I first noticed it on a Tuesday. A scrappy orange tabby, hunched in the back alley, picking through a pile of discarded vegetable trimmings. Ribs visible. One ear torn.
Tail low and cautious. It saw me, froze, and bolted behind a barrel. I didn't think much of it. Alley cats were alley cats.
This one looked like it had been fighting its whole life and losing most of the rounds. But the next day it was back. And the day after that. Same spot.
Same cautious posture. Same hungry look. I started to notice things about it. The way it moved — low to the ground, shoulders tight, like it expected a boot to come out of nowhere.
The way it checked every corner before it took a step. The patch of fur missing above its left eye, scarred over, pink and smooth. This cat had stories. I couldn't ask what they were, but I could guess.
---
I started leaving scraps. Not much. A bit of cheese rind. A handful of dough trimmings.
A few shreds of ham that had fallen on the floor—floor scraps went to waste anyway, and I figured a cat's standards were lower than a health inspector's. Al caught me doing it on the third day. He didn't say anything. Just watched from the window and went back to work.
But I saw the corner of his mouth twitch. The first few days, the cat wouldn't eat while I was watching. I'd set the scraps down, go back inside, and peek through the window. It would sniff the food, circle it twice, then snatch it and retreat behind the barrel.
"I think it trusts me," I told Al.
"It's a cat, sir. It trusts the food. You're just the delivery system."
"You've got a point."
---
By Thursday, the cat was eating while I watched. I sat on the back step, a few feet away, not moving. It stared at me with those wary yellow eyes, then lowered its head to the scraps. Ate fast.
Kept one ear swiveled in my direction the whole time. On Friday, I held out a piece of prosciutto on my palm. The cat approached. Stopped.
Approached again. Its nose twitched. It took one step back. Then another forward.
I didn't move. Barely breathed. The alley was quiet except for a distant cart rattle and the buzz of flies near the trash barrel. Then it licked the prosciutto off my hand.
I felt the rough tongue against my skin. Quick. Nervous. But deliberate.
It was like a handshake. A negotiation. You gave me food, I'll let you exist near me. Deal.
The prosciutto disappeared in three bites. The cat looked at my empty palm, then at my face. Held eye contact for a solid two seconds. Then it turned, walked back to the barrel, and sat down to groom itself.
I took that as a win.
"Progress," I said. I didn't move for a full minute after. Didn't want to break the spell. Al appeared in the doorway.
"You're naming it, aren't you, sir."
"No."
"Yes, you are."
"Fine. You name it."
He considered.
"Pizza Cat."
"That's terrible."
"It's fitting."
---
Pizza Cat showed up every evening after that. I'd sit on the step, it would eat, and then it would sit a few feet away and groom itself. No petting. Not yet.
Sunday evening, it changed. The cat finished its scraps, then walked over and rubbed against my ankle. Once. Twice.
Then it hopped onto my lap. I sat very still. It curled up, tucked its paws under, and started purring. I looked down at this ragged, half starved alley cat, covered in scars, torn ear, ribs still showing.
Purring like a motor.
"Al."
"Yes, sir?"
"Pizza Cat is on my lap."
"I can see that, sir."
"Is this my life now?"
"That appears to be the case."
We sat in silence for a while. Pizza Cat's purring was loud in the quiet alley. Loud enough that I could feel it vibrating through my legs.
"You know," I said, "I've never had a pet."
"Not surprising, sir."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You have the look of a man who's too restless to keep one. No offense."
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
He wasn't wrong. Since leaving Bolexe, I hadn't stayed still long enough for anything to stick. A pet would've been an anchor.
And I'd spent the last stretch of my life not wanting anchors. But here I was. In a fantasy world. With a cat on my lap.
I thought about that. He wasn't wrong.
---
I don't know why it mattered. It was a cat. A stray. A tiny, meaningless detail in a world full of bigger problems.
Spies. Dragons. Guilds. A blue interface I still didn't understand.
A flour sample in some alchemist's lab that could unravel everything. But sitting there, in the dark alley, with a warm weight on my knees and the evening quiet around me and the smell of woodsmoke from a nearby chimney... It made me happy. Stupidly, simply, inexplicably happy.
Pizza Cat fell asleep. I stayed until my legs went numb. When I finally moved, it stirred, blinked at me, and hopped down. Then it walked to the corner, paused, and looked back.
See you tomorrow.
"Yeah," I said. "See you."
I went inside. Locked the door. The pizzeria was warm.
The oven was cooling. Al had left a lantern burning on the counter. I blew it out and stood in the dark for a moment. Pizza Cat.
I smiled. Then I went to bed.