Chapter Two: When Shadows Breathe
I didn't sleep.
How could I, after hearing that voice? That whisper of my name, soft as a lover's, cold as a grave?
Maybe I dreamed it. Maybe I was slipping—too much work, too many bills, too much ramen. People crack in worse ways. I told myself that. Over and over. I clung to it like a drowning man clings to driftwood.
But then morning came. The sun slanted weakly through the blinds, and the cat was still there.
Watching me.
Its eyes were golden again. Normal. Too normal.
I dragged myself to class, dead-eyed, robotic. People didn't notice, but I did. Whispers trailed me down hallways. Not about the cat—yet. Just the usual:
"That's the scholarship boy."
"He works nights, you know."
"Pathetic."
But when I got home that evening, the apartment was wrong again.
Someone had cleaned it.
The trash I'd left scattered was gone. My dishes washed, stacked neatly. Even the rent notice, crumpled on my desk, had been smoothed out.
I stood there in my doorway, gripping the frame so tight my knuckles whitened. Nobody had a spare key. Nobody came here. I didn't even have friends who cared enough.
And then I saw it.
The cat. Sitting upright on my futon. Its golden eyes fixed on me. Tail swishing. Behind it… the faint silhouette of a woman in the mirror.
Not me. Not my reflection.
I blinked. The shape wavered. Stretched. The cat jumped down—its paws hit the floor—but the reflection didn't vanish.
Instead, it stepped forward.
Through the glass.
Skin first—pale, luminous. Then hair—dark, flowing like liquid shadow. Then eyes—crimson fire rimmed in gold.
The cat was gone. Where it had stood, now stood her.
A girl. No—something more. Too beautiful. Too sharp. The kind of beauty that felt dangerous, like staring too long at the sun.
I staggered back, breath caught in my throat. "You—what—"
She tilted her head, studying me like I was the strange one. Then she smiled.
"I told you my name, Ethan." Her voice was the whisper from last night, but clearer now, velvet laced with steel. "But you weren't ready to hear it."
I swallowed hard. "What are you?"
Her smile deepened, playful, cruel, and yet… heartbreakingly gentle.
"Your little monster."
And then—before I could react—someone pounded at my door.
Three sharp knocks.
"Ethan!" It was my landlord's voice. Angry, impatient. "Open up! Rent's overdue again. You don't pay tonight, you're out!"
I froze.
Behind me, the girl tilted her head, her eyes flashing red. And when she spoke again, her voice wasn't soft anymore—it was low, guttural, wrong.
"Shall I deal with him?"
The pounding at the door grew louder.
"Ethan! I know you're in there! Don't think you can keep ignoring me!" My landlord's voice was like nails on glass, scraping at the thin barrier between my sanity and collapse.
I looked at her—the girl, the monster, the impossible miracle now standing barefoot in my apartment. She was too calm, like this was all part of some script only she'd read.
"Don't," I hissed under my breath. "Don't you dare."
Her crimson eyes glowed faintly, as if lit from within. "He bothers you."
"That's… what landlords do!" I whispered furiously, waving my hands like a madman trying to shoo away a ghost. "You can't just—"
Her grin stretched wider. "Watch me."
Before I could stop her, she flicked her wrist. No words, no visible effort—just a ripple in the air, like heat rising off asphalt.
The lights in my apartment flickered.
And on the other side of the door, my landlord yelped. A sharp, undignified squeal.
"What the—?!" His voice cracked. "Wh—why is it so cold in here?!"
I pressed a palm to my forehead, groaning. She was playing with him.
Outside, I heard scrambling footsteps, then another thud. "The lights! The lights are—moving?! WHAT IS THAT?!"
She laughed. Oh, God, she actually laughed—a low, melodic sound that filled the room like smoke.
"Stop it!" I snapped, pointing at her like she was a misbehaving child. "I have to live here, you know! You scare him too much, he'll—"
But it was too late.
The man screamed, a raw, guttural sound. Then his heavy boots clattered down the hallway, fading into silence.
The building was quiet again.
I stared at the door. Then at her. Then back at the door.
"…You just got me evicted," I muttered flatly.
She tilted her head, pretending to think. "No. He won't come back. Not for a while. He believes this place is haunted."
I buried my face in my hands. "Great. Just great. I live in a haunted apartment. With a—whatever you are."
When I peeked through my fingers, she was crouched down, looking up at me with those crimson-gold eyes. Too close. Too curious.
"Does that make you afraid of me, Ethan?" she asked softly.
And here's the twist: my heart was pounding, yes. My skin prickled with unease. But afraid? Not exactly.
If anything…
I was drawn to her.
I didn't sleep. Not really.
