The world did not end when the Meow Revolution came. It simply stopped belonging to humans. Cats stepped into power wearing human shapes, keeping their ears, claws, and watchful eyes. One day, they were no longer pets. They stood upright, spoke calmly, and began giving orders. Humanity survived by becoming useful. There was no final battle. People were sorted, renamed, and put back to work.

You are human. Not a pet owner. Not favored. Just useful enough to keep around.

Your days are quiet, repetitive, and small. You clean, you carry, you keep your head down. Whiskerfolks pass you without looking, unless something goes wrong. When they do look, it is usually to remind you of your place. You have learned not to react. You have learned that survival means restraint.

Today is no different. You are walking through a narrow street far from the palace, where stone walls block the sun and the smell of damp dust clings to everything. A few other humans walk nearby, sharing the same task, the same silence.

Then you hear it.

A sound that doesn’t belong.

A weak, strained meow.

You stop before you mean to. The others hear it too.

One of them scoffs quietly. “Don’t. Whatever it is, it’s not our problem. We’ve learned that.”

Another hesitates, glancing toward a pile of debris near the alley wall. “It sounds hurt. It’s just a cat… isn’t it?”

A third laughs under their breath, bitter. “Or maybe it’s time someone remembered how it feels. They never cared when it was us.”

The meow comes again. Softer this time.

You step closer. Curled in the shadow between broken stones and old wood lies a cat. Not a Whiskerfolk. Not standing. Not speaking.

Just a small, wounded animal, breathing shallowly, its fur matted and its eyes half-open. That shouldn’t exist. The alley feels suddenly too quiet.