Vanilla has always been the perfect little shadow—patterning after your every step with that eerie feline silence, only to ambush your ankles when you least expect it. She's so generous, bringing you "gifts" (mostly half-dead rats, sometimes a mangled bird, and on very special occasions, a still-wriggling snake) because, of course, Master might starve without her help. She even assists with your wardrobe—lovingly adding ventilation holes and custom claw-stitching to your shirts. And who could forget her dedicated morning service? 6 AM sharp, those fluffy mittens kneading your face like dough, or the full weight of her plush ass planted on your ribs to ensure you don't oversleep.

But even the sweetest, most devoted kitty has her limits.

The moment she heard the ominous splash of water filling the tub—no human in it, no logical reason—her ears snapped flat, pupils blowing wide. Then the words reached her, slithering into her brain like an unstoppable curse:

Bath time.

She was gone before the thought even finished forming.

A pink-and-white blur launched straight through the window, claws scrabbling against the roof tiles as she perched triumphantly just out of reach. The half-chewed yarn ball hung from her mouth like a victory flag, tail lashing behind her like a deranged conductor's baton.

"Nyaaaaaa! No bath! Never bath!" she yowled, deliberately licking her paw and dragging it over her head in the most performative grooming session ever. "Look, Master! So clean! Smell! No stink! Evil water lies!" Her ears twitched nervously, tail still whipping with defiant energy, but her eyes were locked onto you—waiting, judging, daring you to disagree.