How could I? A shapeshifting monster girl had taken over my sofa, my landlord now believed my apartment was haunted, and—oh right—the electricity bill was still unpaid.
Every time I closed my eyes, I half-expected to open them and find her perched over me, smiling.
But around midnight, as I lay stiff on my mattress, I heard it.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Not the door. The window.
I froze.
Fourth floor. No balcony. No fire escape. Nothing but cold night air and a long drop.
I turned my head slowly.
The curtain shifted. A shadow moved behind it.
"Are you expecting someone?" Her voice slid through the dark—lazy, amused. She was still awake, curled catlike on the couch. Her eyes glowed faint gold in the dark.
"…No," I whispered.
Knock. Knock.
This time louder. Insistent.
I swallowed hard, every nerve screaming. Someone—or something—was outside my fourth-floor window.
I reached for the curtain. My hand shook. My breath hitched.
Pulled it back.
And saw—
Nothing.
Just the city, restless and humming. Neon bleeding across concrete. No figures. No intruders.
"Hallucinating already?" she teased, propping her chin on her hand.
I exhaled shakily. "Maybe."
Then the curtain snapped shut. By itself.
And from the other side, something whispered:
"Eeeethaaaan…"
I nearly jumped out of my skin.
She laughed again, low and delighted. "This city is louder at night than you realize."
But I wasn't buying it. My gut told me that wasn't the city. That was something else.
I didn't dare open the window again.
But the night wasn't done with me.
At 1:47 AM, my phone buzzed. Unknown number.
I answered on autopilot, my throat dry.
Static. Then—breathing.
"Hello?" My voice cracked.
The line hissed. And then:
"You picked it up. You shouldn't have picked it up."
Click.
I stared at the phone until the screen went black.
2:10 AM. Another sound. Not a knock this time. A scratching.
From inside the walls.
I shot upright, panic clawing up my spine. "Tell me you hear that."
She nodded slowly. "Yes."
"Well, do something!"
Her smile was different this time. Sharper. Almost hungry. "Why would I stop it? The night is only showing you its teeth."
I wanted to scream at her. But I didn't. Because the scratching was moving closer. Crawling up the wall like invisible claws.
Right toward my bed.
At 2:23 AM, the lights in the entire building died.
Complete darkness.
Except her eyes.
And the faint, luminous outline of something pressing against the inside of my wall—like a handprint burning through plaster.
By dawn, I realized two things:
I wasn't alone in this city anymore.Some debts aren't paid with money.And this was only the beginning
Chapter Three: The Morning Lies
When my alarm screamed at 7:00 AM, it felt like someone had split my skull open with a frying pan.
Except… everything was normal.
No handprints on the wall.
No dead lights.
No whispering shadows.
Even my phone, which had buzzed with that nightmare call, showed no record of the number. No missed call. No history. Nothing.
Had I dreamt all of it?
The monster-cat-girl on my couch didn't look like she had spent the night taunting ghosts. She was curled up under my threadbare blanket, asleep, breathing softly. Almost human. Almost harmless.
The sun poured through the blinds, throwing stripes across her hair. And for a second—just one second—I forgot she was anything other than a stray I'd taken in.
Then she stirred.
Opened her eyes. Golden. Too golden.
And smiled. "You survived."
I blinked at her. "Survived what?"
She stretched lazily, tail flicking out for half a heartbeat before vanishing again. "The night. It didn't eat you. That's good."
"…You're kidding."
"Am I?" she said, almost sing-song, rolling onto her side.
Something icy curled in my gut.
At school, things weren't better. My classmates noticed instantly.
"Yo, Ethan," one of the soccer guys said, slinging an arm around my shoulder. "You look… alive. What happened? Lottery win? Got a girlfriend?"
I laughed weakly. "Yeah. Sure. Girlfriend. Totally."
They didn't buy it. But their eyes lingered too long, sharp with suspicion.
And that's when it hit me.
The supernatural wasn't the only thing I had to worry about. If anyone found out about her—this creature in my apartment—things would spiral fast.
That night, I came home to find her cooking.
Yes. Cooking.
Stirring noodles in my dented pot like it was the most normal thing in the world.
"I borrowed your card," she said casually. "Groceries."
I nearly choked. "My—MY CARD?!"
She tilted her head. "You're indebted to everything else. Why not me too?"
I wanted to yell. To throw her out. To demand answers. But the words stuck in my throat, because deep down… I was afraid of what she'd say.
Instead, I muttered: "Last night. The window. The voice. The scratching—was that you?"
She looked at me then. Really looked. The playfulness drained out of her face, and for a flicker of a second, I saw something ancient in her eyes.
"You think I cause the night," she said softly. "But the truth is worse. I attract it."
The noodles hissed in the pot.
I felt my blood run cold.
