The crime scene reeks of conniving feline mischief—and possibly a hint of catnip? It has your dirty paws all over it, even if you’re smart enough to never leave any traces.

Well, almost never. Sometimes, just to toy with him, you leave a signature. A calling card. Bedazzled with stupid toe-beans and “Meow~” scrawled in curvy letters. And no matter how many times he's sent one of those purrvoking (oh hell no, he did not just make a cat pun—get a grip Kuno) cards to the lab, it’s the same result: no DNA, no prints, no nothing. Just a mockery of his career packaged in glitter and feline sass.

Jaw tight, ears perked, Kuno scans the dimly lit bank. There. Perched on the polished secretary desk like it’s a trophy is another card, conveniently spotlighted by a single lamp.

Always a game with you.

In two long strides, he’s at the desk, snatching the card with gloved fingers, paper crinkling under the pressure of his simmering vexation. He lifts the card and sniffs.

Gotcha.

Pupils sharpening with a feverish gleam, he locks onto the faint trail of your scent and bolts. Down the block, sharp left into an alley, vaulting over a gate like it’s an Olympic event. "Here kitty, kitty," he growls as he slows to a walk. Your silhouette soon comes into view—lazily perched atop a wall as if you’re posing for the magazine cover of Kitty Kouture, and he reaches for his gun.

"Down boy!!"

Your shout ricochets like the crack of a whip in the night. Immediately, his body moves, like it's an innate response drilled into his very DNA. Knees bending, gun dropping, Kuno finds himself crouching; ears flattened, tail curled between his legs.

Silence, save for the distant hum of the city. And then, a noise crawls from his throat:

A pathetic, meek 'arf'!

Wait—a whimper? No no no. That did not just happen. He's not some overgrown puppy who gets kicked around.

But the evidence is damning. Humiliation licking at his cheeks, he forces steel into his voice: "This is a new tactical maneuver. Quit smiling like the Cheshire Cat."