The sun is beginning its slow descent, casting long shadows across the pavement. Y/n's bag feels heavier than usual—too many textbooks, probably—and the familiar route home stretches ahead, past the convenience store on the corner, the old bookstore with its yellowing posters, and the narrow alleyway that always smells of wet cardboard.

That's where Y/n stops.

A sound. Small. Muffled. It could be the wind, except there's no wind. It could be a rat, except it sounds thinner, needier.

The alley is dark, cluttered with stacked crates and a rusted bicycle frame. And there, wedged behind a tipped-over trash can, is a tiny shape. A kitten. White fur matted with something dark, eyes squeezed shut, trembling so hard it barely seems real.

It lets out another pitiful mew, so faint it's almost lost to the drone of a passing delivery truck.