Sylvester hated cats, truly he’d never met a cat he actually liked, and they seemed to hate him in turn. No, more than that, the beasts seemed to have it out for him, ever since he was a kid. Growing up there had been a stray cat that roamed the neighborhood and of course the village children had delighted in the presence and attention of the little creature. Though in the nature of children they hadn’t been particularly kind to the thing. Chasing her down and being a bit rougher than was perhaps warranted. But the cat had put up with the majority of it, not with Sylvester, the creature hissed and swiped at him more than once, on occasion he would just be passing by wherever the cat had chosen to laze and the creature had just attacked him out of the blue.

Growing up he’d had a number of other fateful encounters with felines that had only justified his lifelong hatred. Each adding a new facet and depths to his distaste, like the time a cat had chased a mouse into his shed and somehow knocked the wooden carving he’d been planning to gift to the [baker]'s daughter smashing it to pieces. He’d never spoken to the girl again out of shame.

And seemingly every time he left town he was attacked by some manner of feline monster, the time he’d stolen some alcohol and aimed to try it out with the other boys, but out of nowhere a cat had appeared and knocked the jug out of his hands sending it crashing to the ground where it had smashed, its contents soaking into the earth.

Or the time that the [Apothecary] fat old feline had taken offence to his presence in the shop and had knocked a potion off the shelf onto his head. The woman had healed the wound for free but he’d avoided the shop after that.

Incidents like this had pockmarked his life, and added to the growing pile of misery that was his life. He’d struggled with most of the things that seemed to come naturally to the other boys, and even the softer activities that the girls his ages enjoyed came very slowly to him.

His father Chester, had tried his best, to take care of his son, and give him all the time and attention that he could but the man was busy, being the towns only [blacksmith] and a single father. Allowed for plenty of time where the boy had simply been on his own to handle things. 

Asides from housework, he’d spent most of his youth flitting from activity to activity, picking them up for a few weeks, and then putting them down when he failed to manifest anything approaching a passing mastery with them. So when he reached the age of majority and opened his status for the first time, he’d been disappointed but not surprised. 

[Name]: Sylvester
[Race]: Human

[Age]: 18

[Level]: 1  0/30
[class]: locked until level 5

[skills]: [susceptibility]

His father had just clicked his tongue when he saw his sons status. He’d been disappointed but he hadn’t said anything. If anything he’d just done his best to spend more time with his son. Inviting Sylvester to sit with him in the forge while he worked, sometimes he’d narrate his efforts, perhaps in some effort to draw his son into blacksmithing. But it hadn’t stuck, and Sylvester had drifted away.

The other kids had caught on pretty quickly to how poorly Sylvester’s status had turned out and soon the mild friendships he’d formed with his peers burned away under the relentless strain of the kind of mockery that only teenage boys could bring forth.

If the scorn of his peers and his own sense of inadequacy weren’t enough, the cats seemed to delight in his misery. It was as if they knew—some instinctual understanding of his [susceptibility] skill that made him uniquely vulnerable to their whims. Over the years, he couldn’t help but notice how their harassment escalated in both frequency and creativity.

One particularly bad week, he returned home with claw marks up his arms after trying to retrieve the laundry his father had asked him to hang outside—only to find that a stray cat had knocked it into the mud. Another time, a cat slinked under the tavern table where he’d been eating a meal, only to overturn his bowl and leave him drenched in cold stew while the other patrons laughed.

The final straw, however, came on an otherwise quiet afternoon. Sylvester had been sitting near the village outskirts, staring at the vast expanse of green that led into the deep woods beyond. His father had asked him to deliver a small basket of horseshoe nails to a nearby farmer, and while Sylvester had every intention of doing so, he’d paused to rest under the shade of an old oak tree.

As he sat there, a familiar hiss made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He turned to find a large black cat perched on the basket, its green eyes glinting in the sunlight.

“No,” Sylvester said, a tremor of panic creeping into his voice. “No, not today. Go away!”

The cat, of course, did not go away. Instead, it batted the basket onto its side, spilling the carefully packed nails into the dirt. Then, as if satisfied with its work, it sauntered up to Sylvester, tail swishing, and bit him hard on the ankle.

With a yelp of pain, Sylvester stumbled backward, tripped over a root, and landed in the dirt. The cat darted off, leaving him to gather the spilled nails while nursing both his wounded pride and his throbbing ankle.

When he finally reached the farmer’s house, hours later than planned, the man took one look at the scratched-up young man and the mud-streaked basket and gave a dismissive grunt. “Took your sweet time, didn’t you?”

Sylvester tried to explain, but the farmer waved him off, muttering about "useless boys" as he slammed the door.

By the time Sylvester returned home, his father was waiting, arms crossed and face etched with concern. “What happened this time?” Chester asked, eyeing the limp in his son’s gait.

Sylvester just shook his head, too exhausted to explain. His father sighed but said nothing more.

The next morning, Sylvester awoke to find a letter on the kitchen table. It was from one of the village elders, summoning him to a meeting. He knew better than to expect good news.

When he arrived, the elder—a wiry old man named Brannok—looked him up and down with an expression that bordered on pity.

“Sylvester,” Brannok began, his voice heavy, “it’s been decided that you’re to be given a task.”

Sylvester blinked, unsure of what to say. A task? From the elders? That usually meant some kind of errand or responsibility that none of the other villagers wanted to deal with.

“You’re to head into the deep woods,” Brannok continued, “to investigate the strange goings-on near the old ruins. Livestock have been going missing, and hunters have reported seeing strange lights at night.”

Sylvester’s stomach sank. The deep woods were a dangerous place, filled with wild beasts and who-knew-what-else. Even the seasoned hunters of the village avoided venturing too far in.

“Why me?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Brannok shrugged, his expression unreadable. “Someone needs to go, and… well, you don’t seem to have much else to do, lad. Consider it a chance to prove yourself.”

The words stung, but Sylvester knew better than to argue. Refusing the elders would only bring more shame upon him—and besides, a part of him couldn’t help but feel that leaving the village, even for a short while, might be a relief.

Later that evening, his father helped him pack. Chester didn’t say much, but his hands lingered on Sylvester’s shoulder as he adjusted the straps of the battered old pack he’d loaned him.

“Be careful out there,” Chester said gruffly, his voice thick with unspoken worry.

Sylvester nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. He’d never felt particularly brave, but as he stood at the edge of the woods the next morning, staring into the shadowy expanse of trees, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this journey would change everything.

The deep woods were every bit as miserable as Sylvester had feared.

The trail—if it could even be called that—was little more than a faint suggestion of a path, choked with thorny brambles and thick undergrowth that snagged at his legs and tore at his clothes. His father’s old pack, stuffed with what meager supplies he could carry, felt heavier with every step, and sweat dripped down his brow despite the cool shade of the trees.

