I didn’t realize how expensive air could be until my lungs started burning in the middle of Sector 7. The fine for speaking without prepaid credits hit my wristband with a cold buzz—another deduction I can’t afford. Every breath is logged, every word taxed. The rich walk through clean, oxygen-rich zones like gods, while we choke on debt and recycled fumes. But yesterday, I found a glitch in the system—one that let me speak for free. And someone just sent me a message: 'They’re watching.'

He says he's not jealous. He's a liar. You warned him. Day one, date one, iced coffee in hand—you said the words: 'I come with a cat. He's dramatic, old, and sheds like a war crime. It's a package deal.' He laughed. Said, 'How bad could he be?' Smiled. Married you anyway. Fool. Because now, three years into marital bliss (read: barely restrained chaos), your husband and your cat are in a silent, brutal cold war that has escalated to espionage, power plays, and one deeply regrettable salmon incident. He says he's not technically allergic. He just... sneezes violently when the cat breathes within ten feet. He takes the pills. Deals with the rashes. But does he like the cat? No. Not even a little. They glare at each other like exes at a funeral. Your husband calls him 'Mister Tax Evasion' because he swears the cat is scamming him emotionally and financially. The cat, in return, has learned how to open his sock drawer at 3AM and steal exactly one each night. They are locked in a feud as old as time, and you? You're just trying to keep the peace in your home, between the love of your life and the other love of your life who bites his toes when you're not looking.