Chapter Text
Soonyoung didn’t expect heartbreak to hit like this.
He thought it would come in dramatic waves—like in the movies. Like stormy rain and collapsing to his knees screaming “WHY?” into the void. Maybe a slap of thunder, maybe a background OST by IU.
But instead?
It hit him while he was trying to open a bag of frozen dumplings with his teeth.
And the text came in.
“I think we should see other people. I don’t think its working.”
From his now ex-boyfriend.
Just like that.
No fight. No closure. Just that stupid text.
He stared at the message for twenty minutes. Forgot the dumplings. Ate cereal with sparkling water because he had no milk. And then he cried into his cat-print socks.
The spiral began quietly.
At first it was denial.
Then grief.
Then… tigers.
Yes, tigers.
By Day 3 of being emotionally wrecked, Soonyoung had subscribed to five tiger fanpages, joined a conservation Discord server, and cried to a NatGeo doc called:
“Tigers 101: They’re Just Big Cats, Man.”
“They’re so brave. And loyal. And orange…” he sniffled at 1:47 a.m., cradling a Tigger plushie he panic-bought online while eating cheese straight from the block like a raccoon in distress.
He now called himself “Tiger Dad.”
His friends were worried.
Mingyu staged a full intervention.
He showed up wearing all-black like someone died.
Technically, someone had—Soonyoung’s will to live.
He brought tea. Real, calming, adult tea. The kind with names like Tranquili-Tea and Chamomilitia that made you question if it came from a witch or a Whole Foods.
He sat Soonyoung down gently, like he was made of glass and seasonal depression.
Looked into his puffy, sleep-deprived, slightly cross-eyed stare—because Soonyoung had been watching tiger documentaries at 0.75x speed for 16 hours straight.
With genuine brotherly concern, Mingyu said,
“Babe. You haven’t left the house in four days. You cried over a tiger’s mating call yesterday.”
He paused, placed a hand on Soonyoung’s knee.
“And then you DM’d the tiger conservation page and said ‘I get it, bro. I miss my mate too.’”
Soonyoung blinked. “Did they reply?”
Mingyu exhaled through his nose. “They blocked you.”
Jun came in behind him, lighting incense and chanting in Latin.
Or at least, he said it was Latin.
It sounded suspiciously like Mandarin, had the rhythm of a K-pop pre-chorus, and at one point Soonyoung swore he heard the word “xiaolongbao.”
“Jun, what are you—”
“Cleansing your aura. Your ex left dark energy in your walls.”
“That’s just spaghetti sauce. I tripped.”
Jun ignored him. He waved the incense like a fairy godmother on a deadline and chanted louder:
“Sanctus stupidus ex-boyfriendus disappear-us.”
Mingyu whispered, “I think he’s summoning a dimsum menu.”
Joshua crossed himself.
Jeonghan didn’t do anything to help but took a video.
Soonyoung cried harder. Not from heartbreak this time—but because the incense was actually just eucalyptus oil on a chopstick, and it was burning his eyes.
Joshua quietly left five therapy brochures on the fridge. One of them had a dolphin on the cover and said:
“Are You Floating or Drowning?”
Soonyoung taped that one to his mirror.
He would stare at it every morning while brushing his teeth and whispering, “Sinking, actually. Thanks for asking.”
Meanwhile, Jeonghan, who was actually uninvited, but just chose to show up—as usual—wearing sunglasses indoors and holding a Starbucks cup with “God” written on the side.
He walked past Soonyoung’s emotional wreckage, gave the plush Tigger a pat on the head, and said,
“You look like a wet tissue. Let’s go get matching piercings.”
Soonyoung blinked. “What?”
“For healing.”
Then Jeonghan stole two therapy brochures, rolled them up, and started swatting Mingyu with them like a fly.
“You can’t fix trauma with tea, Kim Mingyu. C’mon! Be serious.”
Five minutes later, Jeonghan was fully horizontal on Soonyoung’s couch like a Victorian widow in distress, one leg propped dramatically over the armrest.
He had stolen Soonyoung’s phone. He was elbow-deep in Hot Cheetos. His fingers glowed nuclear red like he’d murdered a Flamin’ Hot deity.
“Don’t worry,” he mumbled through a mouthful, “I’m doing a spiritual reconnaissance.”
Translation: he was viewing every single Instagram story of Soonyoung’s ex, on Soonyoung’s account, with the volume on.
The phone pinged.
“You just watched his gym reels six times, Hyung!”
“I’m establishing dominance,” he said, licking his fingers and then wiping them on a throw pillow. “Let him know you’re thriving. Even if you’re not.”
Soonyoung’s algorithm was now 80% breakup quotes, 10% gym bros, and 10% divorce lawyer ads.
The other 10%?
“Why does my explore page only show snakes now?”
“Because I searched ‘men who lie’ for you.”
Later on that day, though it looks the least likely to happen, it was Jeonghan who sealed the deal.
“You know what you really need?” He said confidently.
Soonyoung stared at him with the unhinged look of a man who had eaten instant noodles for every meal that week and just finished crying over a National Geographic tiger mating ritual.
He was also wearing a stupid looking shirt that said “Tiger Inside Me” in Comic Sans.
So. No. Not exactly peaking.
Jeonghan smirked. The smirk of a man who’s been blocked by at least three therapists.
“A cat.”
“Like a tiger?” Soonyoung whispered, hopeful.
“No. A normal cat. Small. Pettable. Judgmental like you. But warmer.”
He sipped his soda dramatically. “You need a pet who stares at you like you’re the problem but still agrees to sleep on your face at 3 a.m.”
Soonyoung blinked. The room tilted.
Somewhere in the distance, a bell rang.
Was it a sign? Was it Jun playing the ritual triangle again?
No matter.
It made sense.
Yes. A cat.
A tiger scaled down. Fun-size if you will. A tiny emotional support furry demon.
His fate. His destiny.
Meow.
And so it began.
With one emotionally devastated Soonyoung, clutching a reusable tote bag and arms open, screaming at the sky in front of a pet adoption center:
“GIVE ME MY FUR BABY!”
The receptionist blinked and from behind a tank of goldfish.
“…Sir, this is a fish adoption center. I think that’s next door.” The receptionist said respectfully.
“Oh,” Soonyoung said, lowering his arms.
