Above the ceiling, he gripped the wooden beam and weighed his options.
Fighting that many cats was impossible.
Each one has razor claws and the hunting instincts that had kept their species alive for millennia.
'I could transfer to one of them.'
The thought lingered. They were faster, more agile. Better predators than rodents.
But they were also conspicuous. A rat could slip through any crack, hide in any shadow.
Cats drew attention. People petted them, fed them, talked to them.
'No. The rat body stays.'
His mind drifted to the maze of traps he passed to get here. Rat poison, roach killer, sticky traps loaded with chemicals.
'Should I poison them?'
The idea felt practical. Efficient. Dump some rat poison in their food bowls and wait for the inevitable.
Still, the thought of watching them convulse and foam at the mouth made his stomach clench. Maybe it was because his two daughters had loved cats.
'Ridiculous. I've tortured dozens and I'm worried about a few cats?'
Either way, the cats would have to wait.
'Night approach. When they're sleepy and less alert.'
For now, he had a building to map. Other targets to profile.
Zian retreated through the wall cavity, following the network of gaps and holes that connected every floor.
Whenever he passed a cluster of rodents, they bowed their heads in submission before darting away.
The building held twelve apartments. He had already eliminated the renter on the second floor and identified the cat lady on the fourth.
That left Ten more units to investigate.
Third floor first. He squeezed through a gap near the electrical panel and emerged behind a radiator.
Voices carried through thin walls.
"—told you to pick up milk—"
"—forgot, alright? Sue me—"
"—kids need breakfast and you forgot—"
'Family. Multiple children.'
Zian moved closer, peering through a crack in the baseboard.
A woman in her thirties stood at the kitchen counter, arms crossed. Two young children sat at a table, maybe six and eight years old.
'Too complicated. Too many variables.'
Families meant noise, schedules, people checking on each other. The moment one went missing, the others would panic.
He marked them as low priority and moved to the next unit.
This apartment sat silent. No voices, no movement, no television.
Zian found a gap near the window and slipped inside.
Dust particles danced in sunlight. A single plate sat in the sink, crusty with dried food.
Mail piled up on a small table—bills, mostly, all addressed to 'R. Santos.'
'Either works nights or travels frequently.'
Perfect. Irregular schedules meant fewer people would notice if Santos disappeared.
He committed the layout to memory and continued his reconnaissance.
The next unit held an elderly man who shuffled around in slippers, muttering to himself—an easy target.
'I'll eat him tonight.'
The apartment next door revealed something unexpected.
Through a crack in the floorboard, he saw a woman dressed in black leather, her body wrapped in straps and buckles.
She held a long whip, bringing it down across the back of a naked man who knelt before her.
"You've been very bad," she purred, raising the whip again.
The man whimpered but didn't pull away, grinning through the pain because he liked being degraded both physically and verbally.
"Look at you, pig. You enjoy being stepped on that much? No wonder your wife thinks you're a pushover."
"On your knees. That's all you're good for. No wonder your wife cheats—you're too pathetic to even keep her satisfied."
'Dominatrix. Professional. Damn, she didn't hold back. Still, the idiot was grinning ear to ear, so I guess it worked for him.'
Zian studied the setup. Expensive equipment lined the walls—restraints, paddles, devices he couldn't identify.
This wasn't just a bedroom. It was a business.
The woman lived alone, judging by the single toothbrush in the bathroom and the way she stored her gear.
The man was clearly a client—nervous, unfamiliar with the space, checking his phone between sessions.
'High priority target. Lives alone, irregular visitor schedule.'
Clients wouldn't report her missing. They would just assume she didn't want to do business for the time being.
He marked her apartment and continued climbing.
The other unit reeked of marijuana. He found two college-aged students sprawled on a couch, passing a joint back and forth.
"Dude, I can't feel my face," one mumbled.
"That's the point, man."
Empty pizza boxes covered the coffee table. Beer cans formed small towers on the floor.
Drug-addled targets meant slower reflexes, impaired judgment.
But two people still posed complications. He would have to separate them or attack simultaneously.
'Manageable, but not ideal.'
The remaining floors disappointed him. Three apartments sat completely empty—no furniture, no personal belongings, just bare walls and dusty floors.
Another held a family with crying babies and barking dogs which was a no go.
By the end, his best options were clear: the dominatrix, the elderly man, and the stoned college students.