It started, as most of Wick’s late-night adventures did, with a sound he didn’t like.

The house was quiet except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and Tigra’s faint purring from her spot on the back of the couch. The storm outside had finally passed, leaving the air heavy and damp. Wick sat by the kitchen door, watching the moonlight shimmer on wet leaves through the glass. It was his kingdom—patrolled nightly with the precision of a seasoned general.

Then came the scrape.

A faint, dragging sound from the cat door. Wick’s ears twitched. His eyes narrowed. He knew that sound. He’d heard it once before—and it hadn’t been good news.

 Tigra’s head popped up immediately. “What was that?” Her tail fluffed, curiosity lighting her silvery-gray fur.

 Quigley, half-asleep beside her, lifted his head and yawned. “Maybe Wick’s getting snacks again.”

 Wick shot him a look sharp enough to stop a clock. He wasn’t amused.