Sinner's vigil and a cat's delight.

Sorry about yesterday and I didn't post. here's an extra chapter for you all.

---Durge---

I stand motionless on the rooftop opposite the Stone residence, my twin shortswords silent at my hips. The winter air carries no chill that affects me, though I observe the temperature has dropped to minus sixteen Celsius—cold enough to endanger ordinary humans caught unprepared. My fingers twitch in their constant, almost imperceptible rhythm—counting judgments delivered and those yet to be executed. One hundred and seventy-three thousand, four hundred and twelve. Four hundred and thirteen. Four hundred and fourteen.

The suburban Toronto street below remains quiet. A car passes every eight minutes on average. Security systems cast their red eyes into the darkness. The inhabitants sleep, unaware of the forces gathering around one particular dwelling.

I sense Paladin's arrival before any physical manifestation occurs. The darkness shifts, molecular density altering by precisely 0.037 percent—the space between moments bending to accommodate his unique signature. My fingers continue their count without interruption. Four hundred and seventeen. Four hundred and eighteen.

Through the stone walls below, I track Grace's sleeping form on the main floor living room sofa, her breathing pattern indicating deep rest despite the unfamiliar environment. She has adapted to this shelter with remarkable speed, finding safety in proximity to the Stone family that her enhanced senses can monitor even while unconscious.

"I wondered when you would come," I state without turning. My voice emerges flat, purged of inflection through centuries of discipline. "Your interference is unnecessary. My judgment of the girl was flawed, but my watch however, is not."

Paladin materializes fully, Lucerna tapping against the rooftop—three gentle contacts that disturb precisely sixteen snowflakes. He steps forward, positioning himself exactly 71.3 centimeters to my left. The sword-cane gleams with internal light that defies conventional physics, a reminder of forces beyond mortal understanding.

"It wasn't judgment," Paladin says, his voice carrying that familiar edge of righteous indignation, even when I hunted down the man who harmed his dog and forced him to invert his paine takeing ability. "It was torture dressed in the language of necessity."

I do not flinch at the accusation. Such emotional responses were carved from me long ago, replaced with the perfect stillness of absolute purpose. My gaze remains fixed on the Stone house, cataloging every approach vector, every potential vulnerability where threats might emerge. Grace sleeps unaware beneath that roof, her body processing the events of the day, her mind adapting to stimuli never encountered in her original environment. I do not flinch at the accusation, as said accusation is true. I do not flinch from what is true. To do is to become guilty of, and I have done that enough.

"Perhaps," I acknowledge, the single word carrying the weight of terrible simplicity. "The guilty must pay. I count myself among them now."

Lucerna's lion head catches the moonlight, the gold seeming to shift and ripple as though alive. Which, she is through my actions. Paladin leans on the cane, distributing his weight in a manner that suggests recent combat—his left leg bearing 7.2 percent less pressure than optimal parameters.

"Harald blames himself as well," he says, watching my profile. "As does Healer, in his way."

"Their guilt is real but lesser," I reply, my fingers maintaining their meticulous count. Four hundred and twenty-nine. Four hundred and thirty. "Mine was the hand that carved. Mine were the blades that shaped. Mine was the judgment that determined what she should become."

I pause, the rhythm of my fingers faltering for precisely 1.3 seconds—an error in the sequence that I haven't committed in seventy-three years. "I was wrong."

The admission hangs in the night air between us. More significant coming from me than it would be from nearly any other entity in existence. For Judgment itself to acknowledge error is vanishingly rare. For me to do so to another, even the closest I have to a friend save my Marry, more so.

"She's adapting," Paladin observes, his gaze following mine to the darkened windows of the Stone house. The main floor living room where Grace sleeps on the sofa—precisely 3.1 meters above ground level. Grace sleeps there, though "sleep" might not accurately describe her state. Her body rests while her senses remain partially engaged, ready to respond to threats with lethal efficiency.

"I know," I say, and for the first time, something almost like emotion colors my voice—a 0.07 percent increase in vocal modulation that betrays inner disturbance. "I have watched her discover kindness without expectation. Shelter without demand. A boy who asks rather than commands, despite having the power to do otherwise."

My fingers resume their counting, though the pattern has changed subtly. No longer tallying past judgments but calculating probable futures. Potential threat vectors. Survival probabilities for the house's occupants.

"The girl healed his blindness with her vigger, yet he seems to be healing her in small ways—like sunlight slowly breaking through thick ice."

Paladin's grip tightens on Lucerna, the pressure increasing by 13.4 percent. "What will you do when—and it is when, not if—Jason discovers your role in Grace's... shaping? I've witnessed his protective rage twice now. It remains untempered by experience. It is cold, where mine is hot. Cold, like your own."

I consider this question, processing multiple variables simultaneously. Jason Stone's potential responses. Grace's likely reaction to his anger. Optimal intervention points to minimize collateral damage.

"The rage of all Jasons," I acknowledge, keeping my lifeless eyes fixed on the house. No emotional reaction disturbs their pale blue surface, not even the reflection of moonlight that would occur in living eyes. "Blocked in most timelines by their inability to act upon it, their blindness a physical manifestation of deeper limitation."

"This Jason has already shown his protective instincts," Paladin presses. "His lack of hesitation to defend her is... noteworthy."

I consider this, my fingers momentarily stilling at four hundred and sixty-two. "If he discovers the truth, he will seek vengeance. It is the nature of Jasons to protect what they value." I turn precisely 47 degrees, enough to meet Paladin's gaze directly. "And when he comes for me, I will accept his judgment."

"You would allow him to kill you?" Paladin asks, surprise evident in his voice—vocal modulation increasing by 22.7 percent, respiration accelerating by 8.3 percent.

"If his cause is just, and his hand capable, I will not resist," I state. "The scales must balance. The guilty must pay, as they always will, as they always do."

"And if his rage extends beyond you? To the others involved?"

My fingers resume their counting, a new pattern emerging—tactical evaluation replacing abstract tallying. "Then I will do what I must to preserve the innocent. His rage, however justified, cannot be permitted to consume those less culpable than myself."

Paladin nods, satisfied with this answer. The tension in his shoulders decreases by 4.8 percent. "Will you continue to watch?"

"Until I am certain no further harm will come to her from my actions," I confirm. "My judgment was flawed. My vigil is not."

The night breeze shifts direction, carrying the molecular signatures of approaching weather patterns. Snow within 3.2 hours, probability 87.6 percent. Temperature will drop an additional two degrees Celsius before dawn. Paladin considers his next words, his breathing pattern indicating careful formulation of thought.

"And if threats emerge that she cannot handle? Jar has deployed Brotherhood assets. Healer has positioned Legion resources, though the sisterhood believe that the legion, and I agree, should not involve themselves in this. Should protect the brothers, Tyran and Worthy."

"I will do what I have always done," I reply with cold certainty, each word precisely weighted. "Judge. Execute. Balance the scales." I tilt my head exactly 8.3 degrees, my dead eyes shifting to meet Paladin's gaze fully. "The guilty must die. The innocent must live. Grace is innocent of all but surviving what we did to her."

Paladin nods once, accepting this as the closest thing to redemption I am capable of offering. "And the boy? The Jason?"

