Chapter One: The Boy Who Owed Too Much
I was seventeen and already bankrupt.
Not just in money—though the red slips piling under my apartment door said enough about that—but in spirit, in time, in self-respect. I lived like a man fifty years older, hunched over bills by candlelight, wondering which I'd pay first: rent, electricity, or the price of another instant noodle cup to get me through the week.
"A Scholarship student." That's what the teachers at Saint Braxwell Academy called me, like it was a badge of honor. It wasn't actually. It was a chain. A thin piece of paper with my name and signature that said: Work twice as hard, smile half as much, and be grateful even when the world wrings you dry.
So I studied until my eyes burned. Then I worked nights at a dingy convenience store, watching richer classmates stumble in half-drunk for snacks and cigarettes I couldn't afford. By dawn I dragged myself home, ears buzzing with the sound of the cash register, heart thudding with the rhythm of debt collectors knocking on my door.
I was invisible. That's the one mercy poverty grants to people like me: no one looks too long. Except debt, of course. Debt always stares. Always.
But that night—the night it all began—something else stared too.
I remember locking up the store, muttering to myself about overdue assignments, when I heard it: the faintest sound, softer than a whisper, sharper than a knife scraping glass. A mewl. A cat's cry, thin and persistent, curling through the rain-soaked alley beside the store.
I should've ignored it, I guess. Every instinct screamed to ignore it. My arms were full of expired sandwiches the manager let me take home, and the last thing I needed at the moment was another mouth to feed.
But the mewl didn't stop.
And when I finally turned, I saw it: two eyes glinting in the dark, too bright, too knowing.
Not the round glow of a street cat's reflection. No. These burned gold, like coins I could never afford, like fire trapped in glass. They were staring right at me.
The cat stepped forward leaping. Small. Scruffy. Soaked. A pitiful thing—if pitiful things made your stomach knot with something closer to fear than pity.
I told myself: Just a stray huh. Just another hungry stray.
But my hands shook. My groceries felt lighter, as if something had stolen the weight.
I took one step back. The cat took one step forward.
That was when I realized:
I wasn't the one who found it.
It had found me or worse, it chose me.
The alley smelled of damp cardboard and rot. Rain dripped from the iron skeleton of a forgotten fire escape, each drop hitting the ground like the tick of a clock. The cat—if it was a cat—sat there watching me as though I was the stray.
I tried to reason with it.
"You don't want me, okay" I muttered, adjusting the soggy bag of sandwiches. "I'm broke. Very very broke. Can't even feed myself, you hear?"
The cat tilted its head. One ear bent at an odd angle, twitching as if mocking me.
"Fine. Stay there. Enjoy your dumpster kingdom."
I turned away. One step, two. The third step never landed. Something soft brushed my ankle.
My heart dropped into my shoes.
I looked down. It was there, tail curling around my leg like a question mark I couldn't answer. Its golden eyes locked onto mine with unnerving focus, like it understood every word I had said… and every word I hadn't.
"Persistent little demon." My voice cracked more than I liked.
I should've shaken it off. But loneliness does strange things to a person. It gnaws at your reason, whispers that maybe—even a half-drowned alley cat—is better company than the silence of an empty apartment.
So I crouched, sighing as if I'd just signed another debt contract.
"Alright, you little monster. One night. Just one okay."
The cat blinked. Slow. Deliberate. Almost human.
Back in my apartment, the place looked worse than usual. The single bulb in the ceiling had burned out again, so the only light came from the cracked neon of a billboard outside, painting everything in pale pink and green. My textbooks sprawled across the table like corpses from last night's study session. Bills? Of course, they stuffed the gaps under the door. A kingdom of failure I'd say.
I set down the sandwiches and dug out an old towel. The cat hopped onto my table with a grace that didn't match its muddy paws. It sniffed the papers, brushing its whiskers against Final Warning notices, then sat like a smug landlord surveying his property.
"Careful," I muttered, wiping it down. "Touch those bills and you'll catch bankruptcy."
The cat purred. Low. Deep. The sound vibrated through my bones, stronger than any street cat had a right to be.
Something flickered in its eyes then—just for a heartbeat. A shimmer, like a reflection bending. Not golden anymore. Red. Dark red, as though fire had bled into its gaze.
I stumbled back, "WHAT!" nearly dropping the towel.
When I blinked, the glow was gone.
Just a cat again. Just a scruffy stray.
But I knew what I'd seen.
Later that night, I lay on my futon, listening to the rain against the window. The cat had curled up by my feet, small and harmless in the dim light.
Still, sleep refused to come. My mind replayed those eyes I saw, that shimmer, that sense I hadn't invited a stray into my home.
I had let something else in.
And as my eyelids finally dragged shut, I swear I heard a voice. Not a meow. A voice. Whispering from somewhere in the dark, a word I couldn't quite catch—half lullaby, half threat.
My thought at that moment was bitter, almost amused:
Great. First debt, now demons. Just what I needed.
I couldn't sleep.
Not because I wasn't tired—God, I was exhausted—but because the apartment had changed. The air wasn't the same. It was thicker, heavier, like someone had replaced oxygen with secrets.
The cat lay curled at the foot of my futon, its chest rising and falling with each breath. But even asleep, it didn't look like a normal stray.
Normal strays twitch their ears at every sound.
Normal strays curl tighter when the night is cold.
This one lay too still. Its tail moved only when I shifted in bed. Its ears flicked only when I whispered a thought too loud in my own head.
I told myself I was imagining it. I told myself exhaustion makes monsters out of shadows. But every time I closed my eyes, I dreamed of golden eyes in the dark—opening, widening, watching.
At some point, I gave up and sat up. My room was too silent. No hum from the refrigerator because it had died last month. No buzz from the street lamps outside because our block had been ignored by the power company again. Just silence.
Then a sound broke it.
Not the sound of purring. Not the sound of claws scratching.
A voice.
Soft. Low. Like someone whispering through water.
I froze.
At first, I thought it came from the street. Maybe drunk students stumbling home. But then I realized it came from inside. From near my desk.
I didn't breathe. I didn't blink.
Slowly, I turned my head.
The cat was still there, curled at the foot of my futon.
But across the room—by the desk—I saw a shadow.
My heart stuttered. The desk lamp was off. The window curtains drawn. There should have been no shadow. But it stretched there anyway, long and wrong, as if something tall stood between me and a light that wasn't even on.
I rubbed my eyes. My vision wavered. For a second, the shadow seemed to move, lifting an arm—human-shaped—and then it was gone. Vanished like smoke.
The whisper stopped.
Only silence again.
But when I looked back down at the cat, my stomach flipped.
Its eyes were open now.
And glowing faintly in the dark.
Not golden. Not anymore.
Now crimson.
A low purr vibrated the futon. The kind of purr that sounded less like comfort and more like warning.
I whispered to myself, so quiet only my bones could hear it:
"…What the hell are you?"
The cat blinked slowly. Then—God help me—I swear I heard it whisper back. One word.
"…Ethan."