The moment I stepped onto my street, the night felt... different.
Not quieter. Not brighter. Just lighter, somehow.
I was bruised, sore, and possibly reeking of sweat and cheap food cart oil. But I was walking home with a spring in my step I hadn't felt in years. It was nice.
Because for the first time since I could remember—
I wasn't alone.
I had a friend.
Sunny. The weird, hoodie-wearing cashier who beat people up like he trained in a back alley dojo. He didn't talk much. Barely smiled. But he stood beside me tonight.
And that mattered.
I kept replaying it all in my head as I walked. The moment he caught the iron rod mid-fight. The way he moved. The stupid way we both stood there, not knowing how to say "thanks" or "that was cool" without sounding like awkward idiots.
I chuckled to myself, even though my ribs protested.
"Dumb ninja," I mumbled, smiling like an idiot.
The lights from our apartment complex buzzed faintly as I climbed the stairs. I moved slowly — every step reminded me of the bat to the stomach. I reached our floor and turned the key carefully.
The door creaked open.
Warm light spilled from the kitchen. Lyra was there, curled up on the couch with a book. She glanced up briefly.
No snide comment. No judgmental glance.
Just a short look, then back to reading.
I didn't mind. It was kind of her thing — existing in the same space as me, without ever actually being *with* me.
But tonight, for the first time, that didn't feel... painful.
I shuffled past her, tossed my bag on the floor, and collapsed on my bed.
Five seconds later, I regretted it.
Pain shot up my spine like lightning. "Agh—!"
Lyra looked over the back of the couch. "You okay?"
I turned my head sideways. "Yeah. Gravity hurts sometimes."
She just nodded and went back to reading. Still quiet. Still soft in her own way.
I stared at the ceiling, letting the silence settle. My fingers still tingled from the fight. My ribs throbbed like they were screaming into a pillow. I knew I should probably check for bruises, or broken bones.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
I frowned and picked it up.
"…Hello?"
"Daniel."
Dad's voice. Rough, tired, distant.
"I'll be back tomorrow. Morning, probably. Flight just confirmed."
"Oh," I said dumbly. "Okay."
"You need anything?"
I looked around the dim room, thinking about the medicine I didn't have.
"Just some painkillers. I'll grab some from the pharmacy."
A pause.
"…You good?"
I wanted to say no. I wanted to tell him everything.
But all I said was, "I'm okay, just a stomach ache."
"Alright. Get some sleep."
The line went dead.
I stared at the screen for a moment, then got up.
The pharmacy down the street was still open. I slid into my jacket, slipped on my sandals, and walked slowly, ignoring the throb in my thighs.
The guy behind the counter didn't ask questions. Just handed me a pack of cheap bandages and painkillers after I mumbled, "Fell down the stairs."
I didn't even bother pretending to smile.
Outside, the wind had picked up a little. I zipped my jacket halfway and started heading back.
That's when I saw it.
A small cardboard box near the trash bins.
Something gray shifted inside.
I walked closer, cautiously.
A pair of round, confused eyes blinked up at me. A tiny gray kitten with a white patch on its nose stared like I was the one in the box.
It meowed.
Once. Then again. Then loudly and dramatically, as if it had been abandoned in a war zone.
"Oh no," I whispered. "Don't look at me like that."
The cat meowed louder.
I looked around. No one.
"Someone really just left you here, huh?"
It tilted its head, then tried to climb out of the box — failed — tumbled back in — and hissed at the box corner like *it* was the enemy.
I stared for another ten seconds.
Then sighed.
"I'm going to regret this."
I picked up the box and tucked it under one arm.
The kitten didn't object. It simply sat down, curled its tail, and stared at me like I was its Uber ride.
We made it home, somehow.
I crept inside, box in hand.
Lyra looked up again. "What's that?"
"Stray cat," I said. "He followed me home."
She stared.
The cat meowed dramatically again.
"…Right," she said, turning the page in her book.
I brought the box into my room and placed it down. The kitten instantly jumped out and started exploring like it had lived here for years.
"Hey—wait—no no no—don't—!"
It leapt onto my desk, knocked over an old water bottle, then dove under my bed.
I tried to peek under the frame. "Come out, little monster."
The cat darted out, leapt onto my pillow, pawed at my charger wire like it owed him money, then did a full-speed lap around my bed before crashing into the wardrobe.
I stared.
"…You are a disaster."
It sat down proudly, tail twitching.
I groaned and sat down, rubbing my temples.
"Alright. Fine. If you're staying, you need a name."
It blinked slowly.
"You look like a Pheno," I said. "Short for 'Phenomenon.' Because you've been here five minutes and already ruined my room."
Pheno meowed once.
I took that as approval.
He eventually curled up in the hoodie I'd tossed on the bed and started purring like an overworked engine.
I looked at him.
I looked around the room.
My body still hurt. My ribs still burned. My dad was still barely around. Lyra was still distant.
But...
There was a sleeping cat on my bed. A beat-up friend somewhere out there who didn't hate me. And a weird new sense of calm in my chest.
I laid down slowly beside Pheno, careful not to wake him.
Maybe tomorrow would be terrible.
But tonight?
Tonight didn't feel so bad.