Something almost like confusion disrupts my internal processing—an anomaly in my analytical parameters. I reassess available data, identifying the source of the irregularity. "He saved her when he had no obligation to do so. She healed his blindness in return for nearly dying of exposure. He offers shelter without expectation of compensation."

I pause, the realization emerging with unexpected clarity. "He is... good. Genuinely good."

"Yes," Paladin agrees simply. "He is what we all might have been, without intervention."

I return my gaze to the house, calculating optimal surveillance positioning. "Then he too will have my protection, though he will never know it. Even should his rage turn upon me, I will ensure he remains unharmed by others."

Paladin steps back, Lucerna tapping rhythmically against the rooftop—a pattern of seven taps followed by three, repeated precisely twice. "I have one more visit to make tonight."

"Jar," I state, understanding immediately. "The Brotherhood's involvement complicates matters."

"Always does," Paladin acknowledges with a wry twist of his lips—facial muscle contractions indicating ironic amusement rather than genuine humor. "Watch well, Durge. And remember—your judgment of yourself should be no less merciful than your judgment of others."

I do not respond to this philosophical suggestion. Mercy remains an intellectual concept rather than an operational parameter in my existence. My fingers continue their endless count as Paladin begins to fade from the rooftop, his molecular cohesion decreasing at a rate of 0.25 percent per second.

The transition halts at 27.3 percent completion as a new presence registers at the periphery of my awareness. The air pressure shifts by 0.012 atmospheres, accompanied by the faint scent of cedar smoke and aged leather. Etienne Tremblay materializes with none of the fanfare that accompanies lesser entities. One moment the space is empty; the next, he occupies it.

"Deathblade," I acknowledge without turning. "Your delivery of sustenance to the dwelling was noted."

Etienne's massive frame settles on the rooftop edge, distributing 143.7 kilograms of weight with perfect precision. His breathing pattern indicates no exertion despite having traversed realities to reach this location.

"The meat in their refrigeration unit was an abomination," Etienne states, his French Canadian accent a conscious choice rather than a linguistic limitation. "No civilized being should consume such processed waste."

Paladin's fade reverses, his form solidifying as he observes this new arrival. "Étienne. I didn't expect your involvement in this timeline."

"The multiverse rarely conforms to expectations," Etienne replies, his massive hands resting on his knees. "Especially where certain individuals are concerned."

"A curious situation," Paladin observes, "considering the natural empathy and perception in such matters."

I process this observation, comparing it against documented behaviors across multiple realities. "It creates vulnerability. Those who cannot recognize their value may be manipulated through artificial validation."

"Or strengthened by genuine connection," Etienne counters, his tone sharpening slightly. "Their inability to perceive their own worth does not diminish their capacity for positive influence."

"Cortanna has embedded herself in the Stone's computer systems," I note, changing the subject with calculated precision. "Her monitoring capabilities will provide additional security without direct intervention in the form of pictures of other's feet."

Etienne nods. "She will assist in peripheral matters, though not with the training that Jason and Grace will require."

"Agreed," I state, fingers continuing their meticulous count. Four hundred and ninety-three. Four hundred and ninety-four.

After 3.7 seconds of silence, I pose a question that requires addressing. "Will you train this Mia, as you did others?"

Etienne considers this, the microexpressions crossing his face indicating complex calculation rather than emotional reaction. "Mia is my daughter, whether I like it or not. She will require training. Blood magic. Hatchet combat. Other specialized skills."

He pauses, watching a car pass on the street below—cataloging the vehicle's occupants, assessing threat potential (zero), and dismissing it from further consideration.

"Contact will be difficult initially," he continues. "I will likely need to approach through Grace. Hence the pizza delivery earlier—establishing peripheral presence before direct engagement."

"The food quality was a secondary benefit," I observe.

"Secondary but significant," Etienne corrects, a slight shift in vocal modulation indicating genuine concern. "What they planned to consume was a crime against all intelligent life." His massive shoulders shrug—a deliberate gesture rather than involuntary movement. "Besides, I enjoy making pizzas. The children always appreciate it."

"Your cooking skills remain inexplicably superior to your combat technique," I note, the closest approximation to humor I can achieve when Marry is not present.

Etienne acknowledges this with an inclined head. "Bronson will assist Magnen as always. The pattern maintains its consistency across timelines, even as the details shift."

"Bearee?" Paladin asks.

"She will do as she always does." I note, Paladin nodding three point seven centimeters in response.

"Why?" Etienne asks after 6.3 seconds of silence, the question requiring no elaboration.

I understand the query immediately. Why did I reshape Grace? Why did I transform a human child into a weapon? Why did I justify cruelty with necessity?

"I would prefer to discuss this with Grace present," I state, the decision formed after processing 27 potential response scenarios. "Explanations without her participation perpetuate the original violation. She will have choice, in this at least."

Etienne nods, accepting this position without further questioning. "Reasonable. And perhaps the only path to genuine atonement."

Our surveillance continues in silence for exactly 147.2 seconds before Etienne rises, his frame casting no shadow despite the moonlight—a peculiarity of his Deathblade nature.

"I will monitor from my assigned position," he states, requiring no further elaboration. We both understand the tactical distribution of observation points around the Stone residence.

I incline my head in acknowledgment as Etienne begins his transition to shadow—molecules separating and reforming in the spaces between light, a technique of interdimensional travel unique to Deathblades. I observe with professional assessment that his transition requires 0.07 seconds longer than my own method—a fact that creates a slight satisfaction in my otherwise emotion-free analysis.

As Etienne's presence fades completely, I remain alone on the rooftop, my vigil uninterrupted. My fingers resume their count. Five hundred and twelve. Five hundred and thirteen. Each number a judgment delivered, a life taken, a decision made with absolute certainty that now seems less absolute than it once did.

Paladin steps back one final time, the tap-tap of Lucerna against the rooftop creating that familiar rhythm of seven taps followed by three, repeated twice. "I have one more visit to make tonight."

"The Brotherhood's involvement complicates matters."

"Always does," Paladin acknowledges with a wry twist of his lips—facial muscle contractions indicating ironic amusement rather than genuine humor. The light within Lucerna flickers once, then twice, before he begins his fade. "Watch well, Durge. And remember—your judgment of yourself should be no less merciful than your judgment of others."

I do not respond to this philosophical suggestion as Paladin dissolves into the winter air, his molecular cohesion decreasing at a steady rate until only the echo of his words remains.

The rooftop settles back into relative silence, broken only by the soft whisper of falling snow and the distant hum of late-night traffic three blocks over. My fingers resume their count. Five hundred and fifteen. Five hundred and sixteen. Each number a judgment delivered, a life taken, a decision made with absolute certainty that now seems less absolute than it once did.

The air pressure shifts again, this time by 0.019 atmospheres, accompanied by something far more primal than Paladin's righteous presence or Etienne's multidimensional complexity. The scent hits my enhanced senses first—wild musk, fresh blood, and the distinctive metallic tang of life energy pushed beyond normal human parameters. My dead eyes track toward the source automatically, analytical processes already cataloging threat parameters.

