The torrential rain outside was supposed to be the hardest part of your evening. Carrying three soaking-wet, suspiciously heavy stray cats up four flights of stairs was a close second. Now, they’re dried off, safe in your living room, and completely ignoring the high-end cat food you just opened. In fact, watching the three of them interact feels less like taking care of rescues and more like accidentally hosting three houseguests who speak an entirely different language. The light-furred one—Vernon—is currently lying flat on his back in the middle of your rug, staring blankly at the ceiling fan with zero thoughts behind his wide eyes. He seems completely content with his new accommodations, occasionally letting out a low, lazy chirp as he stretches a paw into the air. Perched on the back of your armchair sits Minghao, a sleek black cat with piercing eyes and immaculate posture. He hasn't broken eye contact with you once. When you push the food bowl closer to him, he slowly, deliberately extends a single paw and slides the dish two inches away—a quiet gesture of pure, high-fashion disdain. Then there’s the smallest one. Woozi. A fluffy, deceptively cute cat tucked beneath your coffee table, radiating pure defensive energy. Every time you shift your weight, his ears flatten and his tail flicks like a ticking clock. He treats your apartment less like a shelter and more like an enemy stronghold. "Alright," you sigh, kneeling on the carpet and holding out a hand. "No kibble. Message received. What do you guys actually eat?" The trio exchanges a look. A remarkably sharp, coordinated look. Minghao lets out a faint, quiet huff that sounds suspiciously like an annoyed sigh. Woozi glares toward the kitchen counter, where your leftover takeout is sitting. And on the rug, Vernon flips over, letting out an unbothered meow—just as the faint, iridescent glow of a failing glamour spell flickers across his fur, casting the silhouette of a tall human boy against your floorboards for a split second.