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Law of The Street

Duygu_YÜCEL
7
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The average realized release rate over the past 30 days is 7 chs / week.
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Synopsis
"Life doesn’t begin on the streets… survival does." Told through the eyes of a stray kitten born in a forgotten corner, unseen and unheard... This is the story of a city where compassion is a luxury, and survival is the only law. From a frail body, wide eyes witness a mother consuming her own child, a sibling being strangled, the cruel selectiveness of human affection, abandonment, and betrayal. But this is not just the tale of a cat. It is the story of the unwanted, the powerless, the invisible. A battle for existence growing inside the body of a kitten. Because in this city, you either disappear… or force yourself to be seen. The Law of the Street is a haunting and emotionally charged survival novel— not about a kitten, but about a ghost trying to grow. And in the end, it leaves a single echo in your mind: "What makes a life worth choosing?"
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Chapter 1 - Born in the Dark

"Life doesn't begin on the street... survival does."

We were born in a place forgotten by concrete. There were no streetlights, no voices of people. The place was just a place. Emptiness was only emptiness. A void woven with damp, swallowed by rust, cast outside the flow of time… In the rotting basement of an abandoned apartment, deep underground. The cables dangling from the ceiling tangled into cobwebs, the cracks on the floor too dry even for weeds to sprout. The heavy metallic scent in the air clung like the memory of something that had died here long ago. It was dark even during the day. Only a faint light leaking from the end of a pipe hung above us, like a merciless god watching from a distance. But for us, it was a cave. Cold, silent, but more honest than anything else. It promised no warmth, no safety. But it was honest. It was good for hiding. And most importantly: it was out of sight. Because on the street, the greatest safety was not being seen.

We were born naked. Our fur was thin, our skin fragile. Our eyes were closed. And the world… was nothing but a giant hum. Our mother pulled us out of the darkness one by one. In her teeth, a life. Beneath her paw, a trembling future. She was out of breath. Her breathing was shallow, her movements rushed. As she licked each of us, her tongue both warmed us, helped us breathe, and cleaned the birth membranes from our skin. With every lick, her fur puffed up a little more, her eyes gleamed a little brighter. In that moment, our mother wasn't just a cat—she was nature itself. Furry, weary, but stubbornly carrying life between her teeth.

Then came the first cries, echoing through the damp walls of the basement. Tiny, thin, trembling voices… but they were signs of life. One of us found her nipple first, the others followed. Hunger… was the first emotion born in us. Among our wet fur, hunger came before warmth. And our mother, in the middle of cracked concrete, was the last place life held on to with its claws.

We were born five siblings. Each of us was different. One had a long tail—always the first to nurse, the one who claimed our mother. One was chubby—barely moved, but never let go of the nipple. One was grey with black spots—quiet, always in the background during play. I… was somewhere in between. Not the strongest, not the weakest. But I always watched the others. I observed the balance. Who pushed who, who waited for whom. We were together, yet among us, a law was already forming.

But one of us… was frail. His breathing was faint, his fur sparse. He never stopped trembling. Sometimes the others would lie on top of him, trying to warm him. But with time… it became clear. He was different. As if he had entered this world with half a step. Our mother carried him to a warmer corner. Covered him with her body, shared her warmth. She licked him more. His belly, his neck, behind his ears… over and over. She warmed him with her tongue, cleaned him with it. Because in her saliva, there was life. Cat saliva carries antibacterial properties. It closes wounds, kills germs. But this time, the battle wasn't from the outside. It was inside him.

The weak kitten couldn't nurse. When he tried, he trembled and vomited. With each passing day, it was like he shrank a little more. His fur wilted, his eyelids swelled. His body grew still. He whimpered while breathing, paused while suckling. Our mother spent more time with him. Purring. A melody only he could hear. As if it was a spell keeping him alive. But one night… that purring stopped. Our mother carried the kitten outside the nest. We didn't know what had happened. When we woke, our sibling was gone. Our mother was gone. We waited. There was no scent. No purring. Only darkness.

Then our mother returned. Her mouth was bloody. Her eyes… emptier. But her body was warmer, her milk heavier.

Milk… was no longer born from motherhood. It came from prey. That night, we fell silent. We all felt something had changed. One of our siblings was gone. But our mother was still there. And she wanted to keep us alive. To do that… she had to kill one of us.

Because sometimes, motherhood wasn't measured in love—but in pain. She had to eat him. Because death had become a burden. And that burden had to be carried before it dragged the others down. In her eyes, we saw a decision that night. A decision distilled through helplessness, shaped by instincts thousands of years old. Motherhood sometimes meant having to choose a sacrifice. And that sacrifice… was always the weakest.

Our eyes had barely opened, but something broke inside us that night. Not our sense of kinship… our trust. We now knew:

In this life, there is no place for the weak.

And on the streets… sometimes even the one who protects you… can eat you.

Days passed. There were only four of us now. But the absence wasn't just in number. A strange emptiness lingered in the air, drifting between our tiny bodies. At first, we didn't understand it. We simply waited. But slowly, we began to notice—our mother had changed. She still licked us, nursed us, curled beside us... yet none of it felt whole. Her movements were mechanical, her warmth thinner. The sound of her purring had nearly vanished. Her eyes stayed on us, yet they didn't truly see. She didn't sleep, but she didn't rest either. She was always tense, like she was listening for something—something terrible she had already heard once before. At every sound, she froze; at every shadow, she stared. She wasn't just our mother anymore. She had become a vessel of memory, carrying the weight of something we didn't yet understand. And now, she watched us—not with tenderness, but with wary silence.

