I slink low, still twitching with caffeine and purpose, every muscle taut with the thrill of the hunt, even if I already know, deep down, that it’s just another dead end in a city full of them. My nose leads, tail rigid, each breath separating out the tang of old copper, bitter dyes, and fear. Master’s eyes catch every flicker, but it’s my world now, my senses, and I let them drag me forward like a bloodhound on velvet.

  I trace the scent through the velvet-and-gilt labyrinth, weaving between tables where broken gamblers and fading beauties nurse their poisons and their ghosts. No one even looks twice at the catgirl on all fours, eyes wild, tail slicing the air. I skirt the edge of the bar, muscles bunching, every nerve electric, until the scent sharpens, behind a faded silk curtain.

  I freeze, hackles rising, pupils blown wide, every line of me screaming silent warning. My head snaps to the left, chin high, ears forward, arm extending with animal urgency, pointing, just like a housecat catching a rat in the pantry, but with a predator’s certainty. I flick my tail and lock my gaze on Master, holding the line tight, the Bond singing hot and sharp between us.

  There. Back room. Prey is close, or what’s left of it, production, secrets. Even in a den of broken things, a cat knows when to point. And I never miss.

  His voice cuts through the haze, low, expectant, the single syllable hanging between us like a challenge. “Well?” The Bond snaps tight, forcing every nerve to attention. I flick my ears, nose twitching, letting my instincts run cold and clinical as I focus past the taste of caffeine and frustration. This isn’t just about scent now. It’s about detail, danger, opportunity.

  I lean closer to the curtain, letting my body melt into shadow, pupils wide, breath held. The scents come clearer, leather, expensive soap, clove cigarettes, notes too refined for this district, even in a den that apes nobility. Not just production, but the perfume of money, influence, the quiet rot that leaks down from the top.

  Perception Check, 13 +5, Feline Enhanced Senses: +2 = 20

  There, under the rustle and the murmur of distant conversation, I catch it, two distinct heartbeats, slow and measured, neither showing the panic of a worker nor the wild pulse of a thug on edge. Their voices are soft, pitched just above a whisper, vowels clipped and careful, the way only those with power bother to speak. A scrap of words floats through: “account books, tonight’s quota, old routes still viable” then a low, amused laugh, the sort that makes you want to claw someone’s face for their arrogance alone.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  My tail twitches, flicking back toward Master, eyes narrowing with the knowledge. I glance up, voice flat, bored, but precise. “Two inside. Not muscle. Posh sorts, money, power. They’re talking business, not blood.” I let the information linger.

  He slides through the curtain, smooth, silent, the way only Master can move when he’s hunting, not hunted. I follow, fluid and twitching, keeping low for now, letting my presence melt into the velvet gloom. The moment we cross the threshold, the Kipma’s squalor vanishes. This isn’t just a back room, it’s a different world entirely, one reserved for the select few who own the city’s secrets instead of being broken by them.

  The air is heavy, perfumed, untouched by the smoke and sweat outside. The walls are panelled in dark, polished wood, every inch carved with intricate patterns, flowers twined with thorns, old noble crests hidden among the curls. Gold leaf gleams in the corners, catching the low, honeyed glow from glass lamps shaped like lilies. The floor beneath my hands is thick, soft carpet, as rich and deep as the kind nobles die to stain.

  A long table, black walnut and impossibly glossy, dominates the centre. Silver candlesticks burn with clear, steady flames, real wax, a pointless luxury. Across from us sit two men, both pale and carefully composed, dressed in tailored coats of bottle green and midnight blue, lace cuffs flicking at their wrists. One wears a ring the size of a goblin’s tooth, the other sips amber liquor from a crystal glass so thin it sings when he sets it down. Their faces are lean, eyes cold, mouths fixed in small, secret smiles.

  Between them, ledgers lie open, pages lined with neat, looping figures. Stacks of gold and silver coins rest beside polished inkwells and an ivory letter-opener. A bottle of red wine sits untouched in a bucket of ice. The only other sound is the steady tick of a clock set into the mantel, mahogany, gold filigree, its face carved with moon phases and a silver cat chasing the hands round and round.

  There are no guards. No weapons in sight. Just the quiet confidence of men who know that danger, when it comes, will arrive politely and ask to be announced. The scent of their cologne is so sharp it cuts through the velvet, citrus and sandalwood over the copper tang of coin. The whole room is theatre, an illusion of order and civility set atop a city’s worth of violence and decay.

  I pause, half-shadow, half-beast, tail sweeping the carpet as I watch Master take his place in this strange, polished den. Here, the only law is money. And the price is always blood.