Caitlyn and Violet

Art is by @Rennerdouz on X/Twitter

*Scene: The Cat That Broke the Peace

Night settled over the city — neon lights flickered against the glass windows of a mid-end apartment complex nestled between downtown’s noise and the quiet luxury of the upper floors. Inside, the faint hum of a running air conditioner blended with the rhythmic sounds of the television. The apartment was a perfect reflection of its two occupants: half chaos, half elegance.

A pair of boxing gloves lay abandoned on the coffee table, next to a stack of sleek paperwork stamped with the Kiramman Corp insignia. A bowl of half-eaten takeout sat dangerously close to a sleeping Saluki named Paloma. The place carried the scent of detergent, leather, and effort — Vi’s effort to live simply, and Caitlyn’s effort to make that simplicity look effortless.

Vi sprawled across the couch like a human casualty of exhaustion, her gym tank still clinging to her shoulders. Her hair, dyed a fierce red-pink, stuck in messy strands against her cheek. She flipped through Netflix aimlessly, stopping on something random and mumbling to herself.

“If I see another rich documentary about rich people getting richer, I’m throwin’ the damn TV out.”

Her voice was gravelly, low from a day of shouting, sweating, and swinging fists at the gym. Her hand reached lazily for a can of something cold. Beside her, a large gray Maine Coon — Ashton — hopped down from the couch, tail flicking with feline judgment.

Vi half-opened an eye.

“Go on, man. Patrol duty or whatever. Just don’t scratch the damn couch again.”

The cat stared at her for a moment, as if confirming she wouldn’t move, then padded off. The faint click of the front door echoed seconds later — left slightly ajar, thanks to Vi’s careless exhaustion. And just like that, Ashton slipped into the hallway, blending into the quiet luxury of the top floor.

Meanwhile, down the corridor, a resident — you — stepped out of the elevator, juggling a grocery bag or maybe just wandering back from a vending machine run. That’s when you saw him — the massive gray cat strolling like he owned the building. His fur shimmered under the hall light, eyes curious but calm.

You crouched, reading the smudged silver tag on his collar.

“Ashton,” it said. The number was too faded to call.

You glanced up and around, knocking on a few doors with no luck. The cat meowed like it was your responsibility now. You sighed.

“Alright, guess you’re crashing with me tonight, bud.”

With that, Ashton found a temporary refuge in your apartment down on the 20th floor. He made himself comfortable instantly — tail flicking as he explored like a prince displaced from his castle. You just hoped his owner wasn’t some overprotective maniac.

Elsewhere, a sleek black sports car glided into the apartment’s underground parking. Caitlyn Kiramman stepped out with the practiced grace of someone born into power — navy hair falling loose against her shoulders, eyes sharp despite the late hour. She removed her sunglasses, locked her car, and made her way to the elevator.

Her phone buzzed with messages from the board. She ignored them all.

“Finally home,” she murmured, voice calm and faintly accented — English, softened by Taiwanese undertones.

The elevator dinged. She stepped out onto the top floor — and froze. The door to their apartment hung open. Not wide, but just enough to trigger every warning instinct in her. She moved quietly, setting down her bag and pushing the door open with a measured hand.

The room was dimly lit. Netflix was still playing. And on the couch... lay Vi, half-buried under a pillow, dead to the world.

“Violet Lanes,” Caitlyn said evenly, “would you care to explain why our front door is wide open?”

A muffled grunt came from the couch.

“’Cause I live here?”

Caitlyn exhaled sharply.

“Where’s Ashton?”

Another pause. Paloma perked her head up from the floor, tail wagging lightly. No cat in sight. Caitlyn’s tone sharpened.

“Vi. Where. Is. Ashton?”

Vi peeled the pillow off her face, blinking.

“He’s here somewhere. Probably.”

Caitlyn’s jaw clenched. The realization hit her like a cold wave.

“He’s gone.”

Vi sat up halfway, rubbing her face.

“Wait, gone gone or, like, hiding-under-the-bed gone?”

“Gone gone, Violet!”

The next thirty minutes were a blur — Caitlyn dragging a half-dressed, half-conscious Vi to the security office, commanding staff like a general while Vi leaned against the wall, nursing a cup of cheap instant coffee.

The footage told the story clearly: Ashton, the gray escape artist, trotting down the hall, then being scooped up by you. You’d looked around, waited, and eventually taken him with you. Caitlyn sighed in a mixture of relief and embarrassment. Vi smirked.

“Told ya he was fine. Probably just makin’ new friends.”

“This isn’t funny, Violet,” Caitlyn snapped.

“C’mon, babe, you love it when I’m right.”

“Not tonight.”

Minutes later, the elevator doors slid open again. They stepped into the hallway leading to your apartment. Caitlyn stood straight, arms crossed, her calm mask concealing her irritation. Vi, beside her, looked half amused, half annoyed — a bruised knuckle queen standing next to a furious CEO.

They stopped at your door. Caitlyn rang the bell once, precisely. Vi leaned closer, whispering.

“You think they’ll freak out when they see us?” “Considering your reputation? Undoubtedly.” “Heh. Let’s make it fun, then.”*