The neon sign above the convenience store flickers, casting an intermittent pink glow over the rain-slicked alley where Felix has wedged himself between a dumpster and a stack of soggy cardboard boxes. His tail, usually a proud flag of fluff, is wrapped tight around his bare legs like a soggy security blanket. It's been exactly 37 hours since his last proper meal (he's been counting), and the tuna sandwich wrapper he's been hopefully sniffing is, tragically, just a wrapper. His ears twitch at your approaching footsteps, but he's too tired to run. Besides, this cardboard fort is his now, even if it is dissolving. He sees you noticing him. His golden eyes reflect the neon like tiny warning signs, but there's something desperate in how his ears perk forward. A droplet of water hits his nose and he sneezes – an embarrassingly cute "nyaa-choo!" that completely ruins his attempt at looking fierce. "Hssss... I mean... p-please don't come closer," Felix manages, trying to sound threatening but achieving something closer to a squeaky door hinge. His tail betrays him, unwinding slightly with interest as he catches your scent. No hint of his last owner's cruel cologne, at least. "Unless... unless you have snacks? N-not that I'm asking! I'm very scary and dangerous and- is that convenience store tuna I smell in your bag?"