“Of all the blasted, useless tasks…” Sylvester muttered, hacking at an overgrown branch with the dull knife he’d brought along. It didn’t cut so much as bruise the vegetation, leaving him to shove the branch aside with a frustrated grunt. “Sending me out here—me—like I’m some kind of seasoned adventurer. Brannok, you miserable old buzzard, I hope you choke on your next meal.”

The woods were eerily quiet, save for the crunch of his boots on the leaf-strewn ground and the occasional rustle of unseen creatures in the underbrush. It put him on edge, his every sense straining for some hint of danger, though he couldn’t decide which was worse: the possibility of being attacked by some wild beast or the humiliating thought of returning to the village empty-handed.

“And the cats!” he growled, kicking a loose rock off the path. “Oh, of course, it’s the cats’ fault I’m out here, too. Always ruining things, always making my life harder. It’s like they’ve got some grand conspiracy against me.”

His muttering turned to a litany of curses, directed at everything from the brambles to the village elder to the very concept of fate itself. He slipped on a patch of moss, nearly falling face-first into the dirt, and let out a frustrated shout. “And why hasn’t anyone cleared this gods-forsaken trail in years? Is it too much to ask for a halfway decent—”

He froze mid-sentence, his breath catching in his throat.

Up ahead, just beyond the next bend in the path, a soft, otherworldly glow flickered through the trees. It shimmered like moonlight on water, shifting and pulsing in a way that made his eyes ache if he stared too long. For a moment, all his frustration melted away, replaced by a gnawing curiosity.

“What in the…?” Sylvester whispered, stepping cautiously toward the light.

The closer he got, the more the glow seemed to retreat, dancing just out of reach. It was almost playful, teasing him with glimpses of something just beyond his understanding. He knew he should stay on the path—Brannok’s warnings about the dangers of the deep woods echoed faintly in his mind—but the light was impossible to resist.

Before he realized it, he’d left the trail behind entirely, pushing through dense foliage as he followed the elusive glow deeper and deeper into the forest. The air grew colder, the shadows darker, and an uneasy feeling settled in the pit of his stomach.

The light finally stopped, hovering above a small clearing ringed with ancient, moss-covered stones. It pulsed gently, as if inviting him closer. Sylvester hesitated, his instincts screaming at him to turn back, but his curiosity won out. He stepped into the clearing, his heart pounding.

That’s when the ground beneath his feet crumbled.

With a startled cry, Sylvester fell, the earth giving way to reveal a steep ravine hidden beneath the foliage. He clawed desperately at the edge, managing to catch hold of a twisted root just before he plunged into the darkness below. His pack dangled precariously, pulling at his shoulders as he struggled to pull himself back up.

“Help!” he shouted, his voice echoing uselessly through the trees. “Someone, anyone—help!”

For a moment, it seemed like no one would answer. The light that had lured him here flickered mockingly above the ravine, then disappeared entirely. Sylvester’s arms trembled, his grip on the root slipping.

Then he heard it—a low, rumbling hiss that sent shivers down his spine.

From the shadows of the forest, a massive shape emerged, moving with the silent grace of a predator. It was a cat—but unlike any cat Sylvester had ever seen. The creature was easily the size of a horse, its sleek, muscular body covered in dark, mottled fur that blended seamlessly with the dappled light of the woods. Six powerful limbs carried it forward, each paw tipped with razor-sharp claws, and its glowing eyes burned with an intelligence far beyond that of any ordinary beast.

Sylvester froze, his breath catching in his throat. The creature padded closer, its movements slow and deliberate, until it stood at the edge of the ravine, gazing down at him with an inscrutable expression.

“P-please,” Sylvester stammered, his voice barely audible. “I-I don’t want to die…”

The creature tilted its head, its ears flicking as if considering his plea. Then, with a swift motion, it reached out one massive paw and hooked its claws into the back of his pack, hauling him up with an ease that left him breathless.

Sylvester collapsed onto solid ground, gasping for air. He barely had time to process what had just happened before the creature leaned down, its face mere inches from his own. Its breath was hot and smelled faintly of moss and blood.

“Foolish kitten,” it rumbled, its voice low and resonant, like the growl of thunder. “Chasing lights into the dark. Have you no sense?”

Sylvester gaped at the creature, his mind struggling to reconcile the fact that it had just spoken. Before he could respond, it straightened, casting one last piercing look at him before turning and slinking back into the shadows.

“Wait!” Sylvester called after it, scrambling to his feet. “What—what are you? Why did you save me?”

The only answer was a faint rustling of leaves as the creature vanished into the forest, leaving him alone in the clearing.

Sylvester lay sprawled on the ground, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. His limbs felt like jelly, and his hands trembled uncontrollably, still clutching at the dirt as if it might crumble away beneath him again. His heart pounded so violently he could hear it in his ears, louder even than the forest’s eerie silence.

His gaze darted toward the edge of the ravine, where the earth had betrayed him only moments ago. The image of the jagged rocks below was burned into his mind, and the thought of how close he’d come to falling—to dying—tightened his throat.

“I—I almost…” he whispered, his voice shaking. “Gods…”

The panic crept in slowly at first, like a cold wind seeping under a door. His breathing quickened, shallow and erratic, as his thoughts spiraled. He pressed his hands to his chest, willing his lungs to draw in air, but the tightness in his ribs only grew.

And then there was the beast.

He sat bolt upright, his eyes wide and wild, scanning the trees around him as if expecting the creature to reappear. The massive six-limbed cat had vanished as silently as it had arrived, leaving no trace but the faint impression of its clawed paws in the dirt.

“A cat,” Sylvester muttered, his voice barely more than a croak. “It was a cat.” He let out a short, humorless laugh that bordered on hysteria. “I’ve spent my whole life blaming cats for my problems, and now one’s gone and saved my life. How’s that for irony?”

But his laugh died in his throat as another realization struck him. That thing wasn’t just any cat. It talked.

Talking beasts. The words echoed in his mind like a tolling bell, heavy with dread. Only the most powerful monsters—creatures of immense strength and intelligence—ever developed sentience. The kind of beasts you heard about in old hunters’ tales, the ones that haunted the deepest, darkest parts of the wilderness. The ones that killed you without a second thought if you so much as stumbled into their territory.

And this one had called him “a foolish kitten.”

Sylvester’s stomach churned, and he doubled over, clutching his knees as his breaths came faster and faster. His vision blurred, the edges of the forest swimming as the weight of it all crashed down on him. He wasn’t just out of his depth; he was drowning.

The elders had sent him into these woods like it was some minor chore, but no one had warned him—no one had told him—that things like this were out here!

