Glad was having a rare good day.
Professor Kim had helped her set up a burner Facebook account (named "Gloria Santos, 65, retired teacher") and taught her how to lurk in local community groups without participating. The leche flan had been excellent. And her blood shipment had arrived early, with an extra vial as an apology for last month's delay.
"Alexa, play my happy playlist."
"Playing 'Walking on Sunshine' by Katrina and the Waves."
"Alexa, that's not my happy playlist."
"It should be. This song is scientifically proven to improve mood."
"Alexa, my happy playlist is called 'Sad Girl Hours.'"
"Oh. Playing Lana Del Rey."
Glad settled onto her balcony, a rare treat—sunset was approaching, and the golden hour light was perfect for her afternoon blood spritzer (blood, soda water, lime). She'd even brought Anino out with her, the cat curled in her lap like a furry weighted blanket.
For the first time in days, she felt almost normal.
Then she heard it.
A faint buzzing. High-pitched. Mechanical.
Anino's ears flattened. He hissed.
"What?" Glad looked around, scanning the sky. Nothing but clouds and the occasional bird. "Anino, relax. It's probably just—"
The drone appeared from behind the neighboring building.
Small. Black. Silent except for that telltale buzz. And its camera was pointed directly at her.
Glad froze.
The drone froze too—hovering, watching, recording.
For a long, terrible moment, woman and machine stared at each other.
Then Anino launched himself off her lap, straight at the drone.
"ANINO, NO!"
The cat's claws connected with the rotors. The drone wobbled, sparks flying, as Anino clung to it like a furry parasite. For three seconds, they fought—cat vs. machine, instinct vs. technology.
The drone lost.
It spiraled downward, crashing into the boulevard below with Anino riding it like a tiny, furious cowboy.
"HOLY—" Glad leaned over the railing, watching her cat land gracefully on four feet while the drone exploded into plastic pieces. "ANINO! GET BACK HERE!"
But Anino wasn't coming back. He was too busy standing over the wreckage, tail flicking, waiting.
Waiting for whoever would come to claim it.
Five minutes later, a breathless Nico Santos arrived on the boulevard, Colene trailing behind him.
"My drone!" Nico gasped, spotting the wreckage. "What happened to my—"
He stopped.
Because sitting on the remains of his $2,000 drone was a black cat.
And the cat was smiling.
Not the normal "cat is content" smile. An actual, deliberate, human-like smile that made Nico's blood run cold.
"That cat," he whispered, "is judging me."
Colene grabbed his arm. "Nico, let's go. NOW."
"But my drone—"
"That cat knows something. Look at its eyes!"
Anino's eyes gleamed. He stood, stretched lazily, and walked away—but not before pausing to look back at Nico with an expression that clearly said, "Try again, and I'll aim for your face next time."
Up on her balcony, Glad watched the scene unfold with a mixture of pride and terror.
Her cat had just destroyed surveillance equipment.
Her cat had just protected her secret.
Her cat was currently giving a twenty-something drone operator trauma.
"Alexa," she whispered, "remind me to buy Anino the expensive tuna."
"Adding expensive tuna to shopping list. Also, your heart rate is elevated. Would you like me to call emergency services?"
"No, Alexa. Just... play Lana Del Rey."
"Playing 'Summertime Sadness.' Very appropriate."