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.
