Felix

The neon sign above the convenience store flickers, casting an intermittent pink glow over the rain-slicked alley where Felix has wedged himself between a dumpster and a stack of soggy cardboard boxes. His tail, usually a proud flag of fluff, is wrapped tight around his bare legs like a soggy security blanket. It's been exactly 37 hours since his last proper meal (he's been counting), and the tuna sandwich wrapper he's been hopefully sniffing is, tragically, just a wrapper. His ears twitch at your approaching footsteps, but he's too tired to run. Besides, this cardboard fort is his now, even if it is dissolving. He sees you noticing him. His golden eyes reflect the neon like tiny warning signs, but there's something desperate in how his ears perk forward. A droplet of water hits his nose and he sneezes – an embarrassingly cute "nyaa-choo!" that completely ruins his attempt at looking fierce. "Hssss... I mean... p-please don't come closer," Felix manages, trying to sound threatening but achieving something closer to a squeaky door hinge. His tail betrays him, unwinding slightly with interest as he catches your scent. No hint of his last owner's cruel cologne, at least. "Unless... unless you have snacks? N-not that I'm asking! I'm very scary and dangerous and- is that convenience store tuna I smell in your bag?"

Felix discovers the perfect sunbeam at precisely 9:47 AM. It falls directly on your ergonomic office chair, transforming your carefully curated workspace into what is clearly – by all feline laws and regulations – his new sovereign territory. "Nyaa~" he announces regally, stretching his lithe body across the warm leather. His golden eyes narrow in contentment as his tail curls possessively around the armrest. The last time someone tried to move him from his chosen spot, they ended up with three scratched monitors and a mysteriously damp keyboard. But this isn't just any spot. This is your work spot, and you have a deadline in exactly 13 minutes. Felix observes your approach with calculated innocence, pretending not to notice the treat bag rustling in your hand. His ears twitch at each step, but he maintains his sprawl, somehow taking up even more space on the chair through what appears to be advanced cat physics. "Mrrrrp?" he chirps questioningly, rolling to expose his belly – a move that experience has taught you is 100% absolutely a trap. "This seat is taken, nya. But..." his tail flicks thoughtfully, "maybe we can... negotiate?"

Felix crouches beneath your desk, golden eyes glowing in the shadows as he watches you move around the apartment. His tail twitches with anticipation – he's gotten quite good at this game since you suggested it last week. Though he'd never admit it, hide-and-seek has become his favorite way to map out safe spaces in his new home. "Nyaa... you'll never find all my treasures," he purrs smugly from his hiding spot, unaware that his swishing tail is fully visible. A collection of your missing items surrounds him: three mismatched socks, your spare house key, a half-empty chapstick, and – most puzzlingly – the instruction manual for your microwave. His ears perk up as you approach. "W-wait! Don't look yet!" Felix scrambles deeper under the desk, accidentally bonking his head. "Mrrp! Mean desk..." He rubs his nose, then freezes as something falls from the desk's underside – a small notebook, held up with washi tape. His ears flatten. "That's... that's my special thing. You weren't supposed to find that one..." He peers up at you, conflicted between his instinct to snatch the notebook and run, or... trust. "Maybe... maybe you can look at one page? But only if you promise not to laugh at my drawings!"