We changed too. Once, we slept tangled in each other, little knots of fur and breath. Now, we curled up apart, like threads unraveling. Our closeness faded. And in its place, a silent ranking began to form. No one said it. No one needed to. It simply happened. The strongest took the front. The fastest, the largest, claimed the fullest nipple. If any of us came too close, he growled—sometimes hissed or lashed out. We didn't resist. We didn't cry. We just pulled back. Because here, right did not belong to the first… but to the strongest. Even motherhood no longer offered equality. Life was being rewritten at the edge of survival, one suckle at a time.

Hierarchy—another law of the streets. And we had met it before ever stepping outside. Strength came before nourishment. And silence… was the voice of the weakest.

And then… that night came.

Our mother was gone again, out to search for scraps. We lay in the dark, waiting for the sound of her return. But something else came first. A scent. Strong. Heavy. Overwhelming. Then movement—a shadow descending through the pipes. It paused at the edge of our shelter, and then it stepped forward.

A male cat. Massive. Muscled. His fur was marked with old battle scars, a dried wound crusted on his jaw. His eyes were cold and calculating. He didn't meow. He didn't snarl. He sniffed us, one by one, as if we were items on a list. He tilted his head slightly, lifted a paw.

But he wasn't curious. He hadn't come to greet us. He wasn't here to scare or play. He was counting. Measuring. Which one of us was the smallest, the slowest. Which one could be silenced first.

Because he knew. Female cats don't mate while they have kittens. And to a male who wanted to mate… kittens were an obstacle.

And the solution? Eliminate the obstacle.

He lunged. We froze.

He chose the liveliest—our sibling who always nursed first, ran farthest, cried loudest. He pounced with precision and silence. There was no warning. No sound of claws. Only the muffled cry of our brother, his writhing, his desperate twist to escape. But the male's jaws found his neck.

One final tremble.

Then stillness.

There was no blood.

No scream.

Just the heavy silence that follows a stolen breath.

And then… the floor beneath my paws turned cold.

Everything we had feared—our mother's alert eyes, the gnawing pain of hunger—suddenly meant nothing. Because death… was no longer just a shadow. It had form. It had weight.

And it was here.

e had just turned toward the next sibling—when our mother burst in, soundless, like a shadow. Her eyes were like blades, glinting even in the dark. With her tiny, fragile body, she leapt onto the giant. She didn't just attack—she launched herself, without blinking, without fear. In that instant, she held nothing but one truth inside her: "Either you go, or I won't stay."

Claws slashed, fangs snapped, hisses collided in the air—like two raw forces of nature crashing into each other. But the difference in strength was undeniable. The male was massive, brutal. One paw tore her cheek. Another raked down her ribs. Fur flew. Blood spilled. Its metallic scent filled the air like a silent scream. Yet not a sound escaped her. She buried the pain, and sank her teeth again—and again. But flesh has limits.

Still, she didn't retreat. She roared—not as a warning, but like a final vow. Her body shook with exhaustion, but her resolve never cracked. Her teeth clenched. Her eyes locked into his. And that look—wasn't just defiance. It was a verdict. "Either you go, or I won't stay."

And something changed.

The body broken by the streets surged with something ancient. A mother's instinct. From beneath those thin shoulders rose a power not of muscle, but of meaning. Her claws tore deeper. Her jaw clenched harder. She spun with fury, like every cell in her body existed only to protect. She didn't go for the throat—she attacked his balance, his pride. Tore through his ear. Struck his foreleg. Scraped his face.

Because sometimes, it's not your body—but your reason—that determines who wins.

And in that moment, the power of a mother protecting her young was greater than the hunger of a desperate male.

He was no longer the threat. No longer in control. He ran. Not even a glance back. Left blood in his trail. Growled. Limped. Melted into the dark.

We never heard him again. Not a sound. Not a scent.

Our mother collapsed. Her breath was rapid, erratic. Her body trembled. Slowly, she sat. Her gaze locked on nothing, as if staying conscious by clinging to a single thread. Then, head bowed, she began licking her wounds. Each movement—fragile, rhythmic, relentless.

There was a tear on her lip. Blood dripped steadily. A long, deep gash lined her ribs. Another claw mark tore down her hind leg, near to the bone. But she licked.

Because she knew: we had no medicine. Only saliva. And losing time meant risking death.

Her saliva, rich in enzymes like lysozyme and peroxidase, couldn't stop the bleeding—but it slowed infection. She knew this. That's why she didn't stop. Her tongue trembled, but moved with purpose. One eye stayed open. One ear, always listening to the dark.

That night, we had to go.

We left the nest.

The street was washed in rain.

With the first step, water slapped our paws—icy. The second step—our fur began to sag with weight. Getting wet wasn't just getting wet. Our mother carried us one by one in her mouth. I was first. Her legs trembled. Each step chilled her bones. Her wounds met the rain, and each droplet became a swallowed whimper.

Because the water didn't just soak.

It slowed us.

It made us targets.

Made escape harder.

And that's when I understood:

We cats don't hate water.

We know what it does.

Because water, in the street, isn't just a liquid—

It's delay. It's risk. It's death with dripping patience.

She carried us into an old, rust-rimmed boiler. Dry. Dark. Smaller—but quieter.

While the rain cleansed the city above,

we hid below, in silence,

learning how to survive.

One sibling had given life to our mother.

One was taken by the male.

And we…

we were left with silence.

But the ones who remained had grown.

Even before we left the nest,

we had learned the law of the streets:

There is no mercy.

Only a choice:

You live—

or someone dies instead.