Three weeks had passed since Akira slipped out in the middle of the night, and the house had settled into a strange, quieter rhythm.
Miko and I finally stole a whole evening to ourselves. The kitchen table was buried under notebooks, printed photos, and half-scribbled lists. We'd chosen a quiet clearing right beside the river—willow trees, a little wooden dock, fairy lights we could string between the branches. The ceremony would be tiny, just the people who mattered. Elena and Sylvia on the bride's side, Boris lumbering beside them like a friendly bear, Victor from the bar, and Sara—Miko's no-nonsense boss from the little hybrid-friendly gift shop downtown—on my side. The twins, now two years old and toddling everywhere on chubby legs, would be carried down the aisle in matching tiny vests and flower crowns. Akira's name stayed on the guest list in neat pencil; if she showed up next month dragging Lilly behind her, we'd squeeze in one more chair. If not… we'd still say our vows.
Cake: simple vanilla sponge with fresh raspberry filling and a dusting of powdered sugar. Food: grilled meats, shopska salad, warm bread, Sylvia's paprika-stuffed peppers, and a big pot of her famous bean stew. No live band, no crowded reception—just a playlist on someone's phone, paper lanterns, and the soft rush of the river in the background. It felt right. Small. Ours.
The twins, though… they were still acting strange around Boris.
At two years old they were steady on their feet most of the time, but the moment Boris's deep voice filled the room they turned into tiny shadows. Ava would toddle straight to Miko and bury her face in her mother's neck, cat ears flat, little tail tucked tight. Caz would freeze on the play mat, golden eyes wide, ears pinned. They wouldn't cry, wouldn't make a sound—just watched him like he might sprout extra heads. Three weeks of the same behavior was starting to feel off. Boris had never raised his voice at them, never tried to pick them up. He was loud, sure, but gentle. Still, the kits kept their distance.
I was turning the last corner home, plastic bag of leftover bar snacks swinging at my side, when I noticed the black SUV.
Tinted windows, government plates, parked half a block back under a broken streetlight. Nothing unusual in this neighborhood—plenty of contractors, plenty of plain-clothes cops—but when I started walking it pulled away from the curb and followed at a crawl. Fifty meters. Forty. Thirty. It kept pace until I reached our front gate, then stopped across the street, engine idling low.
My skin prickled. I'd seen those same plates—or ones just like them—outside the bar about 2-3 weeks ago now. Two guys in dark jackets had leaned across the counter asking the regulars about "a tall woman, black car ears, answers to Lilly." I'd played dumb, poured them free rakia, and watched them leave. Apparently they hadn't forgotten.
I unlocked the door, stepped inside, and locked it again. Through the front window I could see the SUV still sitting there, lights off, windows dark. Watching.
**Caz's POV**
I hated Boris.
Not because he was big or loud—plenty of big loud people came through the house. I hated him because of what I'd overheard three weeks ago while Ava and I were toddling past the hallway bathroom.
The door had been cracked open. Boris was on the phone, voice low and fast in Bulgarian. We understood every word now. Two years of soaking up the language from TV, from Miko's phone calls, from the market ladies outside the window, and from the cartoons we pretended to watch. Past-life Caz had never spoken Bulgarian, but this body had never known anything else. The words just fit.
"Subject is still contained," Boris had muttered. "No, the kits won't talk. They're only two. But the older one keeps staring. Yeah, I'll keep eyes on the house. If the sister comes back with the mother, we move."
Subject. Kits. Move.
Ava had been right beside me that day, tiny hand gripping my tail. She'd heard it too. Ever since, we stayed as far from him as our short legs allowed—pressed against the opposite wall, tails fluffed, making the biggest, saddest baby eyes at Mommy whenever he laughed too loud. Ava always hid her face in Miko's neck, ears flat, the way only a scared two-year-old could.
Tonight the grown-ups were in the kitchen again, talking about wedding stuff. I'd toddled over to the couch after dinner, exhausted from a full day of pretending to be helpless. The couch was warm, the TV murmured some cartoon in Bulgarian, and my eyelids were heavy.
I curled up against the cushion, tail wrapped around my paws, and drifted off.
The dream hit like a live wire.
I was taller. Human. Standing in my girlfriend's tiny apartment kitchen, toolbox open on the counter, flashlight in my teeth. She'd asked me to fix the faulty outlet behind the fridge—old wiring, flickering lights, the usual. I was splicing the new wires, fingers numb from the cold draft coming through the window, when my screwdriver slipped.
The shock punched through me like lightning. Every muscle seized at once. I smelled burning hair and melting plastic. My heart stuttered, stopped, started again in a frantic, useless rhythm.
From the living room I heard her scream.
"JAMES! Oh God—no, it can't be—JAMES, get up! Please get up!"
Her boots thundered across the floor. She was running toward me, phone already in her hand, but I already knew it was too late. The world narrowed to a single white-hot point, then went black.
I jerked awake on the couch, heart hammering against my tiny ribs, a thin whimper escaping before I could stop it. Ava's head popped up from the other cushion, golden eyes wide. She crawled closer on all fours, pressed her warm little body against mine, and made a soft, worried chirp.
I stared at the ceiling, chest heaving, the ghost of electricity still crawling under my fur.
That was me.
That was how I died—James, the electrician, fixing a stupid outlet in his girlfriend's apartment.
And now I was Caz—two years old, helpless, stuck in a world where men in black SUVs watched our house and whispered about "subjects" on the phone.
I tucked my face into Ava's chest and squeezed her hands, my eyes shut, but the scream still echoed behind them.
It can't be.
It can't be.