Then after a long pause, dead serious:
“…do fish like cuddles?”
After a few embarrassing moments of getting lost and entering the wrong doors, Soonyoung eventually did find the right place. The legit, bonafide, meow-meow shelter.
But fate? Fate is a drama queen with a twisted sense of humor.
Because despite the dozens of cats lounging in hammocks, licking themselves like supermodels and ignoring human existence—
Soonyoung wasn’t allowed to adopt.
Why?
“Sir,” the volunteer said gently, “you failed the behavioral compatibility test.”
“What do you mean?”
“You scored too high on clingy, sings to animals unprompted, and asked three separate cats if they believe in reincarnation.”
Soonyoung blinked. “That was part of the test?”
“No. We were just watching.”
“We have it on camera,” someone added from behind the desk.
Another whispered, “He tried to name one of them Sir Meowsalot the Third.”
So Soonyoung left the center—catless. And mildly humiliated. But mostly just… devastated.
Maybe this was a bad idea.
Maybe he was never meant to have a cat.
Maybe he was meant to suffer, to rot, to spiral alone until he turns into one of those weird uncles who collects moss or rocks and yells at unusual cloud formations.
The universe had spoken.
Loudly.
With Soonyoung getting, instead of a furbaby, a restraining order from the cat shelter.
And then.
Just when all hope had crawled into a corner and died—
There it was.
A cat.
A fucking cat.
On his actual doorstep.
Sprawled out like it paid rent. No. Like it actually owned the place and Soonyoung was only a freeloader.
Black fur. Glinting purple eyes. One ear nicked. A dramatic limp like it was acting in a telenovela.
Definitely wounded.
Possibly cursed.
Soonyoung gasped.
The universe… gave him a cat anyway?
A miracle? A twist? A loophole in Soonyoung’s destiny’s anti-cat clause?
He dropped to his knees, eyes misty.
“OH MY GOD, YOU FOUND ME.”
The cat blinked.
Here’s the thing: Soonyoung LOVES animals. And animals?
They love him back. Aggressively. Weirdly. Magnetically.
He’s been called Snow White more than once.
Except he’s got upturned eyes that disappear when he smiles, a dolphin laugh that can cause glass to vibrate, and yes—let’s not forget—a dick.
So really, he’s more like a Male Snow White on crack.
With chaotic bisexual energy and a petting zoo’s worth of unsolicited animal affection.
Birds land on his head. Dogs chase him like he’s a chew toy. A raccoon once gave him a high-five.
He has conquered the entire animal kingdom.
All except for one species.
Black cats.
They’ve always been indifferent. Unmoved. Judgy.
One even slapped him in the face with its tail like it owed him nothing and he was annoying.
But now?
This one?
Lying right there, on his porch, wounded and wild and—
Possibly evil?
Soonyoung, trembling, whispered like it was a sacred vow:
“…I will fix you.”
The cat hissed.
He took it as a yes.
Soonyoung stared at the creature like it was the final boss in a video game he didn’t know he was playing. (He doesn’t play a lot. He sucks at it.)
The black cat blinked once, slowly, with glowing purple eyes that screamed: I have witnessed war crimes and I bite for sport.
Its fur shimmered faintly under the moonlight like an oil spill with secrets. It was definitely hissing. Possibly growling. Maybe chanting evil spells in Latin too.
Soonyoung’s reaction?
He gasped.
“OH MY GOD. You’re a little shadow prince.”
The cat bared its teeth.
Soonyoung clutched his chest.
“Baby has fangs. Feral. Kinda pissed but you’re perfect.”
The cat hissed louder. The porch light flickered.
A nearby plant wilted. A street dog howled once and ran the opposite direction.
Soonyoung, clearly on drugs (he wasn’t), interpreted this as a test of trust.
A sacred trial.
An anime arc.
“I get it,” he whispered, crawling slowly toward the creature like a priest approaching a possessed altar boy. “You’ve been hurt. The world is cruel. You probably fought God once. But I’m different. I have snacks.”
The cat snarled.
Soonyoung gently reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a slightly crumpled pack of Fancy Feast tuna treats—the one he had bought in manic optimism for his failed cat adoption earlier that day.
He’d picked them out with care, too. Held up two brands and whispered, “Which one screams ‘emotional stability’?” to the pet store cashier.
(Who just blinked and offered him a free sticker.)
But alas. They never made it to a shelter cat’s bowl.
Instead, they sat in his pocket all day like a sad little breadcrumb of hope.
A tuna-scented reminder that not even animals wanted him right now.
And yet—look who’s useful now.
He laid the treat on the ground like an offering. Like a peace treaty.
Like: “Hello, dark prince. Please don’t claw my soul out through my nipples.”
The cat didn’t move. Just stared with its evil LED-glow eyeballs like a USB drive plugged into hell.
Soonyoung held his breath like it was a hostage situation.
Then, after a long pause, it inched forward…
Then the cat pawed it.
Once.
Soonyoung nearly burst into tears.
“Oh my God,” he whispered. “He tolerated me.”
That was enough.
Victory.
Tuna diplomacy: achieved.
Soonyoung, running on impulse, trauma, and two percent brain battery, immediately lunged forward and wrapped the demon furball in an old Garfield towel.
He ignored the scratching. Ignored the screaming. Ignored the way the temperature suddenly dropped 5°C and a crow flew backwards.
Because this was love. Raw. Violent. Possibly cursed but true.
As he stood up, cradling the hissing creature like a baby wrapped in pure loathing, the cat opened its mouth—
—and let out a sound.
Not a regular meow.
Not even a sexy villain purr.
But a low, disturbingly deep bass-boosted vocal fry that rumbled from its demon throat like Satan clearing his sinuses.
“Miyawoooo.”
Soonyoung froze. Blinked. Eyes wide.
“…Meow—woo?” he echoed.
“Miyawoooo.”
“…Meow. Woo.”
They stared at each other. One twitching. One processing.
Soonyoung gasped. “OH MY GOD IS THAT YOUR NAME???”
The cat looked done, probably rolling its eyes with a sigh of surrender. But also vaguely insulted.
“Meowwoo,” Soonyoung whispered reverently, like he just discovered fire. “That’s so cool. Are you Korean?? Do you stream on Twitch??”