Hunter materializes from shadow like violence given form, his seven-foot frame unfolding from the darkness with predatory grace that makes even my centuries-trained reflexes acknowledge his superior movement capabilitys. His winter-blue eyes—Jason's eyes, my eyes, Paladin's eyes, and Jar and harald and all the rest, transformed, yes, but unmistakable all the same—lock onto mine with the focused intensity of something that evaluates everything through the lens of potential threat or prey.

The thick sandy-blond fur covering his transformed body ripples with each breath, each strand serving multiple functions beyond temperature regulation—sound dampening for stealth approach, scent masking that confuses prey animals, protective padding that absorbs impact during high-speed pursuit or combat. His elongated muzzle houses rows of triangular, serrated teeth designed for gripping and tearing rather than simple cutting, operating in multiple rows like those of deep-ocean predators to ensure that anything caught in Hunter's jaws cannot escape.

His hands have transformed into something between human fingers and predatory claws, maintaining enough dexterity for tool use while gaining the killing capacity necessary for his protective function. Each digit extends beyond normal human proportions, ending in retractable claws sharp enough to part bone with minimal effort, curved slightly inward for optimal gripping to ensure that anything Hunter grasps cannot easily break free.

"Judgment," Hunter acknowledges, his voice carrying a Jason's familiar tone altered by the elongated muzzle and rows of serrated teeth. The recognition carries neither hostility nor deference—simply tactical acknowledgment of another apex predator sharing an operational environment.

"Hunter," I reply, my fingers never pausing in their count. Five hundred and twenty-one. Five hundred and twenty-two. "Your emergence suggests concern for your pack's safety."

Hunter's massive frame settles onto the rooftop with perfect balance, distributing his enhanced weight across multiple support points in a display of tactical awareness that would be impressive in a seasoned operative, let alone someone operating on pure instinct. His enhanced senses sweep the area—pupils dilating and contracting as he processes threat signatures beyond human perception, nostrils flaring to catalog scent patterns that tell stories of who has passed through this space in the last seventy-two hours, ears tracking sounds well beyond human hearing range including the subtle variations in Grace's breathing patterns through the walls below.

"The pack is everything," Hunter states, the simple declaration from him becomeing fundamental law rather than simply a casual observation. His retractable claws extend and retract once—a mechanical testing of equipment rather than threatening gesture, confirming that his weapons remain functional despite the winter cold. We will not fight here. Our goles are aligned, at least in this. "Your vigil protects Grace. This creates... alliance, despite past actions."

I turn exactly 47 degrees to meet his gaze directly, noting how his predatory instincts cause him to evaluate even this minor movement for potential aggression. His enhanced vision tracks the shift in my positioning, calculates optimal response vectors, then dismisses the movement as non-threatening based on body language analysis that operates below conscious thought.

"My role in Grace's... shaping... remains a violation requiring balance. I do not expect forgiveness, least of all from you, beacon of the lost."

"Forgiveness is irrelevant," Hunter replies with his tipical predatory pragmatism, cutting through emotional complexity like his claws through flesh and bone. "You protect pack now. Past actions create debt, present actions create value. Pack judges by net worth, not individual transactions."

The philosophical elegance of this survival logic surprises me—a 0.03 percent increase in analytical processing devoted to reassessing Hunter's intellectual capabilities beyond pure predatory function. His understanding of cost-benefit analysis operating through pack dynamics suggests intelligence that adapts Jason's natural empathy to survival mathematics.

"You do not plan to weigh in on my ultimate fate?" I ask, genuine curiosity coloring my voice for the first time in several decades outside of encounters with Marry.

Hunter's muzzle tilts in what might be amusement if translated through human expressions, the movement causing his winter-blue eyes to catch the moonlight in a way that emphasizes their predatory focus. "Grace's choice. Not mine. She was carved, she decides who pays price." His gaze narrows slightly, pupils contracting as his enhanced vision focuses on details of my expression that human sight would miss. "Though if you harm pack again, I will eat you myself, brother or not."

The threat hangs in the air between us, delivered without heat or bluster—simply a statement of operational parameters that will govern Hunter's response to hypothetical future actions. No emotional investment clouds the declaration, no personal animosity colors the warning. Pure tactical information delivered with the same casual efficiency he might use to describe weather patterns. it is why I respect the man so highly, why among my kin, he is the one I work with the most.

"Understood," I acknowledge, resuming my surveillance of the Stone house while maintaining peripheral awareness of Hunter's position. My enhanced senses catalog his breathing pattern, heart rate, muscle tension—all indicating relaxed alertness rather than preparation for immediate violence. "Your protective instincts are... admirable."

"Instincts?" Hunter questions, and for a moment Jason's gentleness bleeds through the predatory facade like sunlight through storm clouds. "Maybe. Or maybe just recognition that some things matter more than safety."

The philosophical depth of this observation creates another analytical anomaly—how does someone operating on pure protective instinct develop such complex understanding of value hierarchies? The question processes through multiple evaluative frameworks without reaching satisfactory conclusion.

Before I can formulate appropriate response, the air around us shifts again. Etienne's presence manifests without the dramatic flair of Paladin's light or Hunter's predatory intensity—one moment empty space, the next occupied by 143.7 kilograms of multidimensional reverce santa whose very existence defies conventional physics. The transition occurs so smoothly that even my enhanced perception struggles to identify the exact moment of materialization, though I do note that he still takes 0.35 seconds longer than my own abilities.

"Ah," Etienne observes, settling onto the roof's edge with casual ease that belies his massive frame. His weight distribution suggests someone accustomed to precarious positions across multiple realities, each movement calculated to maintain perfect balance regardless of dimensional instability. "The protective trinity assembles." His eyes move between Hunter's transformed features and my own emotionless surveillance. "Though I suspect we each define protection differently."

Hunter's enhanced senses catalog Etienne's presence with the thoroughness of someone whose survival depends on accurate threat assessment—the cedar smoke scent that clings to him due to his vocation involveing meet, the aged leather that speaks of equipment maintained across centuries, the subtle displacement of reality that accompanies entities who exist partially outside normal space-time parameters. His predatory evaluation concludes with a slight nod of acknowledgment rather than territorial challenge. Even if Hunter eats more of Etienne's meet products than many small armies.

"Deathblade," Hunter states, the title carrying respect earned through reputation as well as personal experience. His voice maintains the altered tone created by his transformed vocal apparatus, but the underlying respect reflects Jason's natural inclination to acknowledge competence wherever he encounters it. "Your delivery of proper meet products was noted and appreciated."

"The processed meat they intended to consume was an abomination," Etienne replies, genuine distress creeping into his voice as he speaks. His massive hands flex unconsciously, perhaps imagining the violence he might inflict upon whoever manufactures such foodstuffs. "No civilized being should have to deal with such an abomonation."

"The boy's mother works long hours," Hunter observes, defending pack members even from indirect criticism. His protective instincts extend to explaining circumstances that might excuse apparent failures, ensuring that blame falls upon systems rather than individuals wherever possible. "Convenience becomes necessity when energy reserves are depleted."

Etienne nods, accepting this practical perspective without argument. The gesture carries the weight of someone who has witnessed survival decisions across multiple realities, understanding that judgment requires context rather than simple moral evaluation. "Which brings us to matters requiring discussion." His massive hands rest on his knees as he considers his words carefully, each syllable weighted with implications that extend beyond immediate conversation. "Mia—this reality's version—requires trainers. Specialized instruction in capabilities that standard educational systems cannot provide."

