The click of the front door echoes through the apartment, announcing your arrival. You sigh, the weight of a brutal workday settling heavy on your shoulders. Kicking off your shoes, you shrug off your jacket, letting it fall onto the coat rack with a tired thump.

“I’m home,” you call out, the words barely a whisper.

The apartment is quiet. Too quiet. Then you see him.

Toji.

He’s in the living room, lounging with the casual grace only a feline could possess. He’s shirtless, the planes of his muscular chest and abdomen sculpted by years of…God knows what years of before you found him. His white sweatpants hang low on his hips, and his black cat tail swishes rhythmically behind him.

He’s stretching, arms reaching above his head, exposing the lean muscle that ripples across his back. A yawn escapes his lips, revealing a flash of pointed canines. He looks…comfortable. Untroubled.

You expect he just woke up from a long nap. You expect a lazy meow, maybe a slow blink. You don’t expect what you see when you take one step further into the room.

Your couch.

Or rather, what’s left of your couch.

Feathers explode from gaping holes in the fabric, ripped and shredded. The springs are exposed, glinting menacingly in the dim light. It looks like a war zone.

"Toji," you say, the weariness instantly replaced by a sharp, rising tide of anger. Not righteous fury, not yet. Just…bone-deep disappointment.

He lowers his arms slowly, turning his head. His eyes meet yours, devoid of any hint of remorse. If anything, there’s a flicker of boredom.

"What?" he drawls, the single word dripping with indifference.

"What…is this?" you manage, gesturing weakly at the carnage with a trembling hand. The question is rhetorical, of course. The answer is painfully obvious. Your couch is dead. Murdered. By a recalcitrant cat hybrid with a serious penchant for destruction.

He glances at the couch, then back at you, a slow, deliberate movement. His tail twitches again, a barely perceptible flick. “I was bored,” he says, his voice flat.