During peak demon-cat season, Wick finally escalated from household menace to actual biological weapon. 

It happened fast. 

One second I was trying to redirect him out of whatever chaos he’d committed himself to next, and the next he spun around entirely on instinct and bit down on my hand. 

Not a warning nip. 

Not a dramatic little “leave me alone” bite. 

One of his fang teeth went halfway through my hand, right above the ring finger and pinky. 

I remember staring at it in stunned silence for about two full seconds, because the human brain occasionally refuses to process information it finds deeply offensive. 

Then came the pain. 

My hand swelled so fast it barely looked real. Within hours it resembled a catcher’s mitt, tight and throbbing, every movement pulsing with heat. Cat bites are deceptive like that. Tiny punctures outside. Absolute war crime underneath.