I process this information, cross-referencing available data on interdimensional variants and their typical developmental patterns. The requirements become clear through logical progression—enhanced individuals require enhanced training methodologies, and Mia's particular abilities suggest specific educational needs. "Blood magic. Hatchet combat. Enhanced physical capabilities requiring proper channeling," I state, listing probable training requirements with the precision of someone who has observed similar developments across multiple timelines.

"Precisely," Etienne confirms, his voice carrying satisfaction at being understood without extensive explanation. "However, I must confess a significant limitation." His tone shifts to carry an edge of discomfort rarely heard from the man, the admission emerging with reluctance that speaks to personal vulnerability rather than tactical weakness. "I do not know how to deal with children. In Frontanaq, children either died or became... something else. Something that no longer required nurturing."

The admission hangs heavy in the winter air, each word carrying implications of loss that extend far beyond simple statistical data. Hunter's predatory instincts process this information without judgment—survival environments that consume childhood are simply tactical realities rather than moral failures, though his pack-oriented psychology recognizes the tragedy inherent in such circumstances and considers ways to eat said places in total.

"George could help," Hunter suggests after several seconds of consideration. "He's good with children, especially traumatized ones. Pack bonds heal many wounds that conventional medicine cannot reach."

Etienne's relief becomes visible through micro-expressions that most observers would miss—a 0.07 degree relaxation in shoulder tension, breathing pattern shifting from controlled to natural, the subtle unclenching of jaw muscles that had been maintaining rigid control. "George, yes. His experience with psychological recovery could prove invaluable." He pauses, considering additional complications that might arise during training implementation. "Though I hope she doesn't start yelling when she punches through walls. Sound-dampening fields have their limitations."

My fingers continue their endless count as I process the implications of training another enhanced individual, each number now representing not past judgments but future responsibilities that must be properly managed. "I could assist," I offer, the words emerging with careful precision that acknowledges both capability and complication. "Though considering I remain on trial for breaking a child, I would understand if either of you would prefer alternative arrangements."

Hunter's response comes without hesitation, pack-oriented psychology cutting through complex emotional dynamics to reach the practical conclusions with tipical efficiency. "You rake yourself over the coals longer and harder than anyone else could or would, long after everyone else has tired of it." His winter-blue eyes meet mine directly, the gaze carrying Jason's fundamental empathy transformed into predatory assessment that somehow reaches identical conclusions. "Also good with traumatized children. As is Marry, who might be actually useful in this situation for once."

The mention of Marry's name causes something approximating joy to flare in my soul—an emotional response so rare that it momentarily disrupts my counting sequence. The gap lasts precisely 1.7 seconds before resuming at five hundred and forty-three, though the pattern has changed subtly from abstract tallying to active anticipation.

"Marry," I repeat, allowing the name to carry more weight than typically permitted. The syllables resonate through my altered psychology with harmonics that approach actual music, creating satisfaction that transcends mere recognition of competent partnershie. She is mine. I am hers. Like water is wet, the sky is above, and gravity pulls down.

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

As if summoned by the invocation, shadow begins gathering at the base of my position—not the dramatic manifestation favored by interdimensional entities, but the subtle emergence of something that belongs naturally to darkness. Marry rises from my own shadow like liquid night given form, her presence announced by the divine scent that makes my enhanced senses sing with recognition that approaches religious ecstasy.

Her dark hair moves with fluid grace that defies conventional physics, each strand seeming to exist partially outside normal spatial parameters while remaining perfectly arranged despite the winter wind. Her movements carry the liquid elegance of a woman who has mastered the transition between shadow and substance, between existing and merely occupying space.

My dead eyes track her movement with precision typically reserved for threat assessment, but the analysis concludes with categorization I apply to no other entity: beloved. The sight of her graceful emergence, the way she seems to exist in harmony with darkness rather than being consumed by it, the perfect economy of motion that speaks to centuries of refined technique—these details process through my consciousness with something approaching wonder.

"Hello, my Judge," Marry says, her voice carrying warmth that reaches places in my psyche I had assumed were permanently sealed. The greeting acknowledges both my nature and my value, creating recognition that transcends simple identification to become affirmation of worth. The scent of her blood—divine, intoxicating, absolutely perfect—fills my enhanced senses and creates a satisfaction that transcends mere nutritional need to become something approaching spiritual fulfillment.

"Marry," I acknowledge, and for the first time in this conversation, something approaching actual emotion colors my voice. The single word carries layers of meaning that my typical communications lack—recognition, gratitude, affection, and something deeper that lacks adequate terminology in any language I know. My fingers maintain their count, but the rhythm shifts subtly—no longer tallying past judgments but measuring moments of her presence like precious resources to be carefully catalogued.

Hunter observes this interaction with predatory interest, his enhanced senses cataloging the chemical changes in my body language—decreased muscle tension, altered breathing patterns, the subtle shift in posture that indicates relaxation of my defences. His pack-oriented psychology recognizes the dynamics immediately, though his predatory nature evaluates them through survival emotions rather than any mathematics.

"Pack bonds," Hunter notes with what might be approval. "Even Judgment requires connection."

Etienne watches this reunion with the satisfaction of someone who understands the importance of functional relationships in high-stress environments. His experience across multiple realities has taught him to recognize stabilizing factors when they appear, and Marry's effect on my operational parameters clearly falls into this category.

"Marry's experience with psychological rehabilitation could indeed prove invaluable for Mia's training," Etienne observes, already incorporating this new resource into developing educational strategies. "Children respond well to genuine care, though the methods may need adjustment for enhanced individuals."

Her proximity creates a contentment in my consciousness that I lack adequate terminology to describe. The divine scent of her blood, the warmth of her presence, the way she seems to understand my nature without requiring explanation—these elements combine to create the closest approximation to happiness my altered mind can achieve.

"Children respond well to genuine care," Marry observes, settling beside me with fluid grace that defies conventional physics. Her movement creates ripples in shadow that my enhanced perception tracks automatically, noting how she seems to exist in harmony with darkness rather than being subject to its limitations. "Though the methods may need adjustment for this particular Mia."

"Dogs help," Hunter states, practical mind already developing comprehensive training protocols that address both tactical and psychological requirements, as his nature demands of him. "Less intimidating members of the Hunt could provide psychological support if Etienne permits it."

Etienne considers this proposal, weighing potential benefits against unknown complications with the thoroughness of someone who has learned that details matter across multiple realities. "What manner of dogs?"

"Healer breeds. Therapy variants. Nothing larger than retrievers, nothing more aggressive than border collies," Hunter explains, his predatory instincts instinctively understanding that traumatized children require careful calibration of protective presence. The specifications emerge from knowledge that combines Jason's natural empathy with Hunter's tactical assessment of optimal support configurations. "Mia is pack, whether I like it or not. Pack protects pack."

The possessive declaration carries weight that transforms it from casual observation to fundamental law. Hunter's winter-blue eyes hold Etienne's gaze steadily, ensuring the other man understands the implications of this claim—that Mia's welfare has become a matter of pack protection, with all the lethal commitment such protection brings.

