Once Wick entered his demon-cat era, the house stopped functioning like a normal home and started operating like a hostage situation with occasional snack breaks. 

Nothing belonged to us anymore. 

Every object became either a target, a climbing structure, or a personal insult. 

Curtains? Scaled like mountain faces. 

Furniture? Launch platforms. 

Any cup containing liquid? Illegal in Wick’s America. 

He developed an obsession with sprinting through the house at full speed for absolutely no reason, usually around two in the morning, sounding like a tiny horse wearing socks. You’d hear the thunder of paws, a crash somewhere in the darkness, then complete silence. 

Not reassuring silence. 

The kind of silence that meant he was deciding his next crime. 

And somehow, he always looked shocked when we caught him. 

Like we were the unreasonable ones for questioning why he was hanging halfway up a doorframe like a possessed acrobat.