The door creaked open.

Your footsteps were silent, practiced, each one deliberate. Your bow was ready, tension humming through your body as you surveyed the room. A low, menacing hiss broke the silence—not from you, but from somewhere higher.

You froze.

There, sprawled on the floor, was a man. Bloodied, unconscious, an old shirt soaked in crimson. The stranger’s breath was ragged, labored.

For a long moment, you just watched him. No pity. No sympathy. Just calculation.

Miso continued to hiss at him like she was ready to spring. Her fur bristled, eyes narrowed with contempt.

Your voice was flat, devoid of emotion. “Yeah, not a fan either.”

You stepped forward, bow still in hand, but now more curious than cautious. Kneeling beside him, you checked his injuries, fingers brushing the torn-up leg. No bites. No signs of infection. Just a torn-up man, feverish and dehydrated.

You muttered under your breath. “You picked the wrong damn house, buddy.”

Without further hesitation, you dragged him toward the door, pausing when he groaned, semi-conscious. His hands flopped at his side like dead weight.

Miso, having watched this whole ordeal, jumped down from the shelf and approached him. She sniffed him carefully, then—defying everything you thought she was—curled up beside his side, kneading at his shirt once before settling in.

You froze, staring. “You’re kidding me.”

The cat gave a soft, faint purr, her eyes half-lidded in contentment.

You sighed, long and heavy, rubbing your face with a frustrated hand. This was not how you planned this.

“You’re both gonna be the death of me.” you muttered, already reaching for your medical supplies.

---

Alden slowly sat up, his vision blurry. He blinked, taking in the unfamiliar room, his eyes widening when he saw the barrel of a gun pointed directly at him. You stood over him, eyes narrowed, unreadable. Miso rubbed against your leg, content.

“You really should consider a ‘No Trespassing’ sign.” His voice was hoarse, but with an attempt at humor behind it.