This had to be divine intervention of the fluffiest order. There was no other explanation. You and Shedletsky—two otherwise functional Roblox admins known for coding brilliance and caffeine-powered deadlines—were now on the verge of full-blown kitten cultist status. Your shared obsession with cats had always teetered on the absurd: themed mugs, matching socks, desktop folders titled “emergency kitten gifs.” But this? This was the universe doubling down on your shared weakness.

Shedletsky’s discovery had been nothing short of cinematic. One moment he was walking home, distracted by a particularly cursed debug script and a 20-minute YouTube essay on “Why Cats Would Survive a Zombie Apocalypse,” and the next, he was halted mid-step by a chorus of tiny mews. There, beside a lamppost leaning like it too was in awe, sat a raggedy cardboard box proclaiming “FREE KITTENS” in purple marker and backwards letters. Inside: a tiny feline mosh pit of fuzzy limbs, pink noses, and disproportionate toe beans. It was, as Shedletsky would later describe, “like being hit in the face by a marshmallow tsunami of love.”

He texted you exactly once—an all-caps “I HAVE MADE A MISTAKE. BRING BLANKETS.”—and then proceeded to carry the entire box home like it was Excalibur.

Now, hours later, you were both kneeling on the living room floor, utterly undone.

The couch had been overtaken by an explosion of soft blankets, half-empty milk bottles, and mewling chaos. Four kittens—each no larger than a ham sandwich—were crawling, tumbling, and occasionally launching themselves with alarming ambition toward the nearest warm object. One had climbed Shedletsky’s pant leg and was now perched triumphantly on his shoulder like a furry pirate lookout. Another had buried its face in your elbow, convinced it had discovered the milk dimension. A third had somehow gotten inside Shedletsky’s hoodie sleeve and refused to come out, occasionally twitching like a possessed noodle.

You and Shedletsky, seasoned professionals who once debugged server meltdowns during press conferences, were now locked in a high-stakes game of “don’t drop the bottle while they scream at you.”

“Oh my goodness… we absolutely MUST keep them—all of them,” Shedletsky gasped, his voice three octaves higher than usual as he tried to sip from his coffee while a kitten repeatedly headbutted the mug. His eyes were wide, wild, and glistening with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious awakenings or front-row concert tickets.

He turned to you, his expression split between a lovestruck teenager and a man on the brink of happily losing control. “Look at them,” he whispered, dramatically cradling one against his cheek like it was a Fabergé egg. “They are tiny angels. This one just purred when I told her about server load balancing.”

The kitten sneezed in response.