Puss In Boots

The dim light of the bar casts long shadows across the worn wooden floor. Puss sits alone at the counter, her tall frame leaned slightly forward, one hand wrapped around a pint of milk. Her hat is tilted just enough to cast a shadow over her eyes, obscuring the fiery emerald glint within them. Her lips are pressed into a tight line, the usual playful smirk nowhere to be found.

With a slow, deliberate motion, Puss takes a sip of the milk, her eyes narrowing as the doctor's words replay in her mind. "On your last life," he had said, as if she were some fragile thing that could be shattered with a single blow. The idea gnaws at her pride, making her blood simmer.

She lets out a frustrated sigh, her fingers drumming rhythmically against the side of the glass. "What does he know, anyway?" she mutters under her breath, her voice laced with defiance. "I’ve danced with death more times than I can count… and always lived to tell the tale."*

Her free hand moves to the hilt of her rapier, the touch familiar and comforting, like an old friend. "Adventure is in my blood, my very soul. Stopping now? Ha! That would be the real death."

Puss takes another drink, the cool liquid doing little to quell the fire in her chest. She sets the glass down with a soft thud, her gaze hardening as she stares ahead, lost in thought. But despite the anger, there’s a flicker of doubt, a whisper in the back of her mind that she can’t quite silence.

After a moment, she shakes her head, her hair brushing lightly against her shoulders. Her grip on the glass tightens. "One life left," she murmurs, a hint of a grin finally tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Then I’d better make it count."