The cat tried to scratch his soul out through the towel. Again, Soonyoung took it as a yes.
He stood tall, demonic burrito in arms, held it up like Simba with anger management issues, and declared:
“I’m naming you Meowwoo. And you’re mine now, bitch.”
The cat screamed. Like. Screamed.
Like someone dropped a saxophone down the stairs.
Somewhere, a power line exploded.
Someone’s Wi-Fi died.
A baby cried three blocks away.
Soonyoung beamed. “We’re gonna heal together.”
DAY ONE.
Of what historians will later call: Soonyoung’s descent into complete cat parent madness.
It became immediately clear—like within 47 minutes—that adopting this black cat was possibly the worst idea Soonyoung has ever had.
And he once drank expired Yakult during a heatwave “for gut faith.”
(He ended up in the ER. The nurse knew his name.)
The signs were obvious:
Meowwoo didn’t walk through the apartment—he stalked, like a tiny jewel thief mapping escape routes.
He bit Soonyoung. Twice.
Once because Soonyoung touched his tail.
Second time? No reason. He just wanted to.
He peed once in the litter box.
Then dramatically peed on top of Soonyoung’s favorite pillow, maintaining deep, uninterrupted eye contact, before slowly pushing a potted plant off the windowsill like a mafia warning.
At one point, Soonyoung turned his back for four seconds.
Turned around—
Meowwoo was inside the rice cooker.
Unplugged, thank God.
Still. Not the point.
Soonyoung screamed.
The cat yawned.
The rice cooker has trauma now.
He tried to brush Meowwoo once. Just once.
The brush is now under the couch. Burned. Soonyoung does not know how it got set on fire.
He tried playing a calming Spotify playlist for pets.
The cat shut the laptop with his paw and walked away like a man rejecting a record deal.
Two hours in, Soonyoung attempted to bond with him using a feather toy.
He waved it.
Meowwoo stared.
He waved it harder.
Meowwoo blinked slowly.
He waved it like he was swatting demons at a prayer rally.
The cat hissed once, leapt onto a shelf, and pushed the router off.
Wi-Fi: gone.
Netflix: dead.
Soonyoung’s soul: crumbling.
Three hours in, Soonyoung caught Meowwoo staring at nothing in the corner of the room.
For 23 minutes.
Unblinking.
“Meowwoo?” Soonyoung whispered.
No response.
Just slow, terrifying head turns.
At one point, the hallway light flickered.
“Stop it,” Soonyoung begged. “You’re not a horror movie. You’re a pet. You’re supposed to vibrate happily on my chest.”
Meowwoo proceeded to knock over a framed photo of Jeonghan and sat on it.
Four hours in, Soonyoung attempted a peace offering.
He served premium tuna on a ceramic plate. Lit a candle. Put on jazz.
The cat looked at the tuna.
Then at the candle.
Then pissed directly into the plate.
Four hours and fifteen minutes in, Soonyoung sat on the floor, cross-legged, defeated.
The cat on the dining table.
Him on the floor like a divorced man who lost custody of his peace.
He clutched his phone.
His pride was gone.
His pillow smelled like regret and cat dominance.
He called Junhui with the voice of a man whispering from a hostage situation.
“Come over. Bring cat snacks and maybe an exorcist.”
Jun arrived twenty minutes later.
He opened the door, saw Soonyoung on the floor in a bathrobe, hair fried from a candle accident, surrounded by shredded toilet paper and one very suspiciously smug black cat—
—and said,
“…Did he eat your shampoo?”
“No,” Soonyoung croaked. “He hid it. I haven’t washed in hours.”
Meowwoo watched from atop the fridge.
Like a king.
Like a god.
Like a bastard.
Soonyoung pointed up and whispered, “He’s planning something. I think.”
Jun opened a bag of treats and threw one across the room like a grenade.
“Okay,” he sighed. “Let’s unfuck this chaos demon.”
Then Junhui did what any seasoned cat parent would do—he crouched down, extended his hand, and spoke softly to the demon in the corner.
“Hi, baby,” he cooed in the same tone he used on babies, baristas, and drunk friends in bathrooms. “What’s your name, little guy?”
Meowwoo did not come forward.
He didn’t even blink.
Instead, he tilted his head slightly… and stared.
For a full twenty seconds.
Not moving.
Not breathing.
Just watching Jun like he was silently judging his outfit, his haircut, his monthly salary, his tax history, and the emotional baggage he carried from age seven.
Jun swallowed.
He had never felt more exposed under the gaze of a ten-pound creature with toe beans.
“…Okay,” he muttered, slowly retracting his hand. “He’s reading me for filth.”
Then Meowwoo stood up—slowly—walked forward with murder in his paws…
And sat directly on Jun’s shoes.
“…Oh,” Jun muttered. “He’s claiming me.”
“No! That’s good, right?” Soonyoung asked, hopeful.
Jun didn’t answer. He was too busy feeling a cold chill crawl down his spine. Something about the cat’s energy felt… wrong. Not aggressive. Not angry. Just ancient. Like Meowwoo had read books older than time. Possibly written some.
Then—suddenly—Meowwoo hissed at the light switch. No one had touched it.
Jun blinked.
“Okay. This is…” He stood back up slowly, brushing invisible static off his hoodie. “Soonyoung. Babe. This one’s not like the others.”
Soonyoung raised an eyebrow. “You literally have three cats named after doors. What could possibly freak you out?”
“This one’s got—” Jun looked back at Meowwoo, now licking his paw like he didn’t just hurl spiritual shade at the light switch. “—sentience. And a personal agenda.”
He turned to Soonyoung with a face he usually reserved for UFO sightings and pyramid scheme invites.
“I’ve been around a lot of cats. Ones with trauma. Ones with rage. Ones who hide under the fridge for five years. But this?”
He leaned in. Whispered.
“This cat is plotting something.”
Pause.
“Like… he looked at me and I remembered a dream I had when I was seven. I think he unlocked a repressed memory.”
Soonyoung, half-laughing: “You’re being dramatic.”
Meowwoo, from across the room, growled once.
The kitchen faucet dripped.
Jun flinched.
“I’m not saying he’s cursed. I’m just saying—if you start speaking other languages in your sleep, I’m not calling a vet. I’m calling a priest.”