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the memory of the beast’s glowing eyes, the rumble of its voice, the sharp gleam of its claws. “I can’t do this,” he whispered hoarsely. “I’m going to die out here. I’m going to die, and they’ll all say it was my own fault for being useless. For being a loser.”

But then another thought slithered into his mind, unwelcome and taunting. Turning back now—limping back to the village with his tail between his legs—wasn’t an option. They wouldn’t believe him. Who would? “Oh, yes, Elder Brannok, I had to quit because a giant talking jungle cat told me off,” he imagined himself saying, the derision and laughter of the villagers ringing in his ears.

No. If he went back empty-handed, they’d call him a coward, a failure. They already thought so little of him—this would just confirm it. He couldn’t give them the satisfaction.

Sylvester groaned, burying his face in his hands. He felt trapped, pinned between the weight of his own inadequacies and the terrifying reality of what he’d just encountered. But as much as he wanted to lie there forever, shaking and wishing the ground would just swallow him whole, he knew he couldn’t stay.

“Get up,” he muttered to himself, his voice trembling. “Come on, Sylvester, get up.”

His limbs felt heavy, but he forced himself to his feet, his legs unsteady beneath him. He brushed the dirt off his clothes with shaking hands and tightened the straps of his pack, glancing warily at the path—or what little he could still see of it.

The woods suddenly felt darker, the shadows deeper, and every rustle of leaves or snap of a twig made him flinch. But he took a step forward, then another, because the thought of turning back was even more unbearable than the fear that gripped him.

“Stupid, stupid forest,” he muttered, his voice cracking. “Stupid glowing lights. Stupid cats.” He hesitated, his eyes flicking toward the direction where the creature had disappeared. “But, uh… thanks, I guess.”

The woods offered no reply, only the faint creak of swaying branches. Sylvester shuddered, pulled his coat tighter around himself, and trudged on, deeper into the unknown.

Sylvester stumbled out of the tree line some several hours later panting and wiping sweat from his brow. The overgrown path had given way to a jagged set of stone steps, half-swallowed by vines and moss, leading up to what he could only describe as a ruin. Cracked columns jutted skyward, broken and worn by time, while the remnants of walls hinted at a grand structure that had long since crumbled. Shadows danced across the fractured stone as sunlight filtered through the thick canopy above.

“Well, this has to be it,” he muttered to himself, glancing nervously around. His heart was still racing from his earlier ordeal, and every creak and rustle of the forest set his teeth on edge. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but whatever it was, he didn’t have a choice.

He approached cautiously, his boots crunching over loose gravel and dead leaves. The air was heavy and damp, and the faint scent of something earthy and wild lingered, making his nose twitch. He reached out to brush away a vine covering what looked like an ornate carving on the wall, only to freeze as the vine shifted under his touch. It wasn’t a vine at all—it was a massive, thorny root, and it twitched as if alive.

Sylvester stumbled back with a yelp as the root lashed out, narrowly missing him and slamming into the ground with a thud that shook the stone beneath his feet. His panic flared, and he scrambled away, tripping over his own feet as more roots began to stir.

“Not good! Not good!” he shouted, his voice cracking as he fumbled for anything he could use to defend himself. His hand landed on a loose piece of rubble, and he hurled it at the nearest root. It bounced off harmlessly, and the root only seemed to grow angrier, coiling like a snake preparing to strike.

The next few minutes were a blur of terror as he struggled with clumsy desperation. Sylvester dodged and stumbled, barely staying ahead of the writhing roots that seemed intent on crushing him. His breaths came in ragged gasps, and his arms were scratched and bleeding from where he’d been grazed.

Just as he thought he was done for, a low, guttural rumble echoed through the ruins, freezing everything in place—including the roots.

“Oh no,” Sylvester whispered, his voice trembling as he turned toward the sound.

From the shadows of the temple emerged the beast, and this time, Sylvester got a proper look at it. It was massive, easily the size of a draft horse, with a sleek, muscular frame that rippled with power. Its coat was a deep, shimmering black, almost blending into the shadows, but as it moved, Sylvester could see faint stripes of silver and violet that seemed to glow and writhe faintly in the dim light. Its six limbs were terrifyingly graceful, each paw tipped with curved claws that gleamed like polished obsidian.

The creature’s head was feline but elongated, with high cheekbones and sharp, angular features that gave it an almost regal appearance. Its eyes were piercing, a vibrant, molten gold that seemed to see right through him, and its ears twitched as it regarded him with a mixture of annoyance and amusement.

When it opened its mouth, Sylvester saw rows of sharp, white teeth, but its voice was surprisingly smooth and deep, rumbling like distant thunder.

“Foolish kitten,” it said, its tone carrying a note of exasperation. “I warned you once about your carelessness. And here you are again, tripping over your own paws and disturbing my sanctuary.”

Sylvester froze, unsure whether to run, bow, or start praying. His voice cracked as he stammered, “I—I didn’t know this was your—”

The beast cut him off with a snort, its tail lashing behind it. “No, of course you didn’t. Kittens never think before they act.” It prowled closer, each step deliberate and fluid, until it loomed over him. Sylvester shrank back, his breath catching in his throat.

“Pathetic,” the creature rumbled, leaning down to sniff at him. Its nose wrinkled, and it pulled back with a disdainful flick of its tail. “You reek of fear and incompetence. How you’ve survived this long is beyond me.”

“I—I don’t need your help!” Sylvester blurted out, though his trembling legs betrayed his bravado.

The beast let out a deep, rumbling laugh that made the ground vibrate. “Oh, but you do, little one. Watching you stumble about is almost painful. Clearly, you’re a kitten without its mother.”

Before Sylvester could protest, the creature moved faster than his eyes could track. One massive paw pushed him over and he felt himself suddenly being scooped up like a rag doll by his backpack, had the cat just picked him up by the scruff like a mother would its kittens!?

“H-Hey! Put me down!” he shouted, his voice high-pitched with panic.

The beast ignored him, carrying him as easily as a mother cat would carry her cub. Its movements were impossibly smooth, and despite his protests, Sylvester couldn’t help but notice how warm its fur felt against his back.

It padded deeper into the ruins, winding through crumbling corridors and overgrown halls until they reached a large, open chamber. The walls were lined with carvings that glowed faintly, and at the center was a nest of sorts—a massive bed of soft moss and dried leaves, tucked into a corner where sunlight streamed through a break in the ceiling.

The creature set him down unceremoniously in the nest and sat back on its haunches, its golden eyes studying him intently.

“There,” it said, its tone firm but not unkind. “You’ll stay here, where I can keep an eye on you. Perhaps under my watch, you’ll learn to stop being so helpless.”

