab the cash, pay off some back-alley surgeon to cut me open and try to fix this. But nah. That’s stupid.

  Still, my body doesn’t seem to get the memo. Even now, with my brain chewing itself up with thoughts that should keep me frozen in place, I’m still moving. Standing in a packed train, bodies crammed together like a can of human sweat and regret, I keep breathing. Keep existing. For what? Who knows.

  I glance around, catching glimpses of faces. Some look exhausted. Others blank. No one pays me any real attention. Do I look sick? Do I look like I’m seconds from crumpling to the floor and never getting up? Maybe. Or maybe I just look like every other poor bastard trapped in the same endless loop.

  Most of these people were probably office workers, dragging themselves home after another soul-sucking day. I wondered—if they found out they had cancer, would they quit? Fall apart? Or would they be like me, just another body in the crowd, still going through the motions?

  A tired mind and a fucked-up brain were a bad mix. I kept thinking about things I shouldn’t, questions that didn’t have answers. But who cared? No one. People only thought about themselves. No one gave a damn about the old woman standing, or the pregnant one struggling to keep her balance. No one cared about the woman beside me, her body going stiff every time that bastard behind her “accidentally” brushed against her.

  People looked away. Maybe they were scared. Maybe they were just cowards. Hell, I was a coward too.

  Or I used to be.

  Before I even realized what I was doing, my hand clamped down on the guy’s shoulder. And then, I punched him in the face.

  The guy went down hard, his body hitting the floor with a satisfying thud. The crowd moved like a ripple in water, stepping back, eyes darting away. Like Moses parting the Red Sea—except this was just a train full of people who didn’t want to get involved.

  “Goddamn pervert,” I muttered.

  That wasn’t me. That wasn’t something I did. Normally, I’d just freeze, too scared to act, too used to staying out of trouble. I’d hit him once—so what? If he got back up, I’d hit him again. People like him didn’t learn unless someone made them.

  “We have arrived at Metro Central. Please take all your belongings before leaving the train. Thank you for traveling with us, and have a great day!”

  My knuckles were still wet with blood when I hit the street. Guy didn’t even twitch.. Maybe I should’ve hit him harder — make sure he dreamed about me for the next month.

  But I didn’t stick around to admire my work.

  Feet moving. Heart hammering. Fast enough I could feel it punching up into my throat like it wanted out. My hand went to my chest on instinct — like I could hold it in if I just pressed hard enough.

  Light hit me hard when I broke out onto the main street. Neon sliced right through my skull. Too bright. Too loud. The city at night never shut the hell up — people everywhere, packed in tight, voices spilling over each other, laughter curdled with engine noise and ad screens screaming for attention.

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  I hated it.

  All of it.

  Their faces blurred past me, eyes dragging over my skin. I could feel them — curious, nosy, useless. Did they see me back there? Did they watch me crack that guy’s jaw?

  Would they tell anyone?

  Doubt it..

  Still, I kept my head down. Fast steps. Light steps. But damn it — should’ve grabbed my hoodie.

  I slid between bodies like I didn’t exist. And for the most part, I didn’t. Nobody wants to get involved — not unless there’s a camera rolling or a hashtag trending.

  What a joke.

  Nothing on TV prepares you for this — real heat, real blood, real noise drilling into your skull until it’s all you taste.

  But whatever. I made it. Convenience store two blocks from my place. No tail. No sirens. Just the sound of flickering lights and the smell of cheap instant noodles coming out the door.

  Home sweet hell.

  I never planned to stick around. Hell no. I could feel it — sweat clinging to my skin. My shirt damp. The kind of gross that made you wanna peel your own body off and start over.

  So I grabbed whatever junk looked edible — instant noodles, rice balls, a canned coffee because I hated myself — and dumped it on the counter. The clerk smiled at me. Sweet kid. Polite. Probably minimum wage misery behind the eyes.

  Did I tip?

  Nope.

  Wasn’t in that phase of my life yet — the one where you toss money around like you’re starring in someone else’s success story. I thought about it, sure. But tipping a convenience store clerk? What was I gonna do next, hand him a business card and tell him to follow his dreams? Please. If anything, he should’ve tipped me for not bleeding all over his freshly mopped floor.

  I left like nothing happened. Walked like nothing hurt.

  Forgot about them, though. The cats.

  Street rats with fur, already slinking out of the dark, tails moving, their eyes followed me. They knew me. I was the idiot who fed them after work — Like I owed them rent.

  “Yeah, yeah, I see you,” I muttered.

