Zeema woke at five as usual.
For a brief second, she did not move.
Something warm rested against her leg.
She lowered her gaze.
The orange cat was asleep beside her, curled carelessly over the blanket as if the bed had always belonged to him.
Its breathing was slow.
Peaceful.
Unbothered.
Zeema stared at him in silence.
"…Bold."
He did not wake.
Carefully, she slipped out of bed without disturbing him.
The morning continued as it always did.
Exercise.
A shower.
Breakfast.
Eggs. Toast. Coffee.
Routine restored.
Almost.
Every few minutes, her eyes drifted toward the bedroom.
After finishing breakfast, she sat in the study room with her laptop open.
Then she began searching.
Nearby pet clinic.
Cat vaccination schedule.
Best food for adult cats.
How often should cats be groomed.
Pet stores near VelNagar.
Healthy treats for cats.
Why do cats act like they own your house.
She stared at the last search for a moment.
"…Relevant."
Then continued.
By the time she was done, she had noted two nearby clinics, three pet stores, and enough information to care for a small tiger.
At exactly nine, Zeema stood near the bedroom door with calm determination.
The cat was still sleeping.
She walked closer.
He opened one eye.
Then the other.
They stared at each other.
"We're going out," she said.
The cat blinked slowly.
No interest.
She bent down to pick him up.
That was when the protest began.
A sharp meow.
Twisting paws.
Offended energy.
"You walked into my house uninvited," Zeema said evenly while adjusting her hold.
"You don't get opinions now."
Another louder meow.
"Yes, very tragic."
She placed him carefully inside a temporary laundry basket lined with a towel.
The cat looked personally insulted.
The nearby clinic was clean and cool, with posters of smiling dogs and suspicious-looking cats on the walls.
Zeema stood at the reception desk while the orange prisoner glared from the basket.
The receptionist smiled politely.
"First visit, ma'am?"
"Yes."
"Pet name?"
Zeema looked down at him.
He looked back with betrayal in his eyes.
A pause.
Then she said calmly—
"Ginger."
The receptionist typed it in.
"Age?"
"No idea."
"Breed?"
She glanced at the basket.
"Orange."
The receptionist blinked.
Then smiled carefully.
"Domestic cat is fine, ma'am."
"Good."
The basket let out a furious meow.
Zeema looked down.
"You should have introduced yourself earlier."
A few minutes later, they were called inside.
The doctor, a woman with amused eyes, opened the basket.
"Well now," she said. "Someone is unhappy."
Ginger immediately tried climbing onto Zeema's shoulder.
"You dramatic creature," Zeema muttered, holding him steady.
The doctor examined him patiently.
Healthy weight.
Minor fleas.
Slight dehydration.
No injuries.
Likely a stray, but comfortable around people.
"Very friendly cat," the doctor said.
Zeema looked at the animal currently gripping her sleeve like a legal representative.
"Strategic."
The doctor laughed softly.
Vaccinations were discussed.
Deworming scheduled.
Food recommendations given.
Grooming advice explained.
Zeema listened carefully and asked practical questions.
How much food daily?
What signs of illness?
What litter type?
How often should he be checked?
The doctor smiled knowingly.
"First pet?"
"Yes."
"You're doing well."
Zeema glanced at Ginger.
"He forced this."
Ginger purred loudly.
Traitor.
By the time they left the clinic, she carried a bag filled with medicine, supplements, a brush, and food samples.
Ginger sat inside the carrier now, calm and victorious.
As if the entire outing had been his idea.
They stopped at a nearby pet store next.
Bowls.
Litter tray.
Scratching post.
Toys.
Treats.
Bed.
By the time she reached the billing counter, even the cashier smiled.
"New cat, ma'am?"
Zeema nodded once.
"Very lucky cat."
She looked at the carrier.
Ginger had already fallen asleep.
"He was never invited," she said.
When they returned home, Zeema opened the carrier.
Ginger stepped out slowly.
Inspected the living room.
Inspected the sofa.
Inspected her.
Then walked straight into the bedroom and jumped onto her bed.
Claimed.
Again.
Zeema stood there holding shopping bags.
"You contribute nothing."
Ginger turned once, lay down on the pillow, and closed his eyes.
As if exhausted from supervising her.
Zeema exhaled quietly.
Then placed his food bowl in the kitchen.
By evening, every room in the apartment held some sign of him.
A toy near the sofa.
A brush on the counter.
Tiny pawprints on the balcony glass.
Orange fur on her black chair.
And for the first time since moving in—
The apartment no longer felt too quiet.
Later that night, Zeema sat in her study room checking emails.
Profit reports.
Updates.
Meeting schedules.
Across the table, Ginger had somehow made himself comfortable on top of a stack of documents, curled into a perfect orange circle beneath the desk lamp.
Sleeping.
Again.
Zeema looked at him for a long moment.
Then reached for her phone.
She took a photo.
Ginger, shamelessly occupying her workspace like management.
After staring at the screen for a few seconds, she sent it to her uncle.
Then to her grandfather.
Then grandmother.
Then Lucas.
No caption.
No explanation.
Just the photo.
A minute later, replies began arriving one after another.
Her grandmother: Beautiful baby!
Grandfather: Looks arrogant.
Lucas: Can I keep him?
Her uncle: So you replaced me in one day?
Zeema looked at the messages.
Then at Ginger.
Still sleeping.
Still unbothered.
"…You create unnecessary attention," she said quietly.
Ginger did not open his eyes.
But somehow—
He looked pleased.