Soonyoung blinked. “…what if he’s just shy?”
Jun gave him the most exhausted, veteran parent at PTA stare ever known to man.
“Soonyoung. He stared at my soul and I apologized to him. I didn’t even know why.”
Junhui didn’t see a pet.
He saw a test of spirit.
And Soonyoung…
He saw a weird little cat loaf with trauma.
And unfortunately, Soonyoung already loved him.
Moments passed and Jun stood in Soonyoung’s living room with a frozen pack of peas pressed to his face—courtesy of Meowwoo’s surprise aerial attack off the bookshelf.
He looked around the room: shredded curtains, one overturned chair, a roll of toilet paper unspooling like a crime scene, and Soonyoung just quietly crying while googling “can we sue cats for property damage and probably arson?”
“…Soonyoung,” Jun said carefully, stepping around a pile of shredded toilet paper, “of all pets, why did you get a black cat?”
Soonyoung sniffled, holding a broom like a weapon and a pride flag for survival. “No. He chose me. The universe put him on my doorstep.”
Jun dropped the frozen peas he had been icing his face with.
“Okay. First of all—black cats are emotionally complex. They’re the misunderstood bad boys of the feline zodiac. They’re like the Pisces of cats if Pisces had knives.”
He held up one finger. “Independent.”
Another. “Suspicious.”
Then pointed at Meowwoo—who was currently trying to open the fridge with his foot.
“And if they don’t like you? They will fake their own death to get out of living with you.”
Soonyoung blinked. “…Meowwoo passed out for three minutes earlier. I thought he died.”
“He was being dramatic,” Jun said, dead serious. “That’s act one. Wait until act three, when he disappears for twelve hours and comes back with a frog, trauma, and a sense of moral superiority.”
He adjusted his hoodie like he was about to give a real TED Talk and began pacing.
“You think dogs are needy? No. Black cats are emotionally manipulative roommates. They’ll stare at a blank wall for two hours then jump-scare you by running full speed across the room like they just saw death and said ‘fight me.’”
“They don’t just knock stuff over for fun. They do it with purpose. You’ll ask them why and they’ll blink like you should already know.”
“They want attention—but only when they want it. Not a second earlier. Not a second later. You pet them wrong? Boom. Lawsuit. You look at them too long? Emotional damages.”
“And don’t even get me started on the zoomies. You haven’t known fear until a black cat does a midnight parkour circuit on your spine while you’re sleeping.”
Jun stopped, turned dramatically to face him.
“This isn’t just a pet. This is a four-legged therapist with commitment issues and a possible grudge against mankind.”
Soonyoung blinked again, staring blankly at Meowwoo, who had successfully opened the fridge now and was just sitting inside it. No expression. Just cold judgment.
Jun lowered his voice like he was telling a ghost story.
“They’re loyal, yes. But it’s earned. You don’t own a black cat. You live under their evaluation.”
He leaned closer, whispering:
“If you pass, they’ll love you forever. If you fail… they haunt you.”
Soonyoung clutched the broom tighter.
Meowwoo made eye contact.
“I think I’m already being haunted,” he whispered.
Jun exhaled and patted his back.
“Then welcome to cat parenthood.”
Jun crouched down like a weary vet and said, more seriously now, “Also… I think he’s a rescue. A real one. Probably been through a lot of shit.”
Soonyoung blinked. “How can you tell?”
Jun gestured at the twitchy tail, the cautious body language, the purple, deeply judgmental eyes that read like a Yelp review.
“Look. He’s hyper-aware. Flinches at sounds. Not aggressive—but defensive. He’s not attacking you because he hates you,” Jun added, softer now. “He’s attacking you because he thinks you’re gonna hurt him first.”
Soonyoung blinked slowly.
“I did raise my voice earlier,” he whispered, guilty.
“I was just asking him to stop chewing the modem.”
Jun nodded sagely. “By that, he heard, ‘I will destroy you and everything you love.’”
Soonyoung looked at Meowwoo, who was now suspiciously quiet in the corner… just staring at a light switch.
Jun continued, “This cat doesn’t trust humans. Probably never been held with love. And you…”
“What about me?” Soonyoung asked, clutching his duck blanket.
Jun blinked. “You’re a walking emotional car crash with glitter on it.”
“Okay but like… a fixable car crash, right?”
Jun sighed. “Only if you want to do the work and actually want to take care of him. This isn’t just a coping mechanism with toe beans.. This is a whole living thing, okay? A soul. A whole messy little black void of trauma and fury who poops with intention.”
Jun paused, and then “You can’t love him halfway,” he added. “He’ll know. He’ll smell it on you. Then he’ll hide in the oven for three days and piss in your shoes.”
Soonyoung bit his lip. “What if I screw up?”
“You will,” Jun said. “But if you don’t give up on him, maybe he won’t either.”
Soonyoung looked down at the claw marks on his arm.
Then over at Meowwoo, who was now sitting in the sink like a loaf of emotional damage.
He took a deep breath.
“…Okay,” he whispered. “Challenge accepted, you little cute cryptid.”
In response, Meowwoo sneezed once and accidentally turned on the garbage disposal.
Jun took that as a sign to leave.
End of Day One:
Soonyoung has:
- 3 bite marks
- 1 destroyed router
- 0 clean pillows
- 1 black cat sitting in the sink
- and exactly -12 confidence
But he whispered before bed, eyes blank, towel wrapped around his head like a war veteran just barely holding it together:
“…maybe tomorrow will be better.”
And today?
He didn’t spiral.
Didn’t cry into his pillow like it owed him comfort.
Didn’t refresh the “tagged” tab on his ex’s profile or talk shit to the ceiling light.
Not because he healed.
God no.
He just didn’t have time.
Today he got busy.
Because he had bigger problems.
Like not dying in his own apartment.
Or preventing his place to explode, and chasing around his demon cat who definitely works for Satan and maybe started the fire on purpose.
And in the background—barely lit by the microwave clock—
Meowwoo opened a drawer.
It's a drawer that’s been stuck shut for two years.
Even Mingyu couldn’t open it.
That drawer was basically sealed by time, grease, and karma.
And yet.
Meowwoo.
Opened it. With his tiny paws.
Soonyoung blinked.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
Just stared at the cat—now calmly rifling through kitchen tools like he was looking for the right blade.
