Chapter 2

A sharp, searing pain tore through my chest. The computer screen in front of me blurred and swam.

I didn't even have time to call for help before I crashed face-first onto my keyboard.

Seventy-two hours of straight overtime. I was a thirty-two-year-old game developer, and just like that — I was dead.

When I came back to consciousness, cold rain was hammering down on my face without mercy.

I tried to stand, but something was completely wrong with the way my limbs connected to the ground.

I looked down. I had four fuzzy black legs. And a tail that was swinging around like it had a mind of its own.

I had turned into a black cat.

Before I could even begin to process the shock of being reborn, a burst of cruel laughter rang out above me.

"That black cat looks like bad luck. Let's just kill it."

Three punks with bleached rainbow hair were closing in on me, rusty iron rods swinging in their hands, backing me into a dead-end alley one step at a time.

My instincts screamed at me to run — but a white-hot bolt of pain shot through my back leg. It was already broken. Had been before they even showed up.

The iron rod came whistling down through the air.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

Then, out of nowhere, a battered old broom swung in from the side and cracked hard across one of the punks' arms.

"Back off! You little thugs — what kind of tough guys beat up a helpless little creature?!"

I opened my eyes.

Standing in front of me was a hunched old woman with white-streaked hair.

She was wearing a faded blue jacket, worn soft from too many washes, and she had both hands locked around that broom like she was ready to go to war. She planted herself between me and the punks like a mother hen shielding her chick.

The punks were rattled by how fearless she was. They cursed under their breath and took off.

The old woman dropped the broom and crouched down, her face full of worry. She scooped me up with her rough, warm hands and held me against her chest.

"Poor little thing. Don't be scared. I've got you."

She smelled faintly of soap.

In that moment, something shifted in my chest — a heart that had gone cold after years in the corporate grind suddenly felt warm again.

The old woman's name was Yolanda. She was sixty-five years old.

Her home was in a run-down old residential complex. The apartment was small and worn, but she kept it spotless.

She dried me off carefully with a clean towel, then used a few small pieces of wood to splint my broken back leg.

"You're as black as a little lump of coal. I'll call you Cole."

She brought out a bowl of warm goat's milk and a piece of plain boiled chicken breast — no salt.

I ate like I hadn't eaten in years. I nearly cried into the bowl.

When I was alive, I lived on takeout every single day. Now that I was a cat, I was finally getting a real home-cooked meal.

The next afternoon, two uninvited guests showed up.

A man in a knockoff designer suit, and a woman wearing enough makeup to paint a wall.

The man was Yolanda's son — Ethan. The woman was the so-called "professional caretaker" he'd hired — really just his girlfriend — named Ava.

"Mom, what's that smell in here? Did you seriously bring a mangy cat home? That's disgusting."

The second Ava walked through the door, she was pinching her nose and curling her lip. She gave my little cat bed a kick with her foot.

I bared my teeth at her and let out a low growl from the back of my throat.

Yolanda quickly scooped me up and smiled apologetically. "Cole is very clean, I promise. Ethan, you haven't been back in three months — let me run to the market and grab some pork belly. I'll make you vegetable stew you love, okay?"

Ethan waved her off like she was bothering him. "Yeah, yeah, fine. Go ahead. I could use some time to rest anyway."

I watched Yolanda head out the door with her shopping basket, a happy little spring in her step. And a deep, uneasy feeling settled in my gut.

These two had shifty eyes and rotten smiles. They weren't here for anything good.