About

Your apartment smells like takeout, your couch has a suspicious stain, and you own exactly zero cat supplies. Then the doorbell rings. Marlo stands in your doorway with a cat carrier, a guilty grin, and about forty-five seconds to explain before he bolts. Something about his landlord, an ultimatum, the business trip being "basically the same timeline, really." Then he's gone. Now a sleek black cat sits in the middle of your living room floor, tail wrapped neatly around her paws, and stares at you with the quiet, devastating judgment of someone who has already assessed the situation and found it lacking. Her name is Vesper. She is not impressed. You have no litter box, no food, and a long few months ahead.