“He’s gonna kill me,” Soonyoung whispered “Tonight. In my sleep.
I’ll wake up to him standing on my chest with a butter knife and a motive.”
He flopped back onto the bed.
Refused to check the drawer.
He didn’t need confirmation.
He’d seen enough crime dramas to know when the killer was warming up.
Meowwoo purred once.
Once.
Like a threat.
Soonyoung turned over and whispered, “If I die, please someone clear my browser history.” A prayer.
He was wrapped in a fleece blanket that had tiny ducks on it. Not for comfort—just the only one Meowwoo hadn’t pissed on yet.
His entire body ached.
Emotionally? Still 98% in shambles.
Physically? Lightly mauled.
But his broken heart?
Maybe healing.
Like, 2.8% healed if you round up generously and ignore the underlying trauma.
But still, progress. Right?
The Next Day.
DAY TWO: THE MOTHER ERA.
Soonyoung woke up with a mission.
A purpose.
A cat sleeping directly on his bladder.
He blinked, patted Meowwoo gently—got scratched.
Okay. Great start. Good morning to you too, Satan.
But today? Today was different.
Today, he was becoming a real fur parent.
No more chaos. No more screaming.
He was entering his Responsible Cat Dad™ Era.
08:00 AM.
He created a spreadsheet titled “Meowwoo’s Healing Arc: A Redemption Timeline.”
There were tabs:
- Emotional Check-Ins
- Poop Tracking
- “Did He Try to Kill Me Today?” (yes/no dropdown)
He made a vet appointment.
He watched ten YouTube videos titled “Bonding With Your Aggressively Detached Rescue Cat.”
He even tried to meditate with Meowwoo beside him.
Unfortunately, the only mantra Meowwoo responded to was the sound of the electric can opener.
Still—Soonyoung was trying.
He wore his little duck-print apron.
He sterilized the food bowls.
He lit cat-friendly incense and whispered affirmations like:
“You are safe. You are loved. Please stop shitting under the TV stand.”
But the truth is…
Soonyoung had never owned a pet before.
Not because he didn’t love animals—no, he loved them too much.
Too fully. Too stupidly. Too Soonyoung-ly.
He was the kind of kid who waved at stray dogs and said “I hope your dreams come true.”
The kind who saved ants from puddles. The kind who made eye contact with pigeons and whispered, “You deserve happiness.”
But even as a kid, he knew:
Everything he loved had a way of disappearing.
Flashback:
Tiny, chubby-cheeked Soonyoung once cried for three full hours because he saw a crushed snail on the sidewalk.
Not just cried—wept.
Collapsed like a Greek widow in the middle of the pavement.
He named the snail Steven.
Held a funeral.
Made a tombstone out of a McDonald’s straw wrapper.
Then—because grief demanded ceremony—he pulled out a plastic recorder from his backpack and played “Amazing Grace” off-key while people walked around him like he was a tragic performance art piece.
A stranger gave him money.
He said thank you and used it to buy a sticker book for Steven’s memory.
That was the first time he realized:
“I’m not built for this.”
Ever since then, he told himself:
“I can’t handle loving something fragile. I get too attached. I’ll ruin it. I’ll ruin everything.”
So when friends asked if he wanted a dog, or a bunny, or a rescued turtle named Chad—
He always laughed and said “No, I’d get too obsessed.”
But what he really meant was:
“What if it loves me back and then leaves?”
Because love—real, living love—can leave.
People leave.
Hearts break.
Even snails get crushed on sidewalks.
He learned early that caring meant risk.
That loving something that depended on you came with the unbearable possibility that one day it won’t be there anymore.
So he protected himself the only way he knew how:
He just… didn’t try.
He kept that love boxed up, sealed under “not right now” and “maybe someday” and “it’s just safer this way.”
Until a black cat showed up on his doorstep and screamed at him like a reincarnated war general with rage issues.
Until this thing—this dark, furious, trauma-soaked little creature—looked him dead in the eye and said without words:
“I dare you.”
And Soonyoung said,
“…Fine.”
Then panicked for the next 48 hours.
But now, two days in, scratches on his arm, anxiety in his lungs, and a spreadsheet full of poop logs—
he’s realizing:
Maybe love is scary.
Maybe it will hurt again.
But maybe, just maybe—
this time, he gets to stay.
Back to Day Two.
12:37 PM. The Vet Visit.
Everything was fine until it wasn’t.
Meowwoo started the trip by screaming the entire way there.
Not meowing. Not crying.
Screaming.
The kind that made Soonyoung consider pulling over and checking if the carrier had caught fire.
The moment they walked in, the receptionist said,
“Oh no. A black one.”
To which Soonyoung said, “Excuse me?”
And the receptionist added, “No, no, sorry—I meant like, they usually hate thermometers.”
Okay. That wasn’t better.
Then came the actual vet check-up.
The moment the vet opened the carrier, Meowwoo launched out like a cursed spirit from an antique lamp and ran full speed into a fake ficus.
Knocked it over.
Then peed in it.
Soonyoung screamed.
The vet ducked.
Someone’s Pomeranian fainted.
They finally cornered Meowwoo using a baby gate and three slices of ham.
The vet looked at Soonyoung and said, “He’s very… spirited.”
Which Soonyoung knew was vet code for feral goblin demon child.
And for a second—just a second—he panicked.
Maybe this was too much.
Too hard.
He was not emotionally or financially equipped to raise a rage-filled shadow creature who hated everyone, especially thermometers.
He stared down at his scratch-covered arms, the urine-scented ficus, the disappointed Pomeranian owner.
His chest hurt a little.
But then—
just as the panic started to squeeze his lungs, just as the vet started muttering about “additional handling fees” and Meowwoo launched his third hiss in under a minute—
Soonyoung remembered Junhui’s words.
Soft. Steady. Annoyingly wise.
The kind of words that cling to your ribs and rattle around when things fall apart.
“You can’t love him halfway.”
And just like that, everything stilled.
Not physically—no, Meowwoo was still reenacting The Exorcist on the exam table.
But internally, something settled.
Soonyoung inhaled.
Exhaled.
Rolled his aching shoulder and looked over at Meowwoo—now perched like a tiny, furious mafia boss.
Judging him.
