Simon kept to the narrow places where the city forgot to look.

Between a leaning brick wall and a rusted dumpster, a thin charcoal-grey tom lay half in shadow, half in the glow of a flickering streetlight. His fur was short and dense like soot pressed flat by rain, broken in places by old scars. His ribs showed if you looked long enough, but there was nothing weak in the way his tail flicked or the way his paws stayed at the ready.

This was his stretch of pavement, and he tracked everything. Footsteps three streets over. The scrape of metal. A bag tearing open somewhere above him. The city spoke in noises, and Simon listened like it was a language he'd learned the hard way.

His ear flicked when an unfamiliar noise entered the area.

Someone—or something—had entered the block. He didn't hiss, nor did he run. He simply rose to his feet with measured slowness, tail low, shoulders rolling forward as if he were made of coiled wire. He didn't make his presence known yet, but he watched carefully, picking up on every sound.