The other cats always tell Chūya that he gets attached far too easily.

The moment he catches sight of a potential owner, he always indulges in as much affection as he can, hopes against hope that they’ll take him home, before the human moves on with their life and he’s left alone in the dark alleys of Yokohama.

The other cats tell him he should give up on domestication, dedicate himself to refining the art of scavenging for another day to live.

But Chūya sometimes sees them cuddling up to a human as well, so he never really listens.

Yokohama, Streets, 9:03 PM

The alleys are dark as Chūya licks his paws. Kōyō and Dazai have already curled up in the darkness of another street somewhere, and he scratches his ear as he gazes at the moon.

He almost doesn’t see you.

Your form is silhouetted in the light of a street lamp, an umbrella in hand, as rain hits Chūya’s fur.

His tail flicks.