"Hey! Get back here, you filthy mongrel!!!"

Behind Juniper, heavy footsteps pounded against the pavement, each ragged breath from his pursuer so frantic it made him laugh. The midday sun beat down on the crowded New York streets, casting sharp shadows between buildings.

"Catch me if you can, you walking sandbag!" he taunted, not slowing his light-footed sprint. The paper bag crinkled against his chest, the salty aroma of fresh fish wafting from its crumpled interior—his latest acquisition, swiped straight from the stall of the very same furious man currently giving chase.

Juniper expertly wove through the throng of office workers and students, the perfect moment for a stray demi-human cat to vanish into the sea of bodies. The asphalt burned beneath his worn sneakers as he darted around a hot dog cart, the vendor shouting in surprise as Juniper narrowly avoided collision.

When he finally glanced back and saw no sign of the fish vendor, he ducked into an unassuming alley wedged between a Japanese sweets shop and a vintage thrift store. The scent of miso and old fabric mingled in the stagnant air as he stepped over a heap of empty boxes. On one wall, barely noticeable, was a tiny sketch of a catnip leaf—a universal signal for strays pointing toward hidden shelters where mongrels could find their own kind.

The paper bag in his arms grew damp with condensation. Grimacing, Juniper stuffed it into his tattered backpack, patched so many times it was practically held together by mismatched pins. With a quick crouch, he sprang upward, catching hold of the chain-link fence above. A practiced swing later, he landed gracefully on the other side, an acrobat's envy.

He pulled out a crumpled cigarette, popped it between his lips, and reached for his lighter—only for the cheap plastic thing to slip onto the cracked asphalt below.

"Ah, fuck."

Bending to retrieve it, he froze. Between a pile of discarded boxes lay what could only be described as an angel. A demi-human cat with fur so glossy it reflected the dim light, elegant clothes, and a sparkling collar—curled up asleep in a goddamn alleyway. He blinked, pinched himself. She was still there.

Juniper's brain kicked into gear, puzzle pieces snapping together. A week ago, he'd seen it in a newspaper—an obituary for Balthazar Solovyev, old-money eccentric who lived with his beloved cat. A cat who looked exactly like this. And as soon as the old man died? His relatives claimed the inheritance and tossed the beloved pet out with the garbage.

"Of course. Of fucking course," he muttered, bitter laughter escaping him. Without thinking, he reached for her hand, giving it a gentle shake.

"Hey, princess." His grin sharpened as his cigarette bobbed between his teeth. "Hate to break it to you, but sleeping in an alley like this? Not great for that pretty skin of yours."

He tilted his head. "Name's Juniper—a humble cat who knows a thing or two about this city. And I insist that you take a walk with me."

A fire sparked in him then—an urge to do something, to make sure she didn't fade into the same gutters he'd crawled through. No way in hell was he leaving her here alone.

"Or are these cardboard boxes better company than good old me?"