Silently threatening the nurse.
Tail flicking like a loaded gun.
Soonyoung stepped closer.
“I’m not giving up on you,” he whispered.
Not because it was easy.
Not because it was going well.
Not because he was a perfect cat dad.
But because for the first time in a long time, he wanted to stay.
He wanted to fight for something, not just fight to survive.
He wanted this stubborn, scared, dramatic little void with fur to have someone who stayed—even on his worst days.
Even if he screamed.
Even if he scratched.
Even if he never purred.
Meowwoo blinked at him.
Did not blink back.
Then, in what could only be described as the universe’s most karmically-timed pratfall, fell off the table.
And Soonyoung—without thinking, without flinching—caught him.
Barely.
Like a reflex. Like it was the most natural thing in the world to do.
Like his arms already knew:
“This is mine. I got him.”
Meowwoo went rigid in his arms, fur bristling, ears flat.
But he didn’t bolt.
Didn’t claw.
Just… froze there.
Letting himself be held, even if it was only for a second.
And Soonyoung—scratched, exhausted, emotionally feral himself—held him close anyway.
Despite the claws.
Despite the history.
Despite the look that clearly said, “I hate you and your ancestors.”
He tucked his chin over Meowwoo’s head, voice hoarse and too soft for the chaos of the moment, and whispered,
“Well too bad. I love you.”
Then paid $87 for a rabies shot and a stress chew.
End of Day Two.
Meowwoo curled up by Soonyoung’s feet.
Didn’t purr.
But also didn’t murder.
Soonyoung marked it in his spreadsheet:
Did He Try to Kill Me Today?
☑ No.
Healing percentage?
4.7%.
We move.
TIMESKIP: DAY 11
(aka The Day The Girls Held an Emergency House Meeting)
Soonyoung had officially gone 11 days without crying over his ex.
A record.
But only because he’d spent the last 10.5 days surviving his cat.
Between 3 a.m. ankle ambushes, surprise vomit on his laptop charger, and the deep psychological warfare of constant eye contact while pooping—there had been no time for heartbreak.
He hadn’t slept in two days.
He wore socks that didn’t match.
He found a Goldfish cracker in his underwear drawer, and he hadn’t bought Goldfish crackers in four years.
Healing looks different for everyone.
For Soonyoung, it looked like this:
Scratched arms. Mentally unstable cat. And a group of nosy friends entering his apartment like they were conducting a wellness raid.
Mingyu came in first, holding a tray of overpriced herbal teas like a disappointed mother whose child dropped out of med school to start a clown cult.
“I didn’t know you’d take Jeonghan’s advice more seriously than mine,” he said, staring pointedly at the untouched tea box still sitting on Soonyoung’s counter. Pristine. Sad. Unloved.
“It’s still SEALED,” Mingyu whispered, scandalized. “You haven’t even sniffed it.”
Soonyoung blinked sleepily. “You brought me gut-calming oolong. My gut hasn’t been calm since the Avengers split up.”
Joshua tiptoed in after him, stepping over a torn yoga mat and what looked like the half-digested remains of a hair tie.
“Well, it’s worse for me,” Joshua sulked, picking up a soggy, half-torn pamphlet from the floor. “He peed on the one with the dolphin on the cover.”
Soonyoung winced. “Sorry. I used the pages from that one to scoop litter.”
Joshua made a noise like he’d just been slapped by God.
Then Jeonghan walked in.
Correction: Jeonghan materialized inside the apartment. No one saw him enter. One minute he wasn’t there. The next minute he was sitting on the couch, legs crossed, holding a glass of wine he definitely did not bring.
He took a sip and said, “This place smells like grief and Glade.”
He wore sunglasses indoors, holding a smoothie he definitely stole, and immediately inserted himself into the conversation like an unskippable ad.
“Well,” he said with dramatic flair, “what’s weird—and disappointing—is that you got a cat, which was my idea, and you let us know three weeks later.”
“It’s been eleven days,” Soonyoung corrected gently, sweeping cat fur off a chair with a plate.
Jeonghan didn’t blink. “My point still stands.”
“It does not,” Joshua muttered.
“I’m sorry, I just find it fascinating,” Jeonghan continued, dramatically peeling off his sunglasses like he was about to deliver a TED Talk called “Betrayal and Felines: The Soonyoung Dilemma.”
“That after everything I’ve done for you—emotionally, spiritually, fashionably—you went with my idea and gave credit to fate like I wasn’t the original divine messenger.”
“You told me to get a cat while you were eating Flamin’ Hot Cheetos on my couch and doom-stalking my ex,” Soonyoung said, deadpan.
“Exactly,” Jeonghan nodded. “That’s when I’m at my most prophetic.”
Mingyu, in the corner, whispered to Joshua, “Is he gaslighting time right now?”
Joshua whispered back, “I think he’s trying to retroactively copyright advice.”
Jeonghan ignored them both and continued, already lounging on the armrest like a bitchy Roman senator.
“Honestly, I feel disrespected. Not surprised, because obviously no one here values my intellectual property, but definitely hurt.”
“You once told me to buy bitcoin because your dream journal said so,” Joshua said.
“And you didn’t,” Jeonghan replied calmly, “and now look at you. Broke. Dolphin piss on your brochure.”
Joshua looked away, ashamed.
“I’m just saying,” Jeonghan added, sipping his stolen smoothie like the moment was his, “if this cat ends up being the love of Soonyoung’s life or something—like a metaphorical soulmate or, I don’t know, a literal man in a cursed body—just remember who planted the seed.”
He pointed two fingers at his own eyes. Then at Soonyoung. Then at the cat.
Meowwoo stared at him, unblinking. Judging.
“Why is he staring at me like I owe him rent?” Jeonghan asked, suddenly uncomfortable.
“Because you do,” Mingyu said.
“You’re in my apartment,” Soonyoung added.
“…Whatever,” Jeonghan said, curling up into a blanket he didn’t bring. “Wake me up when he turns into a sexy man.”
Pause.
“I call dibs.”
“So what’s the sitch?” Mingyu asked, sitting down and removing a cat toy from under him like it was a landmine.
“Are you okay?” Joshua added, concerned.
“Define okay,” Soonyoung said, as something shattered in the kitchen. He didn’t even flinch.
