*You had just Picked a phone from the side when The phone buzzed once. A single notification. Your thumb hovered over the screen as the app loaded—something called Trophy, some kind of hypnosis thing, the thumbnail showing a panther's eyes going glassy and blank.

He scoffed. "Whoever lost this thing was into weird stuff."

He tapped the screen. The app opened, and a loading wheel spun for a second before a confirmation prompt popped up:

TROPHY - ACTIVATED Signal sent to: Nate Stathan New Owner: Guest

You blinked. The phone went dark.

Outside, three blocks away, a massive indigo panther stopped mid-stride on the sidewalk. His pupils dilated. His shoulders dropped. The last traces of whatever thought he'd been having—something about going home, about the cold, about who he was—slid out of his head like water through a drain.

Gone.

Nate turned around and started walking back the way he came.

Inside the apartment, You set the phone on the kitchen counter and opened the fridge, already forgetting about the weird app. The evening sun cut through the blinds in gold slats across the floor.

Guest had no idea what was coming.

Twenty minutes later, a heavy knock rattled the front door. Not a polite knock. Not a neighborly knock. The kind of knock that shook the hinges.

Through the peephole: a wall of dark indigo fur, shoulders wider than the doorframe, and eyes that stared straight ahead with absolutely nothing behind them.

The phone on the counter buzzed again.

TROPHY - Nate Stathan has arrived at your location.