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Katarina Landon slippedthrough the low iron gate and into her garden, the latch clicking shut behind her. The evening sky stretched wide—streaks of pink and yellow fading into the steel-blue smudge of night. London’s summer twilight, brief and begrudging, was already giving up the ghost.

Her eyes burned and the air was sticky against her skin, the city clinging to her like a second coat.

The pub at the end of her road was full, laughter and music spilling from the beer garden where normal people—sane people—soaked up the rare sunshine. A fleeting summer gift, they were making the most of it.

She paused at her door. One twist of the key and silence would swallow her. Jaw clenched, she unlocked it. The door swung open and something shot between her ankles like a fired bullet.

“What the?—”

She flinched as a tabby skittered across the hallway and came to a stop at the bottom of her stairs. It turned back to face her, head cocked like she was the intruder.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

The cat meowed, unapologetic. Its ribs jutted beneath patchy fur, a smudge of white on its throat like an undone bowtie. Kat dropped her keys into the bowl by the door and crouched, holding out a hand.

“Are you lost? Bad life decision, cat.”

It sniffed her fingers, then butted its head against her knuckles. Its skull was delicate under her palm, heartbeat rabbit-fast. When it nuzzled her chin, she closed her eyes for half a second too long.

“Yeah, yeah. You win.”

She nudged the door shut and carried the cat into the kitchen. Her house was quiet as usual, save for the occasional creak of old floorboards and the croak of the fridge kicking on. Evening light warmed the tiles and worn wood, but it still didn’t feel like home. The sink overflowed with unwashed dishes.

Buckle up. This is the life you chose.

She set the cat on the floor and shrugged out of her coat. The fur-ball circled her legs, mewling.

“I don’t do caring for things.” She eyed the spider plant on the windowsill—limp and beyond saving.

The cat chirped in response, tail flicking, not taking the hint.

The cupboard yielded custard, soup, and a dusty tin of tuna. She held it up. “Victory.”

The cat meowed as she scraped the contents into a dish and set it on the floor. It ate with a low growl, as if it feared this might be its last meal.

Kat crouched close and ran two fingers along the tiny bony head. “Hey. When did you last eat?”

The cat ignored her. She stood with a sigh and grabbed olives and white wine from the fridge. Cold fog kissed the sides of the glass as she poured it, beads of condensation trailing down her fingers.

She took a long sip and dropped into a kitchen chair, pulling the olives toward her. Her heels hit the floor with a satisfying thud as she toed them off and flexed her aching toes.

She should probably eat something real. Cook an actual meal like a functional adult. But not today. She traced the rim of her wine glass with one finger, slow and aimless. Another sip. The knot in her chest held fast.

Six months ago, she’d stopped Adrik Korolov’s auction of Raptor tech to the highest bidder—just barely. The operation had ended in gunfire. Since then, he’d disappeared like smoke. But men like him didn’t vanish. They waited. Rebuilt. Struck back.

The cat paused mid-meal, turning to look at her. It licked its whiskers with a pink tongue, eyes round and glassy.

Kat raised her glass. “Cheers. But don’t get any crazy ideas. No moving in, no cozying up. You’re back on the street tomorrow.”

The cat blinked at her, slow and unimpressed. Then it went right back to work on the tuna, nudging the dish so it skidded across the floor.

She pinched the bridge of her nose, eyes closed against the throb building behind them. A low hum of pain had been pulsing at the edges of her skull all day—tension mixed with too much time staring at screens and too little time being human.

She pressed her knuckles against her eyes until stars danced. She needed sleep but her brain didn’t know how to switch off.

She retrieved her briefcase from the hall where she’d dropped it. Work always soothed her.