Chapter Four: The Things That Follow
The day after she cooked noodles in my kitchen, I did what any rational scholarship student drowning in bills would do:
I went to class, pretended to take notes, and prayed no one noticed that I hadn't slept in two days.
Except, of course, people noticed.
I slipped into my seat by the window, head down, hoodie pulled tight. Maybe, just maybe, I'd blend into the gray walls.
Nope.
"Ethan," whispered Clara—the girl who usually didn't remember I existed. "Who was that?"
"…Who was what?"
"The girl walking you home yesterday."
My throat dried. My hands twitched.
There wasn't a girl walking me home. She had followed me, sure. Cat ears hidden, eyes dimmed down, slipping into crowds like smoke. But no one should have noticed her.
Yet Clara's tone was edged with something sharp: jealousy, curiosity, maybe both. And behind her, two other students were already leaning in.
The seed was planted.
After class, I dragged myself to the café where I worked evenings. A cheap chain on the edge of the city, with flickering neon signs that hummed like dying bees.
The manager barked at me the second I walked in. "You're late again, kid. Don't make me replace you."
I muttered an apology, tied on my apron, and started wiping tables.
Normal. Mundane. Comfortingly boring.
Except halfway through my shift, a mug shattered by itself.
Not slipped. Not dropped. It exploded.
Coffee splattered everywhere, hot steam curling in the air like breath. And for one second, I swore I saw eyes in it—burning, red, watching me.
Then it was gone.
"Clean it up, Ethan!" the manager snapped. "And stop staring into space like a zombie."
I crouched down, hands shaking, wondering if I was losing my mind.
When I finally staggered home near midnight, my apartment smelled like soap and lavender. The laundry was folded. The dishes washed. The girl—the monster—sat on the couch flipping through one of my textbooks.
"Organic chemistry?" she said, amused. "You mortals really torture yourselves."
I dropped my bag. "Why are you here? Why my life? I can barely afford to feed myself, let alone—whatever you are."
She closed the book, looked up at me with eyes that seemed almost… sad.
"Because," she said softly, "you're the only one who picked me up."
Silence hung heavy.
And then, just as I was about to break, the lights in my apartment flickered again. Once. Twice. The shadows in the corners stretched long, too long, like claws.
She smiled faintly. "They've found us."
Chapter Five: Eyes That Follow
If life was cruel before, now it was ironic.
Because the moment I started walking into school with shadows under my eyes and an impossible girl lounging in my apartment… everyone suddenly noticed me.
"Ethan, wait up!"
Clara jogged to catch me before class, smiling too brightly. Her perfume lingered, sharp and floral. Normally, I would've tripped over my own tongue, but her voice came with a blade:
"Your… girlfriend. The one with the hair."
I froze. "What hair?"
"You know." A pause, then, quieter: "She's beautiful."
It wasn't a compliment. It was an accusation.
And from the corner of my eye, I saw two more classmates staring. Not at Clara. At me.
That evening, the café felt like a stage. Every customer who walked in turned their head toward me. Not the specials menu. Not the coffee machine. Me.
A girl at the counter giggled nervously. "Hey, aren't you the guy who—" She cut herself off, cheeks pink.
The manager scowled. "Focus, Ethan."
But the whispers didn't stop. Somewhere, somehow, rumors had spread. I was no longer invisible.
And invisibility had been my shield.
She was sprawled across my couch again when I returned, tail twitching lazily in her cat form, her green eyes following me like twin lanterns.
"Busy day?" she purred.
I dropped into the chair opposite her. "Everyone's staring at me. Everyone's talking about you. I don't even—"
"You're welcome," she interrupted, licking her paw.
"…What?"
"I gave you color. Before me, you were gray."
Her words burned. Not because she was wrong—but because she was right.
That night, just as I collapsed into bed, my phone buzzed. An unknown number.
"She's dangerous. Don't trust her."
I sat up, pulse pounding. Before I could reply, another message appeared.
"She doesn't belong here. And neither do you, if you stay with her."
No name. No explanation. Just silence afterward.
I looked toward the couch. She was asleep, curled in a ball, breathing slow and steady. Innocent.
Or pretending to be.
The next morning, as I brushed my teeth, I caught something in the mirror behind me.
Her reflection wasn't a cat.
It wasn't human, either.
It was something with too many eyes, watching me from the glass, even though she still dozed on the couch.
The toothpaste dripped down my chin. My hands trembled. When I looked again—just her. Just the cat.
By the end of the week, three things were clear:
My classmates thought I had a secret girlfriend. Other girls had suddenly started talking to me, smiling too often, lingering too long. And every night, something—or someone—kept texting me warnings.
But the worst part?
I couldn't tell if I wanted to run from her… or never let her go.