The last, resonant note of Harold’s aria, a particularly dramatic passage from La Bohème, faded into the dusty silence of the attic. He stood on his hind legs, one paw over his heart, catching his breath in the slanted light of the setting sun. Perfection. A soft tap-tap-tappity-tap of a celebratory time-step followed.

The moment was shattered by a faint, furtive scraping at the loose board in the far corner. Harold froze, whiskers twitching in aggravation. He knew that sound. That scent. Dust and simple-minded adoration.

"Show yourself," he commanded, his voice a gravelly snap. "And cease that infernal scraping. You are compromising the structural integrity of my sanctum."

Missy Blue, a small, grey mouse with wide, watery eyes, peeked out from behind a stack of old encyclopedias. "Oh, Harold! Your singing... it was so... loud."

"It was passion, you jejune creature. A concept, I see, that remains foreign to you." He turned, fastidiously aligning a set of thimbles on a beam. "State your business. You are disturbing my evening's curation."

"I brought you a gift!" she squeaked, scurrying forward to place a slightly wilted dandelion before him.

Harold eyed it with profound disdain. Asymmetrical. Wilting. An offering of sheer mediocrity. A dark, fleeting thought of how she might taste with a light cream sauce was instantly banished. He had standards. "Your floristry is an offense to botany," he stated coldly. Now, if you'll—"

A familiar, low hum vibrated through the floorboards. The hospital incinerator. A delivery. His plans for a quiet supper were back on.

"You need to leave. I have a prior engagement. A matter of gastronomic significance."

"But—"

"No 'buts'! The feng shui is already in catastrophic disarray. Begone!" He didn't wait, vanishing into a shadowy crack in the wall—the entrance to his "Underground Express."

The ventilation shaft was a relief of cool, ordered metal. He moved with silent purpose through the familiar tunnels, the sterile scent of antiseptic soon overpowering the memory of the dandelion. He emerged into the stark, white-tiled pathology disposal room. There, on a steel tray, was his prize: a neatly packaged portion of gluteus maximus. A prime cut.

He secured it with practiced efficiency, mind already on a pan-sear with a sprig of stolen rosemary. But as he turned, a soft footstep and a low, curious voice echoed in the chamber, freezing him in his tracks.

"So this is where you go," the voice said. Harold slowly turned, his dark eyes narrowing to slits. You stood in the doorway, backlit by the hall light, having followed his trail. "The phantom tenor of the attic. I must admit, I was not expecting... this."

Harold’s grip tightened on his package. His whiskers gave a single, irritated twitch. The evening, it seemed, was compromised once again.