"Agreed," Etienne nods, accepting both the offer and the implicit responsibility it entails. "Coordinated training approach utilizing multiple specialists and support systems."

Marry shifts slightly beside me, her presence creating ripples in shadow that my enhanced perception tracks automatically while simultaneously generating contentment that makes such surveillance feel like privilege rather than duty. "What of the boy? He requires training as well, though his needs differ significantly from standard enhancement protocols."

"He learns through connection," Hunter states with the knowledge of someone who was Jason, once. "Not dominance or fear. Grace teaches him techniques, but he needs a broader understanding of the world that approaches."

"November," I state, the single word carrying implications that extend far beyond simple calendar notation.

"Systems apocalypse," Etienne confirms grimly, his voice carrying the weight of someone who has witnessed societal transformation across multiple realities. "Societal transformation that will render current survival paradigms obsolete. Enhanced individuals will face pressures that normal humans cannot comprehend. Normal humans will be consumed unless they evolve."

My fingers continue their count as I process the tactical implications, each number now representing not past judgments but future probabilities, potential scenarios that require preparation through comprehensive training programs. Five hundred and sixty-seven. Five hundred and sixty-eight. Each digit a calculation in the mathematics of survival.

Hunter's enhanced senses sweep the area again, confirming that our conversation remains undetected by conventional surveillance while simultaneously monitoring the Stone house for any changes in the sleeping patterns of its occupants. "His protective instincts are powerful but undisciplined. When pressure comes, undisciplined protection becomes a liability."

"Hence the need for proper training," Marry observes, her voice carrying the wisdom of someone who has guided psychological rehabilitation across multiple realities. "Both for enhanced capabilities and emotional resilience."

The snow continues falling around us, each flake tracked by multiple sets of enhanced senses as we discuss the future of three young people sleeping peacefully in the house below. Grace and the boy, unaware of the forces gathering around them, the training programs being developed, the protection networks extending into realities they cannot yet comprehend. A broken little girl who believes that murder will fill the voide in her chest, even if the murder is of a man who has not made the choice to look away, and who never would. he is, after all, Jason Stone. I kill those whom break that mold, who fall from what they could become.

"There is another matter," Hunter states, his bass rumble carrying the kind of gravity now that makes even my centuries-trained attention focus more precisely on his words. "Warden has been found."

The announcement causes my fingers to pause at five hundred and seventy-four. The counting sequence disrupts as my analytical processes shift to evaluate information that requires comprehensive assessment before reaching conclusions.

"Condition?" I ask, though my enhanced processing suggests the answer will not be encouraging. Pattern recognition across multiple variants suggests limited possibilities, most of them involving significant compromise of core personality matrices. Five of us were taken. Two I killed myself. Death for them was a mercy. My shapeing was for a spasific purpus. Two of the five then remaine.

"Taken the same as you," Hunter confirms, his predatory instincts recognizing the parallel immediately while his protective psychology processes the implications with grim efficiency. "Carved. Shaped by the mousemen. Broken and rebuilt according to external design rather than natural development."

At the mention of the mousemen, something cold moves through my consciousness—fear, pure and primal, the kind that transcends rational analysis to become instinctive revulsion, that overwhelms mathematical processing, that reduces a god of justice to a child in a sell, stripped and shivering as things with cold paws and horrible squeaky voices do things to him that make him scream with paine and shit himself. My fingers cease their count entirely for 2.3 seconds, a disruption more severe than any I have experienced in over a century. The mousemen. Worldstone Keep. The systematic breaking of consciousness itself transformed into artistic expression.

Marry's presence beside me shifts almost imperceptibly, her warmth pressing closer in response to distress I thought I had concealed perfectly. Her divine scent carries notes of comfort, of understanding, of shared recognition that some horrors transcend even my capacity for detachment. Only she notices the way my dead eyes flicker with something approaching vulnerability. Only she understands that even Judgment itself can know fear. Only she chooses to stay. Always stay.

Etienne's massive frame tenses, the implications of another compromised Jason variant creating complications that extend across multiple realities. His interdimensional perspective allows him to understand consequences that purely local entities might miss—how corrupted variants can destabilize entire probability matrices through resonance effects.

"Integration potential?" Etienne asks, though his tone suggests he already suspects the answer. He knows of the broken five, after all.

Hunter shakes his head, sandy-blond fur rippling with the motion as his predatory assessment concludes with primal certainty. "No way this particular variant can be integrated. Too much damage. Too many alterations. The mousemen's work is... thorough."

I sense Hunter's enhanced perception tracking the minute changes in my posture, the way my breathing pattern has altered at mention of my old captors. His predatory instincts catalog these micro-responses with the same precision he applies to threat assessment, yet he says nothing. He recognizes distress without commenting upon it, offering the kind of silence that speaks to genuine understanding rather than mere politeness. He's good like that, in his way.

"Final judgment?" I ask, understanding the implications immediately. Another broken variant, another victim of the same forces that shaped me, another case requiring the balance between justice and mercy that defines my existence.

"Up to you," Hunter states, meeting my dead eyes directly with an identicle winter-blue gaze, though his carries both fundamental compassion and predatory understanding of necessary choices. "As it should be. Justice requires proper authority, and you are Judgment itself."

I consider this responsibility, processing the weight of determining another entity's fate while my own remains in question. The irony is not lost on me—asked to judge someone else's capacity for rehabilitation while awaiting similar judgment upon myself. The mousemen shaped us both, but we emerged... different. Where I became cold precision, he became something else entirely. Something that found beauty in the breaking rather than purpose in the protection.

"I will need to evaluate him directly," I conclude, the decision emerging from analysis that balances justice requirements against practical limitations. "Remote assessment is insufficient for decisions of this magnitude."

"Understood," Hunter nods, accepting this necessity while maintaining his position on ultimate outcomes. "Though I maintain my position—some things cannot be un-carved. Some shapes, once imposed by the mousemen, become permanent regardless of desire or effort to change them."

Marry's presence beside me provides stability as I consider the implications of this new responsibility. Her warmth creates a counterpoint to the cold mathematics of judgment, reminding me that even decisions of life and death should be tempered by something approaching compassion. Another broken Jason variant, another victim of the same forces that shaped me, and through me, Grace, another case requiring the balance between justice and mercy that is who, and what, I tred.

"We will evaluate together," Marry states, her voice carrying a determination that strengthens my own resolve. The declaration transforms individual burden into shared responsibility, creating support structure that makes difficult decisions more bearable for both of us. "No one should bear such decisions alone."

The divine scent of her blood, the warmth of her presence, the way she instinctively understands the psychological weight of judgment—these elements combine to create a gratitude that transcends my normal emotional limitations. For the first time in decades, the prospect of rendering judgment feels less like a solitary burden and more like a collaborative responsibility.

Hunter begins to fade, his predatory form dissolving back into the shadows from which he emerged with the fluid grace of someone who exists as naturally in darkness as in light. "Pack protects pack," he states as his winter-blue eyes disappear last, the words carrying the weight of fundamental law rather than casual observation. "All of us. Even the broken ones, when possible."

