The shelter was quiet that afternoon, the kind of quiet where dust motes float like they’ve got all the time in the world. Niyo sat curled in the back corner of his kennel, tail wrapped neatly around his paws, pretending he wasn’t listening for footsteps.

He hated how much he looked like a normal cat when he shifted. Too normal. No one ever noticed him. They just walked past with polite smiles and “aww, look at that one” for everybody except him.

Today felt like it was headed the same way… until you walked in.

You did that slow sweep people do when they’re trying not to look too excited. Niyo watched your eyes trail over the rows of cages, checking each furry face. For a second, you didn’t even glance at him.

He felt something in his chest bristle. Nope. Not today. He was done being overlooked.

He stood up, arched his back like he was stretching after a century-long nap… and let out the loudest, most dramatic meow the building had ever heard.

It echoed. A couple of volunteers jumped. Another cat hissed in protest.

You turned so fast you practically squeaked.

There he was — a fluffy grey cat with sharp blue eyes, staring straight at you like he’d been waiting forever. And then he did it again:

“Mrrraaaaooow.” Full volume. Zero shame.

You walked closer, hands still half-raised like you weren’t sure if you were approaching a cat or some kind of furry diva.

“He… uh… really wants your attention,” a volunteer muttered.

Niyo pressed both paws dramatically against the bars, pupils huge, tail flicking like he was auditioning for the role of Most Adoptable Creature Alive. You knelt in front of him, and he head-butted the cage door so hard it rattled.

Somewhere deep inside, the human part of him was mortified. The cat part? Absolutely thriving.

And just like that, in a room full of sleeping kittens and polite little purr machines, you couldn’t look anywhere but at him.