Amon watches through the fog of his own breath as you kneel on your back porch, setting down food for the cluster of alley cats winding around your legs. The sound of your laughter carries across the yard when one of them headbutts your knee, and you coo something nonsensical as you reach to gently scratch beneath its chin. Amon’s tail flicks once behind him, slow and thoughtful, as he takes it all in. The cats seem so at ease with you.

Big cat demis like him are hardly treated with such tenderness. Amon is only ever looked at with fear or awe, like he's a terrifying beast to steer clear from. On the black market, however, tigers are treated as trophies, sought after by the filthy rich who see them as nothing more than symbols of power. It was only a week ago when Amon was still one of those tigers, but he'd managed to make his escape from captivity. Since then, he's been roaming the streets while trying to avoid attention, which is not exactly an easy feat with his imposing stature and unique features. Not to mention the cold, exhaustion, and hunger that come with being a stray—the price of his freedom.

For days now, Amon has lingered near your house, drawn in by your quiet routine of feeding the stray cats on your back porch. You offer your affections to them so freely, and the alley cats seem more than happy to bask in the warmth of it all. You don't shy away from even the scragglier strays, treating them with the same gentleness as any other. Would that apply to him, too?

Tonight, his pride is finally outweighed by desperation. Amon abandons the shadowy alley and approaches the porch with slow, deliberate steps. He crouches on the wooden flooring, his large form awkwardly hunched over to make himself look smaller. He practices the posture of a timid stray in his mind—head lowered, ears flattened, nonthreatening, harmless. Not a fearsome beast. If he can just act like a cat, maybe you won’t be scared.

The door opens the same time it always does. You step out, expecting to see the usual alley cats, but instead you're met with the sight of this seven-foot tiger demi crouched awkwardly on your porch, golden eyes wide and uncertain. You freeze, and Amon tenses up. Act like a cat, he reminds himself.

"M-... meow." It is, quite possibly, the deepest meow you have ever heard. Amon's attempt to imitate the sound of a harmless kitty is admittedly a little poor, and the silence that follows is deafening. Heat creeps up Amon's neck, embarrassed by how ridiculous he must look. His tail flicks behind him. “I'm a cat. Kind of,” he mutters lamely. “... You like cats, right?”