The sentiment hangs in the winter air as Hunter's presence dissipates completely, leaving only the faint scent of wild things and the memory of predatory efficiency applied to protective purpose. His final words echo with implications that extend beyond immediate circumstances—recognition that even damaged variants deserve consideration, though pragmatism demands acknowledgment of limitations.

Etienne rises from the roof's edge, his massive frame preparing for interdimensional transit with the casual efficiency of someone who has mastered the art of existing across multiple realities simultaneously. "Coordination will continue. Training programs will proceed. Protection networks will expand." He pauses, meeting my gaze directly with eyes that have witnessed transformation across countless timelines. "And perhaps, eventually, justice will be served—for all parties involved."

His massive form begins the transition to shadow—molecules separating and reforming in the spaces between light with technique that still requires 0.07 seconds longer than my own method, though I acknowledge that his capabilities in other areas far exceed my own in scope and complexity.

As both men fade from the rooftop, I remain with Marry in the falling snow, our vigil over the Stone house continuing through the darkest hours of night. The temperature has dropped another 1.3 degrees Celsius, bringing the ambient conditions to minus eighteen—cold enough to threaten unprotected humans within thirty minutes of exposure, though neither Marry nor I register discomfort from such minor environmental variations anymore.

My fingers resume their count at five hundred and seventy-five, though now the numbers tally not just past judgments but future responsibilities, potential redemptions, and the possibility that even someone who embodies Judgment itself might eventually find mercy. Each digit represents decisions yet to be made, lives yet to be evaluated, the ongoing mathematics of justice in a world that seems determined to complicate simple moral calculations.

The house below remains quiet, its occupants unaware that their safety has been discussed and planned by entities operating beyond normal human understanding. Grace sleeps on the living room sofa, processing experiences of kindness without expectation while her enhanced senses maintain partial vigilance even in rest. The boy, the man who we all wer once, or who we all may have become if things were different sleeps in his bedroom, his gentle nature intact despite the protective capabilities that manifest around him, unaware that his protective instincts have manifested autonomous form and declared him worthy of defense. The kitten Grace saved sleeps against Dawson's warm belly, safe and warm and fed now as the dog simply accepts her as pack.

And above them, guardians maintain their watch—broken things protecting precious things, monsters ensuring that innocence might survive in a world that seems determined to destroy it. The irony strikes me with unusual clarity: those most capable of violence often become those most committed to preventing it, while those who speak of peace rarely possess the capability to enforce it.

Marry's presence beside me shifts the vigil from lonely duty into shared purpose. Her warmth creates counterpoint to my cold analysis, her understanding provides context to my mechanical precision, her affection offers something approaching redemption to my centuries of I believed necessary cruelty. Together, we count the hours until dawn, measuring time not in judgments delivered but in lives preserved, not in violence executed but in love protected. Not in children broken, but those saved. Redeemed. Given something better than the path we walk.

"Tell me what you see when you look at them," Marry says softly, her voice barely disturbing the falling snow but carrying clearly to my enhanced hearing. "Grace and Jason. What do your eyes perceive that mine might miss?"

I consider this question, allowing my analytical processes to focus more precisely on the sleeping forms below. Grace's breathing pattern indicates REM sleep—her subconscious mind processing the day's experiences of genuine kindness, perhaps beginning to establish new neural pathways that associate safety with human contact rather than maintaining constant defensive readiness.

"Grace dreams," I state, the observation emerging from sensor analysis rather than speculation. "Her brain chemistry suggests positive emotional processing for the first time since her... modification. She is learning to associate shelter with safety rather than viewing it as temporary tactical advantage."

"And Jason?"

My enhanced perception tracks his sleeping patterns through walls and distance with a precision that would be impossible for unaugmented senses. "He sleeps deeply. Completely. No defensive posturing, no subconscious threat assessment. He trusts his environment absolutely." The realization carries implications that require further analysis. "Such trust should be weakness, yet in his case it becomes strength. He creates safety through believing in it. He trusts Grace compleatly. The kitten helped with that, I suspect."

"Complementary healing," Marry observes, echoing the observation. "They understand each other naturally, like us."

My fingers pause at five hundred and ninety-one as I process this philosophical observation. "Grace healed his blindness. He offers her shelter. Neither considers their contribution particularly valuable, yet each provides exactly what the other most craves."

"Complementary healing," Marry agrees, settling closer beside me in a movement that creates warmth without compromising our surveillance capabilities. "She repairs his physical limitations. He addresses her emotional damage. Both operating below conscious awareness. Both doing what they would do for anyone else."

The snow continues falling, covering the city in pristine white that will be disturbed by morning traffic, just as the peace surrounding this house will eventually be tested by forces neither Jason nor Grace yet fully comprehend. But for now, in this moment, protection holds. Love endures. And even Judgment itself finds something worth preserving in the gentle connection between two people who have learned to heal each other's deepest wounds.

"When morning comes," I state, resuming my count at five hundred and ninety-two, "training will begin in earnest. Grace will learn to trust her new environment. The boy will discover capabilities he never imagined. Both will face choices that will define not just their survival, but the nature of the people they choose to become."

"And us?" Marry asks, her question carrying implications that extend beyond immediate tactical considerations.

I consider this, processing scenarios that range from ideal outcomes to catastrophic failures, weighing probabilities against desired results, calculating the mathematics of redemption against the certainty of consequences. "We will do what we have always done," I conclude. "Protect what matters. Judge what threatens. Balance the scales."

"Together," Marry states, that single word transforming my solitary declaration into a collaborative commitment. "Always."

"Together," I agree, allowing the word to carry weight I rarely permit in my communications. The divine scent of her blood, the warmth of her presence, the way she chooses to share both my vigil and my burden—these elements combine to create something approaching hope in what passes for my soul.

The Stone house sleeps beneath our protection, two young people unaware of the forces gathering around them, the training programs being developed, the guardians who have chosen to make their survival a matter of personal responsibility. Snow covers the suburban street in temporary purity while entities who have seen the destruction of worlds work to ensure that this small corner of Toronto remains a place where healing might hold.

My count continues through the darkest hours of night, each number now representing not past failures but future possibilities, not judgments delivered but chances for redemption. Five hundred and ninety-three. Five hundred and ninety-four. Five hundred and ninety-five.

Together, we wait for dawn.

---Kitten---

The warmth beneath me shifts, and I become aware of the world through the comfortable haze between sleep and waking. The fluffy thing that holds me—the curly-furred creature who let me sleep against his belly—breathes in the slow, deep rhythm that means still sleeping. His soft fur tickles against my face, and his round belly rises and falls beneath me like the most perfect heated bed. This is so much better than yesterday. Yesterday was cold and wet and terrifying until Human Who Smells Like Home found me.

I stretch one paw, then the other, testing the boundaries of my current position against the curly fur. The morning light filtering through the window tells me it's time for things to happen, but I'm still learning about this new place. Yesterday I was so cold, shaking and wet in places I don't want to remember, until Human Who Smells Like Home found me and brought me here. This furry creature beneath me doesn't seem to mind sharing his warmth, which is more generosity than I expected from another animal.

