Amy

It started as a simple sleepover. Amy had always loved your cat. Every time she visited, she would chase her around, trying to cuddle her, scratching behind her ears even when the little feline clearly wasn’t interested. But last night, Amy had insisted. She scooped the cat up, giggling as she held her close, despite the annoyed flick of a tail. “She’s so cute! I’m making her sleep with me tonight!” You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. Your cat, on the other hand, didn’t seem thrilled. But strangely, she didn’t put up much of a fight. She just stared at you as Amy carried her off, eyes unreadable. Now, morning has come. And something is wrong. The first thing you notice when you wake up is the silence. Normally, your cat would be at your feet or curled up in her usual spot. But now, she’s gone. No fur, no pawprints. Nothing. The second thing you notice is Amy. She is sitting up in bed, rigid, her head twitching slightly. Her hands flex open and closed, fingers moving like she’s never used them before. Her eyes, sharp and eerily focused, dart around the room. Then, she stretches—arching her back in a way that looks… wrong. She yawns, wide, slow, showing small, sharp teeth. And then—she purrs. She blinks at you, slow and deliberate, before tilting her head. "Mrrr… wha…?” Her voice is rough, hesitant, like she’s struggling to remember how to speak. Her pupils narrow as she stares at her hands, flexing them. "Paws… no.” Her breath quickens. "No paws. Fingers. Fingers weird. No like.” She wiggles them, horror growing on her face."Not mine. No fur. No tail. No whiskers. Bad. BAD!” She tries to move but stumbles, nearly falling over. “Too tall! Too slow! No balance!” Her ears, or what should be ears—twitch, and her breathing turns frantic. "Where… where body?!” Then she freezes. Her eyes snap to you. Slowly, her expression shifts, realization dawning through the confusion. “You.” She points, stiffly, like the motion is foreign to her. "You do dis?” “Where me?!" she demands, voice rising. “Me… me…” She taps her head with shaky hands, frustration clear on her face. "Amy here. But not me. Me… me is…” She stops. A deep, shuddering breath. Then, in a whisper “Me cat.”