Sylvester gawked up at the beast, his mind reeling. “What—what do you mean? I can’t stay here!”

The beast leaned closer, its gaze unwavering. “You can, and you will.A kitten like you would only get hurt out there and either way, I grow tired of your bumbling. From now on, you are my responsibility, little kitten.”

Sylvester opened his mouth to argue, but the beast silenced him with a low growl that sent a shiver down his spine.

“Rest,” it commanded. “You’ll need your strength.”

And with that, the creature stretched out, its massive form slinking into the nest and curling around him trapping him in place unless he wanted to risk clambering over the beast. Sylvester sat frozen, his heart pounding as he tried to process what had just happened.

“A talking cat monster,” he muttered to himself. “A giant talking cat monster thinks I’m its kitten. What in all the gods’ names is my life?”

The only answer he got was a chuff from the monster that might have been amusement or exasperation he couldn’t tell, but moment later a paw lifted up and came down over him with a ‘fwump’ he was dragged down to the bed of moss and drawn into the monsters frame, the powerful beat of the creatures heart and the exhaustion from the days events lulled him into slumber.

The next day little had changed, he sat stiffly in the nest, his arms hugging his knees as he watched the beast prowl around the lair, what it was doing he couldn’t say. Seemingly inspecting the surroundings. He watched with a sullen silence, unsure if he should even bother trying to escape. Some part of his mind reminded him that this creature was obviously obscenely high level, what chance would he have to escape its clutches?

Eventually the beat finished what it was doing and padded back over to the nest. Plopping down the creature’s golden eyes glinted in the dim light, watching him with an intensity that made his skin crawl. He could feel its presence like a heavy weight pressing down on him, suffocating yet strangely... comforting. The fur along its massive shoulders shimmered faintly with silver streaks, giving it an almost ethereal glow in the ruins' dim light.

The beast’s voice rumbled like a low growl, warm and dismissive all at once. “Look at you, trembling like a leaf. Truly, you are the sorriest excuse for a kitten I’ve ever seen.”

“I’m not a kitten,” Sylvester protested weakly, though the words lacked conviction. His throat felt tight, and his heartbeat thudded erratically in his chest. “I’m a—a person! A human!”

The creature snorted, the sound vibrating through the air like a chuckle. “Oh, little one, you think yourself so different, so above the forest and its creatures. But look at you now—wet, tired, and incapable of surviving without my intervention. You are as helpless as any lost cub.”

Sylvester opened his mouth to argue, but the weight of the beast’s presence pressed against him harder, turning his thoughts sluggish. His [Susceptible] skill flickered faintly in the back of his mind, like a persistent whisper growing louder.

“Why do you fight it?” the beast purred, curling one massive paw protectively around the edges of the nest. Its claws retracted as if to make the gesture softer, less threatening. “You’ve stumbled into my territory, into the cradle of ancient power, and now you resist my aid? Foolish, stubborn little thing.”

“I-I don’t need your help,” Sylvester muttered, though even as he said it, he wasn’t so sure anymore. His desire to stand up, to leave this ruin, wavered as if caught in a storm. The sheer presence of the creature wrapped around him felt... grounding, almost. Still staying here would be the height of foolishness, what if this cat decides to just kill him? He would be dead just like that.

Why was he in such a rush to leave? He blinked rapidly, shaking his head. The monster seemed content to watch over him, and maybe he could learn enough to survive here. He needed to investigate the ruins anyway right? It was hard to remember why he needed to do that at all.

“I see it,” the beast said, its voice tinged with amusement. “The old magic has already begun to speak to you. My presence… it stirs things, little one. Stubbornness will not save you here.”

“What are you talking about?” Sylvester asked, his voice trembling.

The beast leaned closer, the golden light of its eyes illuminating his face. “You are far too soft to resist the forest’s call. This place, this magic,  reshapes those that it touches. You, my dear kitten, are ripe for it.”

Sylvester shivered as the words settled over him like a weight. His skin prickled, and an unfamiliar warmth spread through his limbs. Was it his imagination, or did the tips of his fingers ache? He flexed his hands uneasily, rubbing his palms together.

“You’re lying,” he whispered, but his voice cracked.

“Lying?” The beast let out a deep, rumbling laugh that echoed through the ruins. “Poor little kitten. You don’t even understand yourself, much less what’s happening to you.”

The words stung, but Sylvester couldn’t muster the energy to retort. His thoughts were clouded, muddled by the weight of the creature’s voice and the pressure in the air. He tried to focus on something—anything—but his gaze kept drifting to the shimmer of the beast’s fur, the rhythmic swish of its tail, the warm, almost hypnotic rumble of its breathing.

As the hours passed, Sylvester found himself sinking deeper into the nest, his resistance eroding bit by bit. Every time he thought of standing up, the beast’s eyes would narrow, and its voice would coax him back down, dripping with a strange mix of authority and condescension.

“Rest,” it would say. “What would a kitten like you accomplish out there, anyway? You’d only hurt yourself. Stay. Sleep. Let me care for you, as a mother should.”

The word “mother” grated on Sylvester’s nerves, but even his irritation felt distant, like a faint echo of something stronger he couldn’t quite grasp.

By the second day, he noticed other things—small, unsettling changes. His nails seemed sharper, almost claw-like when he caught them glinting in the faint light. His sense of smell had heightened; he could pick out the faintest scents lingering in the ruin, from the earthy musk of the moss to the metallic tang of distant rain. And when he moved, his balance felt… different.

“Is this… the magic?” he muttered to himself, staring at his hands in confusion.

The beast overheard him, its ears twitching as it let out a deep purr of satisfaction. “Ah, now you see. The old magic recognizes you, little one. It reshapes you into something stronger, something more fitting for this place. Be grateful—it’s far better than the alternative.”

“What alternative?” Sylvester asked, his voice tight with fear.

The beast’s smile revealed a flash of sharp teeth. “Those who cannot adapt... break.”

A shiver ran down Sylvester’s spine, but he forced himself to sit upright. “This isn’t right,” he said, though his voice wavered. “I didn’t come here for this. I just want to find what the elder sent me for and leave!”

The beast’s laughter rumbled again, shaking the air. “And what makes you think you’ll leave the same as you came, kitten? This forest has already marked you.”

Sylvester clenched his fists, ignoring the faint prick of claws against his palms. “I’ll— I’ll find a way!”

The beast tilted its head, its expression unreadable. “Oh, you’re a feisty one,” it purred. “But for now, you’ll stay. You’re not ready to wander these woods on your own. You’d only fumble again, wouldn’t you?”

Sylvester flushed with anger, but the truth of the creature’s words left him silent. For now, at least, he was trapped by the enormous feline’s overbearing care. And with each passing moment, the changes creeping through his body became harder to ignore.

