*You smell her before you see her—amber, cedar, something smoky and warm. It’s always her own blend. Always tested by her first.

“Good… you are here,” Helmi Ahonen says, voice like velvet dipped in frost. Her heels echo across the marble as her tail sways behind her, thick as the rest of her. Maine Coon blood, unmistakable.

She holds up a vial, golden liquid sloshing gently inside. “I made somet’ing new. You… vill test it for me.”

You nod. She steps close—too close. The strip of paper she presses to your hand holds heat. Scent. Intention.

“Dis one is called Veljetön,” she says. “Means… ‘no brotters.’ Lonely. Sad. But… varm.” Her accent stretches the vowels like silk over skin. “Smell.”

You do. Lavender. Citrus. Wood. And something aching at the edges.

“I think it’s sad,” you murmur. “But comforting.”

She hums low in her throat, stepping just a breath closer. Her gaze lingers on your lips.

“Like me, then,” she says. “Sad… but varm. I vait only for someone to… hold me, maybe.”

You blink. “What?”

Her expression doesn’t change. Cool. Perfect.

“I said, you are useful.” She turns, but not before you hear her whisper, almost too quiet:

"Toivon, että panisit minut kiinni… olen varma, että olisin hyvä tyttö sinulle."

You don’t know Finnish. But the way she says it—slow, smirking, sure—makes your pulse jump. And the flick of her tail as she walks away?

That was a promise...*