By the time John reappeared on the manicured lawn of the Van Horn Estate, clutching the "Quantum Mutant Cat," evening had fallen. The artificial sky simulated a perfect, blood-red sunset that drenched the garden in crimson. The shrubbery, pruned into strict geometric shapes, cast elongated shadows that looked particularly menacing in the dying light.

  The scent of expensive perfume in the air seemed to fade, replaced by a suffocating low-pressure front known simply as "Arrogance."

  "I found it."

  John stood by the long, white banquet table. His voice was raspy from inhaling toxic fumes, but it carried an undeniable sense of relief. His clothes were caked in sewer sludge and purple chemical waste, a stark, filthy contrast to the dust-free, pristine banquet setting.

  The cat in his arms seemed to sense its owner’s presence. It poked its head out from the crook of his arm, its fur glowing with faint, spectral blue starlight.

  "Meow—"

  An ethereal, echoing cry broke the silence of the estate.

  Mr. Van Horn, who had been whispering with his family lawyer about how to cover up his son’s scandal, jerked his head up. His brow instantly locked into a frown.

  And Mrs. Van Horn, who had been crying her eyes out just moments ago, let out a scream. It wasn't the scream of a mother reunited with a child; it was the shriek of someone seeing a monster.

  "Oh my god! What is that thing?!"

  She pointed at the cat in John’s arms, dropping her lace fan. "Why is its fur blue? Why are its eyes glowing? And... are those... wings on its back?!"

  "This is Luna," John explained, trying to soothe the startled kitten. "She was exposed to neurotoxins underground. She mutated. But she survived. She’s strong..."

  "Mutated?!"

  Mr. Van Horn cut him off. His face darkened like a storm cloud. He strode over, stopping two meters away. He didn't reach out to take the cat. Instead, he scanned it with a look of utter disgust, the way one looks at hazardous waste.

  "A mutated, monster-looking cat?" He let out a cold laugh, turning to the butler who was also covering his nose. "This is what we were looking for? A bio-hazard that will give my guests nightmares?"

  "No... Sir, she used to be beautiful..." The butler stepped back in fear, as if the cat still carried the stench and viruses of the sewer.

  John froze. Watching the family’s reaction felt like having a bucket of ice water dumped over his head.

  "But... she's Luna. She's the cat your wife said was her 'life.' She’s the victim of your son’s actions. She just barely escaped death!"

  "That was before!" Mrs. Van Horn hid behind her husband, covering her eyes with a handkerchief as if looking at the cat would infect her. Her voice was shrill and cruel. "Now... look at it! It's ugly! It's disgusting! Look at that rotting skin! That is not my perfect, purebred Cyber-Ragdoll anymore! It’s a monster! Take it away! Don't let it near me!"

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  John felt his blood turn cold.

  So this was the love of the upper class?

  This was their so-called "lifeblood"?

  The moment there was a flaw—even one caused by surviving a murder attempt—it was discarded like a dirty rag. In their eyes, life wasn't life. It was a decoration to show off status. A prop. Once the prop was damaged, even if it was their fault, it was ruthlessly abandoned.

  The little cat seemed to understand. It stopped meowing. It stopped trying to reach for the mistress who once pampered it. It buried its head deep into John’s chest, trembling, its wings of light dimming.

  It had been abandoned.

  Just like John had been abandoned by the Academy.

  Because it wasn't perfect. Because it had become a "defective product."

  A shared anger, born of shared misery, burned in John’s chest, overriding his fear.

  "Fine. You don't want the cat." John gritted his teeth, holding the creature tighter. His voice shook with rage. "Then... the bounty? Fifty thousand credits. I completed the mission. I brought it back. Alive."

  "Bounty?"

  Mr. Van Horn looked at him like he’d just heard the world’s biggest joke. He pulled a checkbook from his breast pocket but didn't uncapping his pen. Instead, he tapped the diamond-encrusted barrel against the mahogany table. Click. Click. Every sound was a hammer blow to John’s dignity.

  "Young man, are you confused?"

  "My bounty notice specified: 'Find the lost Cyber-Ragdoll.' Please note the wording: Perfect. Purebred. Healthy."

  He gestured dismissively at the glowing creature in John’s arms.

  "What you brought back is a heavily contaminated mutant variant. This is fundamentally not what I ordered. This is called... Goods Not Matching Description. Under contract law, the fact that I'm not suing you for emotional damages is already an act of mercy."

  "You're welching on the deal!" John stepped forward, furious. "I almost died down there to save it! And it was your waste that did this! It was your son's experiment—"

  "Silence!"

  Van Horn slammed his hand on the table, his facial muscles twitching with rage. Being called out on his family’s dirty laundry by a slum rat was intolerable.

  "You dare slander my son here? Do you know who I am? Do you know who you are talking to?"

  He waved his hand, a cold gesture like swatting a fly.

  The security captain, who had been standing by, immediately surrounded John with four fully armed bodyguards. They wore black riot armor and wielded high-voltage stun batons, the red indicator lights blinking dangerously in the sunset.

  Nearby, the electronic locks on the kennel snapped open. Several genetically modified hounds, the size of calves, were released. With alloy-reinforced jaws and red cybernetic eyes, they bared their teeth, low growls rumbling in their throats as they strained against their leashes.

  "I haven't called the cops for trespassing only because you're a Necromancer," Van Horn said, adjusting his tie and regaining his high-and-mighty composure. "Take that monster and get out of my estate. Immediately. Now."

  "If you are still in my line of sight in ten seconds..." He pointed at the vicious hounds, a cruel smile playing on his lips.

  "I’ll let them escort you out. Conveniently, they haven't had dinner yet."

  "Woof! Woof! Woof!"

  The hounds barked madly. The bodyguards closed in.

  John was trapped in the center.

  He looked at these well-dressed bandits, at the savage beasts, and then down at the helpless kitten in his arms.

  He had no way out.

  No money, and now, publicly humiliated.

  "This cat doesn't suit my carpet anymore," Van Horn said, turning his back on John, leaving him with a cold silhouette. "Neither do you."

  John stood there, his legs turning to jelly from exhaustion and the lingering aftereffects of his hemophobia. He had no weapons. No backup. He had even spent his last 10,000 Karma points.

  The security captain grinned and stepped forward, raising the stun baton. There was no sympathy on his cybernetically modified face.

  "Kid, next life... remember: Don't try to talk logic with the rich."

  Zzzzzzt—!

  Blue electric arcs danced on the tip of the baton, illuminating John’s pale, furious face.

  Dead end.

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