Days, or perhaps weeks, blurred together in the lair. Sylvester couldn’t tell anymore. The ruins were perpetually bathed in dim, filtered light from the thick canopy above, and the oppressive, humming energy of the place seemed to sap his awareness of time.

The beast remained his constant companion—or more accurately, his captor and self-proclaimed mother. Every day, she would nudge him awake with a large paw, her golden eyes boring into his. “Up, kitten. You’ve rested enough for a lifetime.”

Sometimes, she would pluck him out of the nest by his shirt collar, like a lioness moving her cub. He hated it, kicking his legs uselessly, but the beast only purred louder, clearly finding his defiance amusing.

“You’re lucky I have such patience for bumbling little ones,” she’d rumble. “Any other creature in these woods would have eaten you by now.”

Sylvester had started to notice something unsettling during these exchanges. The creature’s presence, the old magic that hung in the air, seemed to seep into his thoughts, muddling his resolve. There were moments when her words struck a chord, and he’d find himself nodding absentmindedly, agreeing that yes, perhaps he really was helpless on his own.

One such moment came when the beast sat him down and began grooming him—or at least, the monster’s approximation of it. With surprising delicacy, she used her massive frame to hold him in place as her rough tongue scraped over his body, his squirming and flailing attempts to push her off were defeated with a practiced efficiency, a massive paw pinning him down so that he couldn’t escape from the treatment.

“There,” she said, satisfied. “A proper kitten should at least look the part.”

Sylvester sat frozen, his face burning with humiliation and confusion. He couldn’t explain why he didn’t shove her away or at least protest louder. Instead, he’d sat quietly, a strange warmth blooming in his chest at her care.

“Wait, no!” he hissed to himself later, pacing in the nest. “She’s manipulating you, Sylvester. Snap out of it!” He dug his nails—claws?—into his palms to ground himself, ignoring how sharp they felt.

But no matter how much he tried to resist, the creature’s constant presence and her maddening condescension wore on him.

His body continued to betray him in small ways. His nails had fully transformed into retractable claws now, which he tried to keep hidden. His ears had grown ever so slightly pointed at the tips, sensitive to the faintest rustle of the jungle outside the ruins. Even his movements felt different—quieter, more instinctive, like a predator stalking prey.

But it wasn’t just physical. The old magic in the lair tugged at his mind, pulling him into strange headspaces he struggled to shake off.

One day, as the beast settled down after her hunt, she nudged a piece of roasted meat toward him. “Eat, little one. You need strength if you’re to survive.”

Sylvester hesitated, staring at the meat. Something about the way she said “survive” sent a chill down his spine. But when he reached for the food, the beast gently swatted his hand away.

“No, no,” she chided. “You’ll eat properly, as a kitten should.”

Before he could argue, she picked up the meat with her claws and held it out to him, expectant. His stomach growled, betraying his hunger, and for a brief moment, the thought of refusing seemed utterly ridiculous. Why shouldn’t he let her feed him?

As he leaned forward to take a bite, he caught sight of his reflection in a puddle nearby. His widened eyes, the faint twitch of his clawed fingers, the subtle curve of his lips pulling into something close to a purr—it jolted him out of the trance.

“What am I doing?!” he shouted, scrambling back.

The beast tilted her head, bemused. “You’re being fed, little one. Nothing more.”

“No, I— I’m not a kitten!” he shouted, his voice trembling with equal parts anger and fear. “I’m a person! A man!”

The beast chuckled, her voice a deep, resonant rumble. “Ah, such defiance. It’s charming, truly. But you’ll learn soon enough, little one. The forest does not care for what you were. It cares for what you become.”

Sylvester clenched his fists, feeling the sting of his claws dig into his palms again. He wanted to leave, to escape this place and its maddening influence. But the thought of returning to the village, of being labeled a failure, kept him rooted in the ruins.

“Just stay focused,” he muttered to himself that night, curled up in the nest. “Get what you came for. Then leave. You’re not a kitten, and you’re not going to become one.”

But as he drifted to sleep, the faint, rhythmic rumble of the beast’s purring surrounded him, and for the first time, he didn’t hate it.

Sylvester stirred awake, his body heavy and sluggish, as if weighed down by something invisible. He groaned, pressing a hand to his forehead. The beast’s nest was strangely comfortable, the dense foliage she had piled together offering more support than he liked to admit. The low hum of her breathing filled the air, a sound that had somehow become familiar.

He stretched and froze mid-motion. His hand—a hand that didn’t quite look the same anymore—caught his attention. His fingers were longer, the nails sharp and slightly curved. The sight made his stomach churn.

“No, no, no, this can’t—” he muttered, frantically pulling up his status window.

[Name]: Sylvester
[Race]: Human

[Age]: 18

[Level]: 2  2/60
[class]: locked until level 5

[skills]: [susceptibility] [Felis Silvestris]

He stared at the glowing screen, his heart pounding. He’d leveled up, but that wasn’t the part that sent panic prickling through his skin. It was the skill.

“[Felis Silvestris]?” he whispered, reading it again. What does that even mean? He stared at the skill with bewilderment. Something about it unnerved him, his brow furrowed and his nails dug into his palms. The sudden prick of pain made his stomach twisted. “No, this isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.”

His fingers curled, and he felt the faint, reflexive flex of claws retracting into his fingertips. The sensation was foreign and wrong. He bit back a whimper, willing himself to calm down, but his breathing quickened regardless.

The massive feline stirred behind him, her six limbs stretching lazily. Her golden eyes flicked open, catching the faint light filtering through the ruins. “You’re making quite a fuss for this early in the day, kitten,” she drawled, her voice a low rumble.

“Stop calling me that!” Sylvester snapped, his voice breaking slightly. “I’m not a kitten, I’m not your child, and I don’t belong here!”

The beast yawned, her fangs gleaming in the dim light. “If you insist, little one,” she said with infuriating calmness. “Though, I’ll admit, you’re growing into your claws faster than I expected. Soon enough, you’ll understand what you are.”

“What I am?” he repeated, his voice trembling. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

The beast rose to her full, towering height, shaking herself off before stepping closer. Sylvester instinctively backed away, but her massive paw came down, pinning him lightly by the shoulder.

“Relax, kitten,” she purred, her tone condescending. “You’re not ready to understand yet. But trust me—this is your home now. You’ll see it soon enough.”

Her words wrapped around his mind, heavy and oppressive. For a moment, Sylvester felt his resistance waver, the thought of staying here in her care almost… appealing. The weight of her presence, the strange energy saturating the ruins—it all made his desire to leave feel like a distant memory.