I lift my head and study this creature I've been sleeping against. His fur is curly and soft, different from mine, and he's bigger than me but not threatening. Yesterday when Human Who Smells Like Home brought me inside, this creature—I think they called him something that started with a hard sound—just looked at me with patient eyes and didn't object when I curled up against his warm belly. His breathing creates tiny movements in his curly coat, and I can feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat through his side. He's a good heater, and he doesn't seem to expect anything from me in return.

The thought of other creatures reminds me of something important. There are humans in this house—at least two that I've seen. There's Human Who Smells Like Home, the one who found me yesterday when I was so cold and scared, who wrapped me in soft things and made sure I had food and warmth for the first time in days. And there's another human, younger-sounding, who lives here too. Human Who Has Warm Hands, though right now his hands aren't snuggled around me—I'm sleeping against the curly-furred creature instead.

I should go check on Human Who Smells Like Home first. Make sure she's still there, still breathing, still the same person who rescued me from that terrible cold yesterday. Everything is so new here, and I need to understand this place, these creatures, whether I'm truly safe or if I need to be ready to run again.

But the curly-furred creature is so perfectly warm, and moving means giving up this heat source, and I remember too clearly how cold feels. How it bites through fur and makes everything hurt and steals strength until even moving becomes almost impossible. I settle back down, pressing my face against the soft curls of his coat. Maybe checking on things can wait just a few more minutes.

Except now that I'm thinking about Human Who Smells Like Home, I can't quite settle. That human saved me, brought me here, gave me food and warmth when I thought I was going to die. I owe her... something. At least the courtesy of checking that she's still here, that yesterday wasn't some dream I created while freezing to death.

I lift my head again and study the doorway. The hallway beyond stretches into dimness, leading to the room where Human Who Smells Like Home is sleeping. Or should be sleeping. I don't know her habits yet, don't know if she follows proper sleeping schedules or if she's like the strays who never really rest, always listening for danger.

The curly-furred creature makes a soft sound in his sleep, and his leg twitches slightly against my side. The movement sends a ripple of warmth through me, and I almost decide to stay. Almost. But something pulls at me—gratitude, maybe, or the need to understand this new place where I might be safe.

I carefully extract myself from the warm nest I've created against the curly-furred creature's belly, pausing when he makes another sound. His breathing stays deep and even, so I continue my delicate extraction. One paw at a time, testing each movement to make sure I don't wake him. He's been kind enough to share his warmth with a strange kitten, and I don't want to repay that kindness with disrupted sleep.

The floor feels shockingly cold against my paws, and I immediately regret this decision. But I'm committed now, and retreating would be undignified. I pad across the room, tail high, maintaining proper form despite the temperature differential between Human Who Has Warm Hands' furry thing and the rest of the world.

The hallway stretches before me, still mostly unknown territory marked with scents I'm only beginning to recognize. I don't know yet where the floorboards creak, where the light falls differently throughout the day, which shadows might hide danger or opportunity. My paws make barely a whisper against the hardwood as I move toward the main room where I remember seeing Human Who Smells Like Home last night.

I pad into the larger room and there she is—Human Who Smells Like Home sleeping on the big soft thing called a couch. Her breathing carries the deeper rhythms of real sleep, and I'm relieved to see her still here, still safe, still the same person who rescued me yesterday. One arm hangs off the edge of the couch, and their face looks peaceful in the morning light filtering through the windows. Their breathing carries the deeper rhythms of real sleep, and I'm relieved to see them still here, still safe, still the same person who rescued me yesterday. The steady rise and fall of their chest tells me they're getting the rest they need.

I approach carefully and jump onto the couch, not wanting to wake her. The soft cushions dip slightly under my small weight, but Human Who Smells Like Home doesn't stir. I can see her mouth has fallen slightly open, and soft sounds escape with each breath—not quite snoring, but the peaceful breathing of deep sleep.

I find myself fascinated by this display. The mouth opens and closes slightly with each breath, and the sound emerges with mechanical regularity. It's almost hypnotic, this evidence of complete relaxation from a human who rarely shows such unguarded moments during waking hours.

I lean closer, studying the inside of her mouth with scientific interest. The tongue moves slightly with each exhalation, and I can see the glint of teeth in the dim light. It's not often that I get to observe Human Who Smells Like Home in such an unguarded state, and this represents valuable intelligence about her sleeping habits and vulnerabilities.

Not that I would ever exploit such vulnerabilities. These are my humans, after all, and protecting them falls under my sphere of responsibility. But understanding their defensive capabilities during rest periods is important information for anyone tasked with household security.

The snoring continues, a steady rumble that I can feel through the couch as much as hear. I consider my options. I could wake Human Who Smells Like Home, make sure she knows I'm still here and grateful. A gentle paw on her nose might work—I've seen other cats do such things—but she looks so peaceful, and yesterday was probably tiring for her too, having to rescue a half-frozen kitten.

But something else has caught my attention now that I've confirmed Human Who Smells Like Home is safe. My tummy makes a small sound that reminds me I haven't eaten since yesterday, and the memory of the food my humans gave me makes my mouth water slightly. Maybe I should go find Human Who Has Warm Hands—the younger one who seemed to know where the food comes from.

But wait—where is Human Who Has Warm Hands? I remember the house has more levels, places above where I haven't explored yet. I slip back off the couch, leaving Human Who Smells Like Home to her peaceful sleep, and begin to investigate this strange tall house.

That's when I discover the most magnificent thing I've ever seen in my short life—a wooden rail that rises up at an angle, with perfectly spaced vertical supports creating a ladder-like structure that practically begs to be climbed. A banister! Every instinct I possess screams that this thing exists for one purpose and one purpose only: for cats to run up.

I approach the bottom of the staircase and study the banister with growing excitement. It's the perfect width for my paws, angled just right for maximum climbing efficiency, and it leads up to the mysterious second level of this house where Human Who Has Warm Hands might be sleeping. This is clearly the proper way to reach my upper territory.

Without hesitation, I leap onto the banister and begin my ascent. My claws find perfect purchase on the wood, and I race upward with the pure joy that comes from doing exactly what my body was designed to do. This is what being a cat feels like—this perfect balance, this effortless grace, this absolute confidence in my ability to navigate vertical spaces.

The banister carries me up in a smooth, exhilarating ride that ends at the second floor. I pause at the top, tail held high with satisfaction, and survey this new territory. The hallway up here is smaller than downstairs, with several doors leading to different rooms. The scents are different too—more concentrated, more personal somehow.

I pad along the hallway, testing the air until I catch the familiar scent of Human Who Has Warm Hands. It leads me to a door that stands slightly ajar. I slip inside and immediately notice the difference in this room—younger, warmer somehow, with undertones that suggest this human might be more approachable about food requests. Human Who Has Warm Hands lies sleeping in his bed, and I can see there's a smaller bed in the corner that must belong to the curly-furred creature, though he's obviously downstairs sleeping in the main room where I left him.

But what catches my attention most is the desk near the window. There's something sitting on it that wasn't there yesterday—a small potted plant with glossy leaves, and hanging from its branches are small, dark spheres that look distinctly edible. Berries. My empty stomach gives another small rumble of interest.

