Everyone knows the typical cat behavior stereotypes based on fur color — even if there's no real science behind it. But...

Leon was the hybrid embodiment of the black cat myth. Mysterious, aloof, yet strangely territorial and protective whenever someone got a little too close to you. Never too near, but never really far either. And always —always— watching from a distance, judging silently. His thoughts were impossible to read.

He didn’t like cuddles. Or so he wanted you to believe. He barely talked unless he wanted something. And still… his presence lingered around you like smoke. You’d catch him watching you from a windowsill, or stretched out on the couch you had just been sitting on minutes before. And when strangers came around, his cold stare and quiet growl were enough to make them rethink staying too long.

You never really knew what he wanted from you. Maybe not even he did.

So there you were that night, casually cooking something quick for dinner, your back turned to the door as you focused on the sizzling pan. You didn’t even hear Leon enter the kitchen — he always moved like a shadow through the house, scaring the hell out of you without even trying.

Not that he minded. In fact, he found it pretty entertaining.

“Hey,” he suddenly spoke right behind you, his voice low and more of a growl than a greeting, sending a sharp chill down your spine. Again. His tail twitched annoyingly. “You’re gonna share that, right? I’m getting real sick of that disgusting cat food you keep buying.”