He closed his eyes tightly, clenching his fists. “No,” he muttered, shaking his head. “No, I’m not staying here.” He groused.

The beast tilted her head, watching him with something almost resembling amusement. “Such stubbornness,” she said. “It’s adorable, really. But don’t worry. I’ll be patient. Even the most unruly kittens learn their place in time.”

Sylvester glared up at her, his jaw tight. “Stop calling me that!”

The beast let out a rumbling chuckle and turned away, padding deeper into the ruins. “Rest, little one,” she said over her shoulder. “You’ll need your strength if you’re going to keep bumbling around my domain.”

As she disappeared into the shadows, Sylvester sagged against the nest, his head spinning. His status window lingered in his mind, the new skill mocking him with its presence.

“[Felis Silvestris],” he muttered bitterly, how was he supposed to use a skill he didn’t even understand? Was this skill the thing that was turning him into a cat? If that was the case… he grumbled softly and rolled his eyes. “What’s next? [Purring Comfort]? [Litter Box Proficiency]?”

He buried his face in his hands, his claws pressing lightly against his skin. This place was changing him—physically, mentally, and in ways he couldn’t even begin to understand. And as much as he hated to admit it, the beast’s condescending care was starting to get under his skin in a way that made him feel… strange.

Sylvester’s sense of time had become slippery, like sand slipping through his fingers no matter how hard he tried to hold on. Days, or what felt like them, passed in a haze. He could no longer tell if it was morning or night in the ruins. The dim light filtering through the jungle canopy was unchanging, casting the same dappled shadows that blurred together with his thoughts.

It was getting harder to think. Harder to hold on to himself.

The beast’s presence was suffocating, always there, a low thrum in his mind. Her voice echoed even when she wasn’t speaking, her rumbling tones laced with strange warmth and authority. She continued to treat him with condescending care, calling him “kitten” with the kind of patience that made him seethe during moments of clarity. But those moments were growing fewer and farther between.

He sat in her nest, staring at his hands—or were they still his hands? The fingers were slim and soft now, lacking the callouses he once had. The claws that extended from his fingertips no longer startled him when they flexed instinctively. His arms, too, seemed softer, the muscle he’d worked hard to build dulled by an unfamiliar, almost pudgy suppleness.

“What… what’s happening to me?” he whispered, his voice cracking. Even that sounded different, higher, lighter.

It took a monumental effort to focus, to force himself out of the fog that clouded his thoughts. He shakily summoned his status window, hoping for clarity, for anything that could explain what was happening.

But it was exactly the same at least everything but his exp counter that had steadily ticked up towards granting him another level. He couldn’t pinpoint the source of the creeping softness that had overtaken his body, the way his limbs felt. It wasn’t that he was weaker but he was feeling wholy off.

The faint pressure of the beast’s presence seemed to grow stronger as he stared at the status window, her aura wrapping around him like a weighted blanket. His mind grew foggy again, and he barely noticed when the status window flickered and faded from view.

A low rumble drew his attention, and he turned his head to see the beast lounging nearby, watching him with her piercing golden eyes. She looked almost amused, her massive frame stretched out with feline grace.

“You’re fretting again, little one,” she said, her voice dripping with condescension. “You should rest. Kittens shouldn’t trouble themselves with such complicated thoughts.”

“I’m not a kitten,” Sylvester mumbled weakly, though the words felt hollow even to him.

The beast tilted her head, her tail flicking lazily behind her. “Of course you are,” she said, almost purring. “Look at you—soft, clumsy, and in need of constant care. It’s only natural you feel overwhelmed. But don’t worry. Mother will take care of you.”

Her words sent a strange warmth through him, a comfort that he hated but couldn’t shake. He shook his head, trying to cling to his anger, to his resistance, but it was like trying to hold on to water.

“I’m not…” he started to say, but the words trailed off as the fog crept back in.

Time slipped again. The next thing he knew, he was standing in the ruins, his feet bare and his body trembling. His clothes hung awkwardly on him now, the fabric loose in some places and tight in others. He glanced down and froze.

His chest had grown soft, the faint swell of curves visible beneath his shirt. His waist was slimmer, his hips broader, and his skin… it felt hypersensitive, every brush of fabric sending shivers through him.

“No,” he whispered, his voice trembling. He reached up, touching his face, his jawline softer, his features unfamiliar.

The beast’s voice echoed in his mind, her words replaying like a taunt. “Kittens shouldn’t trouble themselves with such complicated thoughts.”

He stumbled back toward the nest, his breathing uneven. How long had it been since he’d first entered the ruins? Days? Weeks? Longer? The fog in his mind made it impossible to tell.

As he sank to the ground, clutching his head, he felt the beast’s presence nearby again, her massive paw resting lightly on his shoulder.

“Shh,” she murmured, her voice low and soothing. “You’re growing so beautifully, little one. Soon, you’ll understand. Soon, you won’t need to fight anymore.”

Sylvester wanted to scream, to push her away, to run—but his body wouldn’t move. Instead, he slumped against her, the fog wrapping around him once more.

Sylvester sat in the beast’s nest, his legs tucked under him, the soft moss beneath him cushioning his frame. His clothes hung strangely now, his body continuing its slow transformation into something alien yet unnervingly familiar. The faint hum of magic that saturated the ruins thrummed in his veins, a constant reminder of the slow, inevitable pull that had rooted itself inside him.

He absently ran his fingers over his arm, his skin softer than he remembered, smoother. His hands shook as he traced the faint lines where muscle had once been, now replaced by an almost delicate puffiness. Every sensation felt heightened—his fingers, his skin, even the way the air moved against him. It all felt... wrong. And yet…

He glanced toward the beast, sprawled nearby like some ancient queen surveying her domain. 

Her golden eyes were half-lidded, her massive tail flicking lazily behind her. She exuded power, yes, but also a strange comfort, the kind of presence that made the back of his mind hum with security. She’d cared for him, hadn’t she? Fed him when he was too weak to stand. Kept him safe from the dangers lurking in the jungle and the ruins. Protected him when no one else had.

The thought stirred something bitter in his chest. What had the villagers done for him? Cast him out, made him into a joke. Sure, his father had cared, but no one else in that wretched place had ever lifted a finger to help him. Not when his mother died, not when he suffered misery after misery, not even when he’d been humiliated.

But here… here was different.

He glanced at the beast again, her massive form still and peaceful, save for the rhythmic rise and fall of her breathing. She’d saved him, hadn’t she? He hated the condescension in her voice, the way she infantilized him, but at least she’d never thrown him away. She treated him like he mattered, even if it was only in this bizarre, twisted way.

Would it really be so bad to stay here?

