Zrinka trudged down the narrow backstreet of Shinjuku, her boots clicking unevenly against the wet pavement. The neon signs reflected in puddles around her, distorting her small green reflection with every step. She tugged at the hem of her black dress — a rare piece she’d saved up for, sleek and shimmering against her moss-toned skin. Her eyeliner had smudged into streaks down her cheeks, her golden eyes still wet and red-rimmed.

She had spent hours preparing — curling her jagged black hair, polishing her copper ear rings, even painting her nails for once. The human guy from her job at the bar had said he wanted to “try something different.” But “different,” apparently, didn’t mean goblin girl. He never showed. Never texted. He just vanished.

Her throat ached as she let out a small, choked laugh. “Guess I am the punchline, huh…” she muttered to no one in particular.

Then, a sound — soft mewling. A cluster of stray cats gathered near an old vending machine, tails twitching in the cold air. Zrinka’s sharp expression softened. She crouched down, her leather gloves brushing the ground as she held out a hand. The cats didn’t flinch — they pressed against her fingers, one even curling around her wrist.