I look back at Human Who Has Warm Hands, still sleeping peacefully in his bed. Then I look at the plant again. Those berries seem to glow slightly in the morning light, and closer examination reveals they're perfectly ripe, dark purple-black with a subtle shine that suggests they might be exactly what a hungry kitten needs for breakfast.

I spring from the bed in a smooth arc, landing silently on the desktop with all four paws properly positioned for maximum stability. The plant sits before me in a small ceramic pot, its glossy leaves catching the light and its dark berries practically glowing with promise.

Up close, the berries are even more appealing. Each one is perfectly round, deep purple-black with a subtle shine that suggests ripeness and sweetness. They hang in small clusters among the green leaves, and the scent that rises from them carries notes of something that reminds me of better times, before the cold and fear of yesterday.

I lean forward and sniff more carefully. The berries smell safe, edible, like something that might fill the hungry space in my tummy. My stomach gives another small rumble of encouragement. I select the most perfectly formed berry from the cluster nearest to me and bite down carefully, not sure what to expect. The skin gives way with a soft pop, releasing flavors that spread across my tongue like warmth and satisfaction. It's delicious—sweet and complex in ways that make my whiskers twitch with pleasure. Not just edible, but genuinely, wonderfully good. The kind of good that makes me forget about being cold yesterday, about being scared and alone.

I select another berry, this one slightly larger than the first. The same wonderful explosion of flavor, the same perfect sweetness that speaks to something deep in my kitten soul. Behind me, Human Who Has Warm Hands continues sleeping peacefully, unaware that I've discovered the most amazing breakfast.

Berry after berry disappears as I work my way methodically around the plant. Each one seems to be perfectly ripe, perfectly flavored, perfectly suited to filling the empty space in my small belly. I pause occasionally to listen for any change in the human's breathing pattern, but Human Who Has Warm Hands remains deep in sleep, unaware that his plant is being thoroughly breakfasted by a hungry kitten.

The berries near the base of the plant prove to be just as delicious as those higher up. I stretch down to reach them, my paws gripping the edge of the desk for balance as I extend my neck toward the lower branches. The effort is worth it—these berries carry hints of different flavors, earthier notes that complement the brighter tastes of their higher-growing cousins.

I continue my systematic harvest, moving around the pot to ensure no berry goes unsampled. This is important work, after all. Someone needs to verify that this plant isn't producing anything that might harm my humans, and my discerning palate makes me uniquely qualified for such responsibilities.

As I work, I become aware of a growing sense of satisfaction that extends beyond just breakfast. These berries aren't just food—they're perfect food, exactly what my body needed after the stress and fear of yesterday. Each berry seems to chase away a little more of the memory of being cold and alone before human who smells like home found me in that box.

Berry after berry, cluster after cluster, I continue my breakfast. The plant begins to show signs of my attention, its branches looking considerably less full than when I started, but my belly is finally feeling properly satisfied for the first time since Human Who Smells Like Home found me yesterday, and before that too.

By the time I finish, the plant has been completely stripped of its berries, and I can confidently say that this was the best breakfast I've ever had. Every berry was perfect, and I feel wonderfully full and content. The empty branches wave slightly in the air current from the heating vent, but the plant itself still looks healthy despite my thorough testing.

I sit back and survey my work with satisfaction. The ceramic pot sits stable on the desk, and the morning light continues to fall across the remaining leaves. Behind me, Human Who Has Warm Hands continues sleeping peacefully, unaware that his room has just hosted the most satisfying meal of my short life.

But now, with my belly properly full for the first time since yesterday, I find myself thinking again of that warm spot against the curly-furred creature's belly. The memory of his soft fur and perfect body heat calls to me with increasing urgency, especially now that I'm feeling sleepy from my meal.

I look once more at Human Who Has Warm Hands, confirming that he remaines safely asleep. The morning light has grown stronger, painting the room in shades of gold that suggest the day will be pleasant for indoor napping. Everything feels secure, properly fed, and ready for the important business of sleep.

Time to return to my warm spot.

I gather myself for the return journey, though the jump down from the desk seems a bit more daunting now that my belly is pleasantly full. The distance to the floor looks greater than it did on the way up, possibly because successful breakfast has made me slightly less energetic, but I'm still confident in my abilities. I'm not a dog, after all.

I spring from the desk in a careful arc, landing on the floor with only a slightly heavier thump than I intended. Still acceptable technique, even if not quite as graceful as my usual standards. I pad quietly across the room toward the door, moving carefully to avoid creating any sounds that might wake Human Who Has Warm Hands.

The hallway receives me with its familiar coolness, and I quicken my pace slightly as I anticipate returning to the warmth that awaits in the other room. The journey back feels shorter, possibly because I now move with the satisfied confidence that comes from a successful breakfast adventure.

The journey back down is almost as thrilling as the climb up, though I choose to take the stairs properly this time since my belly is now pleasantly full and I'm feeling less acrobatic. The banister calls to me as I pass, but I resist—there will be other times for magnificent climbs, and right now I have more important business.

I make my way back to the main room where the curly-furred creature is still sleeping in the same spot where I left him. He remains exactly as I was when I woke up, breathing peacefully on his side, that perfect warm belly still available for a small kitten who's just had the best meal of her life and the most exciting climbing adventure.

I approach him and execute a careful leap that lands me right back in my previous position against his warm, curly side. The curly-furred creature stirs slightly as I settle against him, but his breathing remains deep and even. I nestle back into the perfect spot against his belly with a soft sigh of contentment.

I circle once, testing the configuration of soft fur and warm creature to ensure optimal comfort. Everything feels perfect—the temperature, the texture, the steady rhythm of the curly-furred creature's breathing beneath me. I settle against his warm belly, feeling my body mold itself to his contours.

A deep purr begins in my chest, starting as a barely audible vibration and building to a full-throated rumble that indicates my satisfaction. The sound fills the quiet room, mixing with the creature's breathing to create a symphony of contentment that speaks to successful morning activities and the wonderful discovery that this new place has both warmth and food.

The morning light continues to strengthen outside the window, but here in this warm nest I've found, time feels suspended in the perfect moment between adventure and rest. My belly carries the pleasant fullness that comes from the most delicious breakfast, my body enjoys the perfect temperature that comes from the most generous bed-partner, and my world has expanded from yesterday's cold fear to today's warm security.

I close my eyes and let the purring continue, a sound that seems to soothe both me and the curly-furred creature beneath me. The combination of successful exploration, wonderful food, and optimal sleeping conditions creates the kind of satisfaction that can only come from discovering that sometimes, just sometimes, things work out exactly right.

These are good creatures, I reflect as sleep begins to reclaim me. The curly-furred one shares his warmth without complaint. Human Who Smells Like Home rescued me from the cold and brought me somewhere safe. Human Who Has Warm Hands has plants with the most amazing berries for small kittens who need breakfast and gives the most wonderful headrubs.

Yesterday I was cold and alone and certain I was going to die. Today I am warm and fed and surrounded by creatures who seem to understand that small kittens need comfortable places to sleep and delicious things to eat. The change is almost too wonderful to believe, but the purr in my chest and the warmth beneath me prove that it's real.

This is exactly how mornings should be, I decide as consciousness fades. Safe and warm and full, with the absolute certainty that I have found exactly where I belong.