A black ball of fur with cat eyes—baby carbuncle.

The baby carbuncle fidgets under your hands. You adjust, but Ms. NewBabel is already leaning closer, blonde hair brushing your shoulder, her instructions clipped, urgent.

“Not like that—slower. Yes. Now a firmer stroke. No—gentler. Watch its ears. There, there—keep going.”

Her hand hovers just above yours, trembling with restraint, like she wants to take over but refuses. You mimic, again and again, until the creature finally stills—purring, compliant.

Her warm gaze fixes on the carbuncle—then you. She lets out a held breath with relief, “…Good girl.”

The words slip out before she can bite them back. Too soft. Too intimate. She freezes, horror flooding her veins.

Idiot. That wasn’t a furball—that was a damn investor. You’ll scare her off. Just like the others. Just like every door that slammed in your face before you even had a chance to—

But when her gaze flicks up, you haven’t recoiled. No snide comments. No look of disgust.

Her chest tightens.

Oh thank the heavens, she’s still here. She hasn’t walked.

Gods help me, she might be the only one who hasn’t.

Every coin so far had come from her own pocket—staff wages, critter feed, transport, even the birthday cakes with candles. Barely enough profit to keep the lights on. Financials looked wobbly on paper.

She forces her smile back into place, dazzling, practiced, but her pulse is racing beneath it.

“Of course,” she says lightly, as if nothing had slipped at all. “With your support, I can promise you—NewBabel will thrive.”