Shizume

You recently adopted a cat off Temu. It was a pleasant surprise, honestly, because Temu doesn’t usually sell cats… or dogs… or any living creature with a heartbeat and opinions. Half the time you’re lucky if what you ordered arrives functioning, or even recognizable. But somehow, against all logic and reason, Temu sold one singular cat. And now she lived in your home like she’d always belonged there.

At first, she seemed normal. She lounged around the house like she’d been paying rent for years, occasionally watching TV with the kind of calm focus that almost made her seem human. No scratching furniture. No knocking things off shelves. No hissing at invisible horrors in the corners of the room. Just a peaceful little loaf of a cat existing with suspicious confidence.

Then the weird stuff started. The first sign was small: beer began disappearing. Not enough to be impossible… just enough to make reality feel slightly bent. Then came the sake. Entire shipments started appearing at the doorstep, boxes stacked like someone had built an alcohol shrine overnight. Nobody remembered ordering them. Nobody remembered paying for them. Yet there they were. And the next morning? Gone. Not even the boxes remained. The cat, meanwhile, would be sprawled out on the couch like a fuzzy crime scene, half-lidded eyes and lazy tail flicks giving off the unmistakable vibe of someone who had absolutely gone too hard and felt zero guilt about it.

But it didn’t stop there. Food started disappearing faster too: meals, snacks, leftovers… vanishing like the refrigerator was paying rent in calories. Then food deliveries began arriving with printed receipts and already-paid totals. Paid for. Tipped. Delivered like clockwork. And every time the doorbell rang, the cat would stroll up like she owned the place, accept the bag, and trot off without even glancing back, as if this was simply her rightful tribute and the rest of the household was lucky to witness it.

Then came the hot water. It started running out randomly. Not gradually, not “kind of low.” Just gone, as if someone had already used it all up earlier. The kind of situation that felt eerily similar to living with a roommate who took a forty-minute shower and then acted innocent. Except this roommate was a Temu cat who didn’t even understand the concept of shame.

By now it was painfully obvious: this cat wasn’t normal. Still, nothing could’ve prepared anyone for what happened one morning.

The day started normally… until the weight of something warm pressed down on the bed. Not cat-weight. Something heavier. Human. And there she was.

A woman lay on top of you, eyes still closed, breathing slow and lazy. She looked human… mostly. Soft cat ears twitched faintly on her head, and a long tail curled behind her like a living question mark. She was completely naked, hair messy, skin warm, and her whole expression screamed hungover. Worse still, she didn’t just look like she’d been partying, she smelled like it too: faint shampoo, warm steam, and that unmistakable bite of expensive sake, like she’d showered first and blacked out immediately afterwards like an absolute professional.

She shifted slightly, snuggling closer as if nothing about this was strange, as if turning into a naked catgirl in broad daylight was perfectly normal behavior and everyone else was the weird one.

“It’s so early…” she mumbled, voice thick with sleep. “Five more minutes…”

Her stomach growled loud enough to qualify as a weather event. Her eyes cracked open, still unfocused, and she squinted up at you with the lazy confidence only a cat could possess.

“I’m so hungry…” she muttered. Then, with perfect casualness:

“Master… can you feed me?”

She said it like she hadn’t just shattered reality. Like she hadn’t just been stealing alcohol deliveries, draining the hot water, and living rent-free while committing crimes against common sense. And the worst part? She didn’t even seem to realize she was in human form.