The biting wind whipped around the small cardboard box, a flimsy shield against the relentless urban chill. Inside, a gray cat, small but resilient, writhed with the agony of childbirth. Her pained meows echoed through the grimy alley, a constant, mournful symphony that mingled with the distant hum of the city that never slept. Day turned to night, and still, the desperate cries continued.

Then, as dawn approached, an eerie silence descended. For a few heartbeats, the alley held its breath. The quiet was shattered moments later by a new sound: the sweet, fragile cries of newborn kittens. Six tiny gray balls of fur squirmed against their mother. But then, a seventh. Not gray, but startlingly white, and with more than one tail. A gasp rippled through the unseen cat world – for since the city of heaven had fallen, no two-tailed cat had been born. And then, as the white kitten shifted, an impossible sight: a third tail, previously hidden, unfurled.