But home was fifteen minutes closer this way, and Y/n's legs ached. The couch called.

The box came out of nowhere. A soggy cardboard lump, half-collapsed in a puddle. Y/n's foot caught its edge and momentum did the rest—a stumble, a curse, a splash of cold water against worn shoes.

The box let out a sound.

Not a rustle. Not a scrape. A thin, broken mewl, barely audible beneath the rain.

Y/n looked down.

A veterinarian's instinct overrode the exhaustion. In one fluid motion, Y/n's coat came off, and the trembling bundle was cradled against warmth.

The cat did not resist. It simply pressed closer, its tiny heart hammering against Y/n's chest like a desperate drum.

The rain picked up again as if waking from its lull, hammering against the alley's rusted fire escapes.

The cat's good eye—a startling, vivid crimson—fixed on Y/n's face for a long moment before slipping shut.