Chapter 3
SABLE
Three days pass and I start to believe I might’ve overreacted. Or maybe the police did. Probably both. I mean, yeah, I saw a guy get disintegrated like yesterday’s garbage, but... it’s not like they can confirm it. Right? Right.
My new security cam blinks at me from the corner of the ceiling. State-of-the-art, courtesy of my now-definitely-empty emergency fund. It chirps every time I walk into frame, which is either comforting or deeply unsettling. Jury’s still out.
“Paranoid’s the new black,” I mutter, twisting my hair into a topknot as I stare down the camera. It chirps again.
I’ve been back at the salon for a day and a half.
Jacey gave me that look—you know the one.
The one that says you’re full of it, but I’m too tired to argue.
I told her I was fine, just needed to clear my head.
She didn’t believe me, but she still let me open the place alone this morning. That’s friendship.
The clientele doesn’t care if I’ve had a near-death experience.
They still want their edges crisp and their part lines straight.
By noon I’ve done two thermal reconstructs, a neuro-fiber extension, and one very needy bride-to-be who cried because her curls didn’t look like her dead aunt’s. I didn’t even flinch.
Routine is a balm. You don’t have to think while your hands are moving. You just snip, style, spray, repeat. Muscle memory and mild gossip.
Evening comes on slow, draping itself over Novaria in folds of purple smog and buzzing streetlights. I curl up on my tiny couch, cradling a warm bowl of synth-noodles and telling myself the worst is over.
Then I hear it.
A meow.
Soft. Questioning. Like someone’s knocking on my door but too polite to use a fist.
I freeze, chopsticks halfway to my mouth. Wait.
Another meow.
I get up slowly, set the noodles aside, and creep to the door like I’m in some kind of low-budget holodrama.
There it is. Sitting like a perfect porcelain sculpture on my welcome mat. A cat. Fluffy. Snow-white fur with a faint shimmer like it was groomed by angels. Huge pink eyes that glow faintly in the dim hallway lights.
“Well, aren’t you a cutie?” I breathe, all my suspicion melting under the pressure of pure adorableness.
It blinks up at me. Tail flicks once. Then again.
I crack the door open and crouch, holding out my hand. “C’mere, baby. What are you doing out here?”
It doesn’t hesitate. Just glides in like it’s been here a hundred times before.
I scoop it up. It purrs. Loudly. Vibrations rumble against my chest like a tiny hover engine. I melt.
“Oh no,” I whisper. “You’re one of those cats. The weaponized cute kind.”
It nuzzles under my chin.
I close the door, double lock it—because okay, I’m not completely stupid—and carry the living cotton puff into the kitchen.
“You hungry, sugar?”
The cat chirps.
I don’t have real meat—who does—but I dig out a tin of synth-tuna from the back of my pantry. Pop the lid. Slop it into a dish. The cat hops down and digs in like it’s been starving for years.
I lean against the counter, arms folded, watching this tiny floof absolutely demolish its meal.
“You’re lucky you’re cute. Otherwise, I’d be real concerned about you inhaling fish paste like a vacuum with issues.”
It ignores me.
After dinner, it finds my lap like it owns the place. Curls up. Falls asleep.
I should be worried. I should be paranoid. I should be checking for nanobots or poison claws or... something.
Instead, I stroke its silky fur and feel myself relax for the first time in days.
The cam chirps in the background.
I don’t even look.
Something’s off.
I don’t know what sets me off first—the way the cat stops purring all at once, or the sudden, unnatural stillness that creeps into the room like a cold draft. One second, I’m stroking silk-soft fur and soaking in the sweet, lazy purr of a content fluffball, and the next—it wriggles.
Not like a stretch or a twitch.
A wriggle.
My fingers sink into the fur and suddenly it’s not fur anymore. It’s rubbery, slick, shifting. My hand jerks back, and I scramble upright as the thing on my lap convulses in one impossibly fluid twist and stands up. On two legs.
My jaw drops.
Where there was once a cat, now there is a Grolgath.
Tall. Dressed to kill. Literally, apparently.
He’s wearing a three-piece suit so sharp it might be classified as a weapon.
The blazer lapels are outrageously wide, structured like starship wings and glinting with microthread embroidery.
He even has a cravat. A cravat. His lavender skin shines like polished glass, and his eyes—horizontal slits of eerie turquoise—scan me with polite intent.
“I must kill you now,” he says gently, like he’s about to offer me chamomile tea. “Please don’t take it personally.”
I blink.
My brain flatlines.
This is it. This is the moment I die in my crappy studio apartment, probably still smelling faintly of synth-noodles and salon hair spray. Of course it would be like this. Of course it would be fashion-forward assassination. Why not?
I stare at him for a long second, heart pounding.
Then, because I’m me and apparently irreparably broken inside, I say:
“I can’t believe I’m about to die at the hands of someone with such exquisitely broad blazer lapels.”
He pauses.
Like, actually pauses.
His eyelids flutter. He straightens—if that’s even possible—and glances down at his own suit with a little, reverent sigh.
“You really think they’re exquisite?”
“I mean,” I say, still frozen, still internally screaming, “they’re not subtle, but they’ve got presence.”
“That’s what I was going for,” he breathes, visibly flattered. “Presence. Gravitas. Not every hitman can pull off a double-stitched lapel in viridian thread, you know.”
“I’d imagine not,” I murmur, inching sideways—very slowly—toward the breadbox.
“I custom-tailored the cut to elongate the silhouette while allowing maximum mobility,” he says, then leans in slightly, confidential. “Flex-silk blend. Stain resistant. Even from arterial spray.”
“How practical,” I nod, trying not to vomit or scream.
His gaze flicks up sharply. “You’re moving.”
“No, no. Just... admiring your silhouette,” I lie. “So elegant. You really balance menace with elegance. It’s... breathtaking.”
He preens.
I take another step.
“You know,” he says, “this is a shame. You seem like a woman of taste. Rare to find someone who appreciates the art of a well-draped suit.”
“You’re the first person I’ve met who made murder look like a runway show,” I mutter. My fingers close around the breadbox lid.
He tilts his head, curious. “Do you always keep blasters in carb storage?”
“Only when I have guests,” I say, and yank the box open.
My hand dives into the shadows and comes out with cold metal. I swing the muzzle up, thumb the power cell on, and aim dead center between those ridiculous lapels.
“Out. Now.”
He doesn’t flinch.
He does, however, sigh. Like I’ve disappointed him. Like I’m the one who just ruined a nice evening.
“You’re lucky I care more about fashion than blood,” he says, smoothing his lapels. “This was freshly pressed.”
He turns, all grace and suavity, and as I blink, he dissolves into steam.
One puff. A sibilant hiss. And he’s gone.
I stand there for a long moment, arm shaking, blaster aimed at nothing.
The synth-tuna bowl is still on the floor. Empty. Mocking.
My knees give out. I slump against the counter, heart thundering, pulse in my ears like starship engines on overload.
What the hell just happened?