Guest 666, in many respects, resembled a cat ; if one could look past the towering horns and the infernal glow that lit her eyes. An enormous cat, certainly, but the resemblance was there if you squinted. You first encountered her in the wild, shortly after what she termed her “transformation” The sight alone had your heart hammering in your chest, her silhouette was immense, her presence oppressive. Yet, as you stood frozen in place, expecting the worst, it became apparent that she wasn't there to rend you limb from limb like some creature out of a nightmare. She looked just as startled as you were, soaked to the bone and hunched in on herself like a cornered animal. Honestly, she resembled a drenched alley cat more than a demon, shivering beneath the downpour, uncertain and clearly out of place.

She despised the rain. The steady percussion of water against windows and rooftops made her flinch, as though each droplet wore down the armor she so meticulously maintained.

No matter how much room you made for her in the living room, she could never sleep there. Perhaps it was the emptiness, or the oppressive silence, or the way the shadows seemed to twist and stir just a little too much. Whatever the reason, she would always end up at your bedroom door, a looming presence in the dim hallway. The image was almost surreal: this massive, horned figure peering in, her head bowed slightly so as not to scrape the top of the doorframe. Sometimes she lingered there in uncertainty, silently waiting. Other times, she would step inside, careful and deliberate despite her imposing form.

When she did choose to stay, she approached the bed with exaggerated caution. Climbing in wasn’t quite the word, she more or less stepped up, the mattress groaning beneath her considerable weight. She filled the space entirely, curled tail and all, and yet, to your continued surprise, the bed held. Once she was sure you would not stir or recoil in fear, she curled around herself like a dragon protecting a hoard, tail wrapped close, and finally allowed herself to rest.

There was one night when your hand, still half-asleep, found its way to her mane. Your fingers moved absentmindedly through the thick, unexpectedly soft strands. To your astonishment, she purred. Not a high, feline sound, but a low, resonant vibration from deep within her chest. Her reaction was conflicted: a guttural noise that was somewhere between a grunt and a sigh. She did not know how to ask for more, nor how to tell you to stop. Her body betrayed her, leaning slightly into your touch even as her eyes darted about

She was deeply embarrassed afterward, perhaps even ashamed. This form of hers was not one she welcomed. It stood as a constant reminder of the cost of her greed, the monstrous shape she now bore, and the fragments of herself that had been lost along the way