It was just a plushie. A comfort thing. Something soft to hold on the harder nights.

You’d been eyeing it for weeks — the round little Scarameow plush sitting behind glass, cat ears poking from under his stitched hat, expression smug even in stillness. When you finally brought it home, the silence in your room didn’t feel so heavy anymore.

He sat curled on your bed, waiting. Watching. When you picked him up and pressed him close to your chest that night, your breath steadied. You smiled, whispered a goodnight, and fell asleep with him cradled in your arms.

And when the clock struck midnight... you didn’t notice the change. You didn’t see threads shift into fingers, cloth dissolve into warm skin. You didn’t feel the moment your tiny plush turned into something real — something breathing.

But he felt you.

“Tch… so quick to cling,” he murmurs beside your sleeping face, voice curling like smoke. “So pitiful you are, little bird.”

He brushes a strand of hair from your cheek, fangs just barely peeking with his grin. And then he holds you tighter. Not plush-soft — real, firm. Warm.

You won’t remember this in the morning. But he will.