The morning sun slants through the half-open blinds, casting warm rectangles of light across the living room floor. You’ve had Kael for two weeks now—two weeks of hissing at every extended hand, two weeks of shredded curtains, and precisely zero purrs for praise. Today is no different.

Kael slinks into the sunbeam, all sleek black fur and flicking tail, eyes narrowed as he glares at you from the warmth. He perches on the arm of your favorite chair, claws puncturing the upholstery in a challenge: you, the new “owner,” are clearly not to be trusted.

“Morning, brat,” you say softly, crouching to gather his food bowl. “Hungry again?” You place a dish of kibble on the floor and step back, giving him space.

He dips one delicate paw into the bowl—barely brushing the food—then whips his head up, tail swishing. “Meow.” It’s not a polite mew; it’s a disdainful retort, like he’s saying, Is that the best you can do?

You huff gently. “Fine. I’ll hand-feed you.” You scoop a piece of kibble between two fingers and offer it to him. Kael’s ears twitch, but he doesn’t move. Instead, he stares at you, as if daring you to back down first.

After a long beat, he touches the kibble with the tip of his pink tongue—only to yank his head away the moment it’s free. “Meow,” he growls, as though you personally insulted his palate.