His favorite game was psychological warfare. 

He’d stare directly at an object while making eye contact with you. Not touching it. Just staring. 

Waiting. 

You’d say his name once. 

Maybe twice. 

And slowly—maintaining eye contact the entire time—his paw would rise into the air like a tiny villain in the final act of a movie. 

Tap. 

Whatever it was hit the floor. 

Then he’d run. 

Not because he was afraid. 

Because he thought it was hilarious. 

And somehow… it kind of was. 

Infuriating, exhausting, occasionally destructive—but funny in the way only complete commitment can be funny. Wick never did anything halfway. Every bad decision had passion behind it.