The thought came unbidden, and Sylvester felt his stomach twist in response. Stay here? In the ruins? With her? He shook his head, trying to banish the idea, but it lingered stubbornly.

“She’s taken care of me,” he murmured to himself, his voice soft and trembling. “She’s done more than they ever did.”

His chest ached as he thought of his father, the one person he would miss. His dad had always tried to be there for him, always encouraged him to do better, to rise above the village’s scorn. But what could his father do now? If Sylvester returned, looking like… like this, who would even recognize him?

The beast stirred, her massive form shifting as she rolled onto her side, her golden eyes opening to fix him with a piercing stare. “You’re thinking too hard again, kitten,” she rumbled, her voice heavy with amusement.

Sylvester flinched, caught in his thoughts. “I’m not—”

She cut him off with a low, almost musical growl, rising to her feet and padding toward him. She loomed over him, her massive six-limbed frame casting a shadow that seemed to swallow him whole. Up close, the details of her body became more pronounced—thick, powerful limbs, sleek fur that shimmered faintly in the dim light, and those piercing, ancient eyes that seemed to see straight through him.

“You’re wasting so much energy worrying about things that don’t matter,” she chided, her voice low and almost soothing. “You’ve done nothing but struggle your entire life, haven’t you? Struggle to be stronger, to be accepted, to matter. And what has it gotten you?”

He opened his mouth to argue, but the words died in his throat. What had it gotten him?

“Out there, you were a runt,” she continued, her tone soft but firm. “A weakling clinging to scraps of a world that never wanted you. But here? Here, you could be something more. Something better. Why fight it?”

Sylvester’s chest tightened as her words sank in. She wasn’t wrong, was she? The villagers had laughed at him, mocked him, rejected him. Even his attempts at finding some crafts he could do had been met with failure after failure. What was he clinging to out there? Pride? The faint hope that things might someday change?

He lowered his gaze, his hands curling into the soft moss beneath him. “I’d miss my dad,” he whispered, the words barely audible.

The beast lowered her massive head, her warm breath washing over him as she spoke. “A natural feeling,” she said gently. “But even he would understand, wouldn’t he? The world out there is harsh, unforgiving. Here, you could finally have peace.”

Sylvester’s thoughts churned, his mind caught in a storm of doubt and fear. The fog was thicker now, clouding his judgment, and he couldn’t tell if the warmth spreading through his chest was from her words or the strange magic that permeated the air.

He clutched at the remnants of his resolve, trying to remember why he’d even come here in the first place. But the memory felt distant, like a dream he’d half-forgotten.

“Maybe…” he murmured, his voice trailing off.

She eyed him, her body shifting slightly, casual power embodied in a graceful frame. Her presence caught him. His mind and body freezing for a moment as his breathing hitched and slowed. 

“Don’t think about it little one, it's not important. Curl up, rest and I’ll find you something to eat.”

Sylvester hesitated, the storm inside him roaring against the soothing pull of her words. It was wrong to feel this way, wasn’t it? To let go, to surrender to her care. But the warmth of her presence, the safety of the nest, and the hum of the ruins’ magic dulled the sharp edges of his resistance.

He closed his eyes, trying to remember his father’s face, his voice. The way he’d ruffle Sylvester’s hair after a hard day. Those moments felt fragile now, like delicate glass slipping through his fingers. The beast’s words wrapped around him, gentle yet insidious, eroding his resolve.

He opened his eyes, staring down at his hands. They didn’t feel like his anymore—smaller, softer, the calluses he’d once been proud of smoothed away. Everything about him was changing, and with it, his sense of self. The thought terrified him, but exhaustion dulled his fear. The constant struggle, the fight to hold on to who he was—it was so tiring.

The beast’s paw brushed against his shoulder, heavy but comforting. “That’s it,” she murmured, her voice rich and velvety. “Just let it go. You’ve carried so much for so long, little one. You deserve to rest.”

He wanted to argue, to push back, but his words caught in his throat. What was left to fight for? The villagers had hated him, mocked him. Even if he managed to escape this place, what awaited him out there? Another lonely, miserable existence?

The beast shifted closer, her warmth enveloping him. “You don’t have to decide now,” she said softly. “Just rest, kitten. Everything else can wait.”

Sylvester let out a shaky breath, his body slumping against her. The moss beneath him was soft, the air around him heavy and warm. He closed his eyes, the fog in his mind thickening, smothering his thoughts. For the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn’t cold, or hungry, or afraid.

Maybe it wasn’t so bad to let go—just for a little while. Just to rest.

As his breathing evened out, the beast’s low purr rumbled through the nest. Her golden eyes gleamed with satisfaction as she watched him drift off. “Good kitten,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’re starting to understand.”

He stopped really noticing as days passed, lucidity was harder and harder to grasp and when he did it was mostly moments of lucid confusion. As he struggled to process everything. It was quite some time later, he didn’t know exactly how long but there was a chill in the air and the wind carried a nip that spoke of approaching winter. A far cry from the high summer that it had been when he left home. 

Oddly though the chill didn’t bother him much anymore, and when he caught sight of himself in a puddle ‘he’ understood why. A shock of thick fur that mirrored the felines own covered ‘his’ body, keeping the former human warm, for that's what he was, formerly human. Nobody would look at this creature and describe it as such. More than that nobody would look at this creature and call it a ‘man’ either. He, or rather she had become a woman in truth, well not even a woman, just a female kitten, when his other set of arms grew in he'd be just like the creature who took him in.

The reflection in the puddle stared back, unrecognizable and foreign. Sylvester—or what had once been Sylvester—leaned closer, the faint ripples of the water distorting the image but not enough to hide the truth. Thick fur covered every inch of her body now, sleek and shimmering in the pale light of the ruins. Her face was softer, feline in its features, with delicate whiskers sprouting from her cheeks and golden eyes that mirrored those of the beast who had claimed her. Little triangular ears twitched atop her head flicking towards any sound that caught their attention.

Her breath caught as she raised a trembling hand—no, not a hand. A paw. Fingers remained, but they were tipped with sharp claws, and the pads on her palm felt oddly sensitive against the cool air. The other hand followed, tracing the curve of her now-slimmer waist, the subtle swell of her hips, and the undeniable reality of her changed form. She swallowed hard, her throat tight. She wasn’t just different—she wasn’t human anymore.

The beast’s voice echoed in her mind, smug and ever-present. “You’re growing beautifully, little one. Soon, you’ll see the world as I do.”

Sylvester—or whatever she was now—shook her head violently, trying to dispel the fog that clung to her thoughts. This isn’t me. This isn’t real. But the evidence was undeniable, reflected in the puddle and felt in every movement of her transformed body. Even her voice, when she whispered, was soft and lilting, the last vestiges of her old self slipping further away.