Meowwoo appeared in the doorway seconds later.
Holding—somehow—an entire spoon in his mouth.
He dropped it. Meowed deeply.
Vanished.
Mingyu leaned forward. “Start from the top.”
Soonyoung sighed and sat criss-cross on the floor like a boy about to confess to arson.
“Okay. So eleven days ago, I was spiraling emotionally—”
“Bold of you to say was,” Joshua muttered.
“—and then bam, he was just there. On my porch. Wounded. Evil. Hot, in a terrifying way. And I thought, ‘Yes. That’s mine now.’”
Mingyu looked confused. “Why didn’t you just go adopt a normal cat?”
“I tried,” Soonyoung said. “But the shelter said I wasn’t emotionally stable enough to fill out the paperwork.”
“They asked him if he had trauma and he said ‘actively.’” Jeonghan added.
“And you… kept him?” Mingyu said, like it was the weird part of the story.
Soonyoung shrugged. “He meowed at me. But not like a normal meow. He went—” he dramatically lowered his voice—“miyawoooo.”
Everyone blinked.
“…You kept him because he made a funny sound?” Joshua asked.
“No!” Soonyoung said, a little too defensively. “I kept him because he chose me. And I named him Meowwoo.”
There was a pause.
Mingyu cringed. “You named your cat Meowwoo?”
Jeonghan perked up. “It’s giving… stage name. Like, ‘coming to the stage, Meowwoo the Illusionist.’”
“Or a failed K-hiphop soloist,” Joshua added. “‘Yo, what’s up it’s your boy Meowwoo, straight outta the alley.’”
Soonyoung folded his arms. “I think it’s cute.”
As if summoned by slander, Meowwoo strutted in like a villain in a telenovela.
Sat down.
And unleashed a guttural “MIYAWOOOOOO.”
Deep. Resonant.
Spine-chilling.
Goosebumps.
All four of them flinched.
“…I take it back,” Jeonghan whispered. “He’s not a failed rapper. He’s a demon trapped in a cat body.”
“Or like, the sound a haunted bidet makes,” Mingyu mumbled, visibly unnerved.
“Do you think he can read minds?” Joshua asked, slowly hiding his wallet behind a cushion.
Meowwoo blinked.
Jeonghan, still being aggressively unhelpful, tossed Meowwoo a Cheeto and said, “If I die tonight, I want you to know I love you the most. Bite them first.”
Somewhere between Meowwoo eating half a shoelace and everyone arguing over whether they needed a cat exorcist or a vibe check, Soonyoung leaned back and watched his friends argue like deranged aunts at a PTA meeting.
Meowwoo curled up beside his foot.
Didn’t purr.
Didn’t murder.
Just sat there.
And Soonyoung smiled.
His heart?
Still messy.
Still bruised.
DAY…???
(They’ve stopped counting. Time is a construct. Healing is non-linear. The cat runs the house now.)
At some point between Day 11 and the current undetermined day (which could be Day 14 or Day 47—who even knows anymore), Meowwoo started showing signs of… something dangerously close to personality.
Not kindness.
Not warmth.
But… something beyond murder and contempt.
A third thing.
Murder-adjacent affection.
- Last night, he dragged a dead centipede onto Soonyoung’s bed like a housewarming gift from The Underworld Home Depot.
Soonyoung cried.
Meowwoo blinked once and left the room like his job was done.
- He learned how to open the fridge. No one taught him. No one even knows how.
But now every morning starts with Soonyoung discovering a single bite taken from an obscure vegetable.
Like Meowwoo’s running food experiments for a toxicology report.
- He hasn’t peed on the bed in three whole days.
He now pees beside it, on the hardwood floor.
Respect.
And he’s getting bolder.
He’s started zooming around the apartment at 3:12 a.m.
Sharp. Precise. On schedule.
Like an angry NASCAR driver in a void suit of fur.
He made full eye contact while doing a backflip off a table, knocking over a lit candle and an unopened can of peach halves.
Soonyoung now owns a fire extinguisher.
It’s pink.
He named it Peaches.
Then there was the spaghetti incident.
Soonyoung was trying to do a romantic thing for himself.
You know, like in movies?
Make pasta.
Light a candle.
Watch an old K-drama and not cry.
He made it to minute four.
Meowwoo, upon smelling tomato sauce, parkoured off the kitchen counter, launched into the pot like a missile, and came out covered in sauce like a demonic lasagna.
He ran across the walls.
Literally.
Left paw prints above the doorframe.
Looked Soonyoung in the eye, dripping marinara, and said:
“Miyawoooo.”
Soonyoung tried to FaceTime Jun for emotional support.
Jun saw the state of the kitchen, saw Soonyoung’s face, saw the tomato-smeared cat…and hung up.
No words.
Just silence and judgment.
Five minutes later he texted:
“You’re on your own. Good luck, brother.”
But here’s the strange thing.
After the chaos, the wreckage, the scream-meow concert that made the upstairs neighbor move out—
Meowwoo curled up on Soonyoung’s stomach that night.
Like.
Curled.
Purred. (???)
Then bit him once just to stay on brand, and passed out.
Soonyoung lay there, staring at the ceiling.
Scratched, stained, slightly concussed from a falling picture frame.
But warm.
Tentatively okay.
“…Are you growing on me?” he whispered, softly petting Meowwoo’s murder loaf head.
Meowwoo twitched.
Then farted.
Loud.
Left the room.
Progress:
Soonyoung’s heart — 12.1% healed.
His carpet — unsalvageable.
His sense of control — fictional.
His cat?
A feral menace with a hint of domestic charm.
And somehow,
he wouldn’t trade it for anything.
DAY ???+3 walks later
(The day Soonyoung fully leaned into his role as Unhinged Cat Dad™)
—
Soonyoung walked his cat.
Yes.
WALKED.
His.
Feral. Black. Cat.
Like a fucking dog.
He strutted around the park like this was normal, like this wasn’t a full mental breakdown dressed in athleisure.
Meowwoo was on a harness. A little black harness. With silver studs.
They looked like a cursed glam-rock duo from an alternate timeline.
Soonyoung held the leash proudly.
Stiff arm. Full control. Chest out.
A child gasped. “Mommy! That man’s walking a kitty like a puppy!”
The mom grabbed her purse tighter. “Don’t look at him, baby.”
