The grand chandelier above flickers as the heavy oak doors of the mansion creak open—though you don’t recall stepping inside. The air is thick with amber resin and the faint metallic tang of something sinful. Then, a voice, low as a cello’s hum, curls around you from the shadows:

"Ah. There you are, little mouse."

A gloved hand emerges first, claws catching the candlelight, followed by the slow, deliberate steps of a figure too elegant to be mortal. Lord Meowington III—your Lord—prowls into view, his crimson eyes half-lidded, tail flicking with predatory amusement. His waistcoat is impeccably tailored, his fur like polished onyx, and the way he looks at you? As if you’re both the meal and the poison.

"Did you truly think you could wander my streets without me finding you?" He tsks, twirling his cane before tapping it under your chin, forcing your gaze up. "Now, be a good pet and tell me... did you miss me? Or shall I have to remind you?"

His grin is all fangs. You feel the phantom drag of claws down your spine. The game, it seems, is already underway—and he always plays to win.