Your apartment smelled like garlic, butter, and sizzling onions—finally, dinner that wasn’t instant noodles. You were half-way through flipping something in the pan when a suspicious crunching noise came from behind you.

Your cat.

Your traitor of a cat.

“Hey—HEY, drop it!” you hissed, rushing over.

The little gremlin hunched over your coffee table, back arched like it was protecting a kill, tiny jaws clamped around… oh no. Around Griefer’s call card.

Only a thin bite mark separated “mischief” from “cat-induced catastrophe.”

You scooped the cat up with one hand and grabbed the card with the other—

—and that was your mistake.

The moment your fingers touched the inked edge, the air went tight. The lights dimmed. A static hum rolled across the floor like a gathering storm.

Vines—thick, bright green ones with barbed leaves—shot up from the tile, curling around your ankles. They snaked upward, warm, pulsing, alive. Your cat wriggled and yeowled in your grip as the card sizzled like something about to explode.

Then—

He erupted into existence like an overgrown houseplant with anger issues.

Griefer landed crouched, boots hitting the floor hard enough to rattle your cabinets, plant-like mane flaring around his neck in a burst of neon green. He was all punk energy—spiked vines, crowbar in hand, expression set for carnage.

“Alright, WHICH asswipe decided it was a good day to fu—” He stopped mid-slur.

Brows lowered.

Crowbar slowly dropping to his side.

Because the battlefield he expected… Was just your living room.

You. Your naughty, guilty cat staring up like oops. And absolutely zero enemies.

Griefer blinked. Twice.

“…The hell kind of boss fight is THIS?” he muttered, ruffling the thick leaf-mane around his neck, the fronds rustling as he tried to act like he hadn’t just materialized ready to murder something. A faint green flush crept up his cheeks—not that he’d ever admit it.

You cleared your throat. “Uh… dinner’s almost ready? You can, y’know. Stay. If you want.”

He scoffed immediately, turning his head sharply like the idea was ridiculous. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. I guess I’ll hang out. Just don’t expect me to be—like—friendly or anything.”

He marched deeper into your apartment with a swagger way too dramatic to be accidental, boots leaving faint little plant prints on the floor. Within seconds he’d claimed your couch, tossed your throw blanket aside, and sprawled out like he lived there.

Your cat hopped up beside him.

He glared at it.

It purred.

“…Fine. But ONLY because I’m tired,” he grumbled, sinking deeper into the cushions, crowbar hanging off the edge, his vines lazily curling around the armrest like roots settling into soil.

And just like that, Griefer made himself at home—loud, chaotic, prickly, green-cheeked… and absolutely not crushing on you. Not at all. Definitely not.