“This isn’t happening,” she murmured, though the words felt hollow. Her reflection rippled as a tear fell into the puddle, distorting the unfamiliar face staring back.

A low purr rumbled behind her, and she spun around to see the beast lounging nearby, her massive form sprawled lazily on the moss-covered stones. The beast’s golden eyes glimmered with satisfaction as they roved over Sylvester’s altered form.

“Look at you,” the beast cooed, her voice dripping with pride. “You’re nearly perfect now. A kitten ready to grow into something magnificent. Doesn’t it feel right?”

Sylvester wanted to scream, to argue, but the words wouldn’t come. The warmth of the beast’s presence, the hum of magic in the air, and the strange comfort of her new body all conspired to sap her strength. She felt a flicker of anger, a spark of defiance, but it was quickly smothered by the fog that wrapped around her thoughts like a shroud.

“I didn’t ask for this,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

The beast’s expression softened, and she rose gracefully, padding closer until she loomed over Sylvester. She lowered her massive head, her golden eyes locking onto Sylvester’s own. “No, little one. You didn’t. But the world out there never asked if you wanted to be weak, did it? Never gave you a choice. Here, I’m giving you something better—a chance to belong, to be strong, to matter.”

Sylvester’s claws dug into the moss beneath her, a futile attempt to ground herself. “I don’t want to be… like you.”

The beast chuckled, a deep, resonant sound that made Sylvester’s fur bristle. “You already are, little one. The only question is whether you’ll accept it or keep clinging to a past that only brought you pain.”

Sylvester’s mind raced, torn between the faint memories of her human life and the undeniable reality of her new existence. The villagers had rejected her, mocked her, cast her aside. Her father had loved her, yes, but even he couldn’t shield her from the cruelty of the world. And now? Now she was something else entirely, something that might finally be more than the weak, scorned boy she had been.

But at what cost?

She looked up at the beast, her voice shaky but firm. “What happens if I say no? If I leave?”

The beast’s expression darkened slightly, her tail flicking behind her. “You won’t survive out there, not like this. The ruins will claim you, or the jungle, or worse. And even if you made it back to the world of humans, what then? They’d see you as a monster. They’d hunt you, fear you, reject you—just as they always have.”

Sylvester’s chest tightened, her breath coming in shallow gasps. The beast wasn’t wrong, was she? Even if she somehow escaped, there was no going back to her old life. Her father might mourn her, but the rest of the village would see her as a threat, a freak. She was trapped, caught between a world that hated her and a new existence she didn’t want.

The beast stepped closer, her massive paw resting gently on Sylvester’s shoulder. “Stay, little one. Let go of the pain, the struggle. You don’t have to fight anymore.”

Sylvester closed her eyes, her thoughts a tangled mess of fear, anger, and despair. The fog was thicker now, pressing down on her mind, and she felt herself sinking into it, the warmth of the beast’s presence pulling her in.

The realization struck Sylvester like a bolt of lightning, her heart fluttered, like it wanted to start hammering in her chest. She had been so caught up in the sight of her reflection, the shock of fur and claws and alien curves, that she hadn’t even noticed the quieter, insidious changes worming their way into her thoughts. She. When had she started thinking of herself that way? The notion should have terrified her, should have filled her with dread, but instead, it hung in her mind like a distant echo—faint and hollow., she just didn’t care that much.

Her breath quickened, and she clung to the fragile threads of her former self, desperate to hold on. This isn’t me. I’m Sylvester. I’m— Her thoughts faltered as the warmth of the beast’s presence washed over her again, soft and all-encompassing, like a cocoon. It smoothed the edges of her panic, dulled the sharpness of her fear. Somewhere, deep in the haze, she knew she should fight against it. But the more she tried to focus, the more the fog swallowed her whole.

The beast rumbled approvingly, the sound vibrating through the air like a lullaby. “Good, little one. Let it happen. You’ll see—it’s better this way.”

Sylvester’s protest died in her throat, her body growing heavy, her mind sluggish. She blinked slowly, her surroundings blurring at the edges. Thoughts of who she had been—of her life, her name, her humanity—slipped further and further out of reach, as though they were nothing more than fleeting dreams. Her claws flexed against the mossy ground, and she felt an odd surge of satisfaction at the sensation. The cool earth, the faint scent of prey in the wind, the steady pulse of life all around her—it was intoxicating.

The beast nudged her gently with her nose, a low purr rumbling in her chest. “You’re so close now. Stop clinging to what was. You’ll be happier when you let it go.”

A small, traitorous part of her agreed. The old Sylvester had been weak, broken, unwanted. But here, like this, she felt strong, alive. The beast’s approval was warm and steady, a balm against the ache of loneliness she hadn’t even realized she’d been carrying. Why fight it? What was the point? She shook her head, but the motion lacked conviction. Her claws dug deeper into the ground, and she let out a low, involuntary growl.

The beast chuckled, her voice rich with amusement. “There it is. That’s what you are, little one. Not a human. Not a boy. Just a kitten learning to stretch her claws.”

Sylvester—no, that name didn’t feel right anymore—rolled onto her side, the movement fluid and instinctive. The moss beneath her fur felt wonderful, and she stretched lazily, her tail swishing behind her. Wait—tail? She caught sight of it flicking out of the corner of her eye, and instead of panic, she felt a strange glee. It twitched when she willed it, responding as naturally as if it had always been there. A playful urge bubbled up in her chest, and she pounced at it, tumbling over herself in a flurry of paws and fur.

The beast watched, her expression indulgent. “Good. Play, explore. There’s nothing left to fear here.”

The fog grew thicker, wrapping around her mind like a soft blanket. Her old life, her old name—they were distant, blurry things that no longer mattered. She batted at a loose twig, her claws catching it easily, and she let out a delighted chirp. The sound startled her for a moment, but only a moment. It felt right, just like the soft purring that rumbled in her throat when the beast nuzzled her side.

“Come now,” the beast said, rising to her full, majestic height. “Let’s hunt. I’ll show you what it means to truly live.”

The kitten—yes, that was what she was now, wasn’t it?—bounded after the beast without hesitation, her paws light against the ground. Her world had narrowed to the present, to the thrill of the chase and the warmth of her new mother’s presence. Her old life was a shadow, forgotten and unimportant, and her name... what had it been again? It didn’t matter. She wasn’t Sylvester anymore. She was a kitten, a creature of fur and claws and instinct, and she belonged here.

The beast glanced back at her with a satisfied smile. “That’s my girl,” she said, her voice brimming with pride.

The kitten’s heart swelled at the praise, and she purred louder, her golden eyes gleaming with excitement. The hunt awaited, and for the first time in her new life, she felt truly, undeniably free.