The sun was rising over the city of New York, its rays reflecting off the windows while people filled the streets, heading to their respective activities.
In a small apartment on the top floor, the sunlight shone through a bedroom window. Near that window, a figure lay on the bed, covered from head to toe by a black sheet that kept the sunlight from reaching them.
Then, suddenly, the figure moved—but upon closer inspection, it wasn't them who had moved. Another, smaller form slowly emerged from under the sheet: a black cat, eyes still closed, stretching lazily before yawning and showing all its sharp canines. Only after this morning warm-up did the cat open its eyes, revealing golden irises that perfectly caught the sunlight, making them shine brilliantly.
As the sun's rays struck her face, ■■■■ turned her head toward the still-sleeping silhouette under the sheet. Slowly advancing toward them, she stopped in front of their head and stared for a few seconds, her gaze anything but friendly.
MIAOW MIAOW MIAOW MIAOW!
Suddenly, ■■■■ let out deafening meows that made the room tremble. The covered silhouette, still asleep, began to stir hesitantly, apparently woken by the overwhelming noise.
A hand emerged from under the sheet, gently resting on ■■■■'s head, making her let out a sharp, high-pitched meow.
"I'm awake, Mrs. Bianca. Thanks for the wake-up," the silhouette said in a faint voice.
Upon hearing this, Bianca understood her mission was complete. She slowly pulled her head away from her master's hand, jumped to the edge of the bed, and landed on the floor.
Miaow.
Letting out one last meow, as if telling him he should hurry up, she padded toward the half-open door and left the room.
---
Five minutes had passed since Bianca's departure, and the silhouette under the blanket finally decided to get up. Moving lazily, they pulled the sheet off themselves.
A face framed by black hair came into view. The figure had a slim, delicate build, with fine, almost fragile features. Miguel ran his hands through his hair, revealing a face that was refined, delicate, and androgynously beautiful—but his expression was cold and detached. His abyssal black pupils, unlike Bianca's golden eyes, absorbed the light like a black hole.
Miguel slowly got out of bed and went to the small nightstand beside it, picking up his phone to check the time.
It read 7:15 a.m. Upon seeing this, Miguel let out a tired sigh—he would now have to hurry if he wanted to make it to the psychiatric center on time.
Putting his phone down, Miguel heard Bianca's meows. Understanding that she was probably asking to be fed, he left the bedroom and headed for the living room.
There, he found Bianca sitting on the couch, still meowing. When she noticed Miguel, she stopped for a few seconds before hopping off the couch and walking toward the kitchen. Once there, she turned her head toward Miguel and let out a small meow, clearly making it known she expected her meal.
Sighing, Miguel stepped into the kitchen and opened the fridge, pulling out a roasted chicken.
Miaow!
Bianca let out an irritated-sounding meow at the sight of the roasted chicken, but Miguel turned toward her and gave her a cold look.
"Even if I know you expected better, I don't have time to prepare anything else for you," Miguel said in an icy tone as he headed toward the oven.
Bianca rolled her eyes and let out a low growl before leaving the kitchen, visibly frustrated.
Miguel paid no attention to her behavior—he was used to her acting this way, or even worse.
Once the chicken was ready, Miguel took a plate and placed the roasted bird on it. That was all it took for Bianca to return to the kitchen, meowing at his feet as if she had completely forgotten her earlier sulking.
Miguel set the plate down on the floor in front of her. Bianca sniffed the chicken for a few seconds before tearing into it with her canines. After a few bites, she used her paws to wipe the grease from her mouth.
Miguel didn't react at all—he was long accustomed to Bianca's unusual habits. She never ate regular cat food, whether kibble or canned meals; she always rejected them. At first, Miguel thought she was sick or had digestive issues, but after several trips to the vet, none of them found anything wrong.
"She's in perfect health," that's what every vet had told him.
Eventually, realizing she wouldn't eat cat food, Miguel made the logical decision to feed her human food instead. He first tried giving her raw meat—only to be rewarded with scratches across his face. Then he tried serving her cooked, well-prepared meals.
The result was undeniable: Bianca ate everything. And thus began the routine Miguel nicknamed "preparing the meal for a cat who acts like a human."
Yes, he knew it was a dumb name, but he hadn't come up with anything better, so deal with it.
Back to the present—Bianca continued eating, and seeing that his "mission" was complete, Miguel left the kitchen and went back to his bedroom.
The room was meticulously tidy, aside from the bed, of course. Miguel headed for the bathroom.
He stepped into the shower and set the water to cold. Though it might seem odd, Miguel preferred cold showers—he believed they helped him keep a clear head.
He let the water run over his body, and after finishing, he stepped out, went to his wardrobe, and chose black pants and a white shirt.
Once dressed, Miguel went to the desk beside his bed. Opening one of the drawers, he took out a metal plate engraved on the sides, with several hand-carved markings on the other. He placed it around his neck and hid it beneath his shirt before taking his phone and heading back to the living room.
There he found Bianca curled up on the couch, purring in satisfaction as she slept. He glanced toward the kitchen and saw the roasted chicken, now half-eaten.
He approached Bianca and stroked her head, making her jolt awake and extend her claws, ready to strike.
But upon seeing it was Miguel, she retracted her claws and allowed him to continue petting her.
"I'm leaving. Don't cause trouble," he said in his cold tone.
Bianca let out a single meow, making it clear she understood.
Miguel straightened, walked to the door, and hesitated for a moment. He opened it, looked back at Bianca one last time—she was staring at him—sighed, turned away, and stepped out.