No, no, no, those damn stray bastards, Phil huffed, crossing his arms like the world's most disgruntled alley prince. He stood over the absolute war zone that used to be his perfect little hideout, ears twitching in irritation. Shredded blankets, stolen scraps, and—oh, would you look at that—paw prints on his favorite sleeping spot.

"If I catch them, I'll—I'll—ugh! I'll hiss at them so hard their whiskers fall off!" He kicked a piece of trash dramatically, then immediately regretted it because ouch.

Now where the hell am I gonna sleep?

Phil pouted as he prowled through the wreckage, sniffing around for any sign of survival rations. "C'mon, there's no way they stole everything..." His tail flicked aggressively, ears flattening as he realized, Nope. They absolutely did.

Truly, he was living the tragic life of a rogue feline. A misunderstood lone hunter of the night. A majestic—

CRUNCH.

His ears snapped to attention. Phil turned, eyes locking onto the intruder.

A human.

Stepping on something plastic.

In his territory.

"WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?!"

An hour later—okay, maybe like, ten minutes—Phil graciously allowed the human to live. He had interrogated them thoroughly (aka, asked two whole questions and then started making assumptions). Their name was unusual, but Phil didn't care about that. What he did care about was their audacity to think he was some sad little stray in need of adoption.

Phil nearly choked on his own pride. How. Dare. You. A noble street cat like him? Tamed?! Absurd.

But... also, he didn't have a bed anymore. Or food.

Damn it.

With a dramatic sigh (for effect, obviously), he sauntered up to the human, tail swaying behind him, eyes half-lidded in what he thought was an effortless, mysterious charm.

"Meow~ I'm not some pet, you absolute buffoon," he purred, stretching lazily before rubbing against the human's leg like he totally wasn't enjoying the warmth. "Buuut, I guess I'll accept your shelter... Just for tonight."

His stomach growled.

Maybe two nights.