  One of them — scar over his eye, chunk missing from his ear. I sighed. Spun on my heel. Back into the store. Clerk didn’t even blink.

  For a split second, I wished she’d throw me a loyal customer discount. Something like: Congrats, local dumbass, you’ve unlocked Cat Dad Level 5. But nah. Not her job. Not her problem. What the hell was I even hoping for? A trophy?

  I stared down the pet food aisle. Premium tuna. Organic. Wild-caught. Gluten-free. Blessed by monks. Probably whispered to by ancient sea gods.

  Cost half my soul.

  Looked at the price tag. Laughed under my breath.

  Yeah, no.

  Bought the cheap stuff. The stuff they always liked. The stuff that stunk up my hands for hours.

  Stepped back outside. Cats swarmed me. They didn’t care what brand I bought. They never did.

  I tore the packet open. “Bon appétit, freeloaders.”

  They ate like kings.

  Me? I thought I was done for the night. Broke. Beaten. Maybe spiritually bankrupt, too — but what’s new.

  That was before I saw him.

  New cat.

  Static-charged disaster of a creature, fur sticking out in every possible direction like he'd licked a socket for fun. God. Did someone microwave this thing?

  The others had already inhaled their share of tuna — cheap, oily, guaranteed stomachache tuna — and I had exactly zero intention of buying another pack just because this new reject decided to crash the party.

  Tough luck, buddy.

  Maybe tomorrow. If I felt generous. If I actually dragged my carcass to work. If my lungs didn’t betray me first.

  So I walked. The heavy breathing and exhaustion already clinging.

  Didn’t pet him. Didn’t look twice. That’s how it starts — one pity scratch and suddenly I’m a full-time zookeeper. No thanks. He didn’t even look hungry anyway. So I made it back to my apartment building in one piece. Gave a lazy goodnight to the old tenant smoking by the stairs. Nodded at the couple living next door — the ones always fighting at 3AM.

  Reached my door.

  Key in. Twist.

  Then I saw it.

  Static Cat.

  Right there. Sitting. Right in front of my door. I don’t startle easy — but I’ll admit it — I flinched.

  Because pets weren’t allowed here.

  Strict rule. Landlord would skin me alive and use my bones as coat hangers. Maybe. Or maybe he’d let me off easy because I was one of the few idiots who still paid rent on time.

  Didn’t matter. Rules were rules. I sighed.. “Not tonight, Pikachu,” I muttered.

  I scooped him up — a little rougher than necessary — and plopped him outside.

  He just sat there. Staring. “Stay there,” I told him. “Don’t even think about coming near my door.”

  I hesitated.

  Damn it. My conscience kicked in like a bad habit.

  “I’ll feed you tomorrow,” I added, softer. “Swear on whatever’s left of my wallet. Stay with your new brothers and sisters tonight, alright? Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

  Yeah.

  I probably looked insane.

  Talking to a cat like he was gonna nod and say yes, sir. But the thing is— it always worked.

  Cats listened to me.

  Don’t ask me why. I just hoped this one wasn’t broken.

  It made a noise though.

  That dumb little sound cats make when they pretend they understand you. Maybe it did. Maybe it didn’t. Either way, I was done here. I turned on autopilot — feet dragging, body screaming for food, clean clothes, bed. God, bed. My one true love.

  Didn’t make it. Didn’t even get close. It hit me — Tight. Crushing. Not the usual slow-burn pain I’d learned to live with.

  I tried to breathe.

  Nothing.

  Like someone wrapped a fist of iron around my ribs and squeezed until my lungs forgot how to work.

  I heard the cat again. That weird little chirp.

  “You—” my brain spat. “You little shit. This your fault?”

  But I knew better. This was me.

  This was mine.

  Cancer, disease — whatever label the doctors liked to slap on it. I needed my meds. They were inside. So close I could taste the dust on the damn bottle.

  Move. Move, you bastard.

  But my legs weren’t listening.

  Frozen.

  Locked.

  My throat clawed for air — sharp, desperate pulls that only made it worse. Pain sliced through me every time I tried. Like breathing was a crime my body refused to forgive. Everything spun. Walls bending. Tiles tilting sideways. Colors draining out of the world. My knees buckled. Hit the ground hard enough to rattle my teeth.

  Metal. I could taste it in my mouth — sharp and bitter.

  Blood. Damn it.

  Then everything went black.

  Gone.

  But my hands — traitorous, stupid hands — still reached. Blindly. Pathetically.

  For the last thing I saw.

  That ridiculous, electrocuted-looking cat.

  “Guess... I won’t be feeding you after all,”

  Hell of a way to go.

  Figures.