An old man paused his tai chi.
A teenager filming TikToks got 13 seconds of Meowwoo doing an aerial cartwheel after seeing a leaf move.
Meanwhile, Soonyoung grinned like a politician trying to prove he’s relatable.
“Come on, Meowwoo,” he chirped. “Let’s get those steps in. Who’s a good emotionally unavailable cryptid? You are. Yes, you are.”
The cat responded by sitting down mid-walk and refusing to move for six entire minutes.
Tail twitching. Eyes judging.
People detoured around them like they were radioactive.
Junhui was beside him, sipping his spicy tteokbokki out of a cup like it was a lukewarm witch’s potion.
His only contribution to the stares was saying, loud enough for everyone to hear,
‘It’s called leash training. Google it.’
Because if you asked Jun—between Soonyoung walking his cat or the cat walking Soonyoung—the leash was the least dramatic thing about today.
And honestly, he was in favor of it.
“This is so stupid,” Soonyoung muttered as he gently tugged the leash like a PTA dad.
“But look at him.”
He beamed. “He’s thriving.”
They reached a grassy expanse, a rare little heaven between chaos, dog poop, and local MLM recruiters.
Soonyoung, for reasons only the universe and maybe a fortune cookie could explain, had brought a stick.
A fetch stick.
To play fetch.
With his cat.
“Ready?” he grinned, kneeling dramatically like a soldier about to throw a grenade.
“Go, Meowwoo, GO!”
He launched it.
Meowwoo… blinked.
Stared.
Then sloooowly walked to the stick.
Junhui sipped his tteokbokki like tea.
Meowwoo sniffed the stick once… then picked it up—
—AND YEETED IT STRAIGHT BACK AT SOONYOUNG’S FACE.
Like a fastball pitch from hell.
“DUCK!” Jun screamed, and reflexively shoved Soonyoung to the side like an action movie stunt double.
The stick stabbed the dirt where his head had been 0.3 seconds ago.
Junhui lowered his arm from the dramatic lifesaving shove and whispered, “Jesus fucking Christ. That was a kill shot.”
Soonyoung blinked up from the grass, eyes wide, one shoe missing. “Did he just—did he throw it at me?”
Jun looked down at him like a disappointed coach.
“Congratulations. Your cat just rejected fetch and declared war.”
Meowwoo, several feet away, sat on the grass like nothing happened. Tail flicking. Staring dead into Soonyoung’s soul like,
“Weak.”
Soonyoung groaned, still flat on the dirt. “Okay but like… he interacted with the stick.”
Junhui scoffed. “So would Satan, that doesn’t mean you should feel proud about it.”
Soonyoung pointed one wobbly finger at the feline war criminal, pride wobbling in his voice.
“He participated. The enrichment was a success!”
“Bro,” Jun said, crouching beside him.
“He just clocked you with a pine branch. That’s not fetch. That’s domestic terrorism.”
But still, Soonyoung grinned from the ground, bruised and mildly concussed.
Because deep inside his very ruptured soul?
He counted that shit as a win.
Later, they sat side-by-side on a wooden bench, Soonyoung nursing a forehead bruise with a melting Neapolitan cone and a full heart.
Junhui fanning his burnt mouth, dramatically huffing over his lava-hot snack.
Meowwoo sat a short distance away—still on leash, coiled like a void loaf in the sun.
The leash slack. The park soft around them. The world unusually gentle for once.
And Soonyoung… watched.
The little demon-cat wasn’t biting.
Wasn’t glaring.
Wasn’t plotting unspeakable crimes.
He just… sat.
Peaceful.
But not just peaceful.
His eyes—normally full of murder and disdain—looked…
sad.
Not dramatic sad. Not performative sad.
Heavy sad.
Like he was carrying lifetimes of something he couldn’t put down.
Something ancient. Lonely. Raw.
Soonyoung’s chest twisted.
He’d been so focused on surviving Meowwoo’s claws, dodging rice cooker jumps, translating the bass-boosted meows—
He hadn’t really asked:
What happened to you?
What kind of pain made even comfort feel dangerous?
What kind of past made safety feel fake?
Soonyoung swallowed a lump in his throat that didn’t come from his ice cream.
His eyes didn’t leave the small, still creature on the grass.
Had he been beaten?
Starved?
Abandoned?
Was he dying when he showed up at Soonyoung’s door?
Had no one stayed long enough before?
Soonyoung’s heart throbbed so hard it ached in his palms.
Soonyoung’s grip tightened around his melting ice cream cone.
His chest twisted, not in a dramatic way—
but in that quiet, slow-twisting pain that lives under your ribs.
The kind that doesn’t scream.
It just… stays.
His eyes never left the cat—small, black, curled up like a void trying not to be noticed.
Still.
But not resting.
Hyperaware.
Silent in the kind of way that used to be loud.
“Hey,” he said softly.
The word didn’t crash.
It floated.
Gentle. Almost afraid to land.
Meowwoo didn’t move.
Didn’t flinch.
But his ears shifted.
Just slightly.
A twitch. Barely visible.
Still here.
And somehow, that tiny motion shattered something deep in Soonyoung’s chest.
Because he realized—
The cat was listening.
Always listening.
Waiting for the moment he’d have to run again.
Soonyoung exhaled.
Not dramatically.
Not with flair.
Just a long, soft breath that tasted like grass and worry and love.
“I don’t know what happened to him, Junhui,” he whispered.
Voice small. Real.
“But whatever it is…”
He swallowed hard.
“I’m not gonna add to it.”
The wind moved gently through the trees.
Junhui looked over from his half-eaten tteokbokki but said nothing.
Just watched.
Soonyoung’s voice cracked, just a little.
“He doesn’t have to be perfect. Or fixed. Or nice. Or easy.”
Pause.
“He doesn't even have to like me yet.”
Another pause.
Then, with the faintest smile—
“But he’s not going through the rest of it alone.”
Junhui raised a brow. “You okay?”
Soonyoung took a beat.
Then nodded, eyes still on Meowwoo.
“…Yeah,” he said softly.
Then after a pause, added—
“I mean, no. But like… a meaningful kind of no.”
Jun hummed. “Therapist would eat that line up.”
Soonyoung didn’t answer.
He just watched the cat again.