Frics's world had shrunk to the space of a single, panicked breath. The clang of his back hitting the metal panel still echoed in his ears, a frantic counterpoint to the blood pounding in his temples. Every rational instinct, every lesson learned from a hard life in a world of unforgiving physics, screamed that this was impossible.
He stared at the white cat. It blinked slowly, a gesture of unnerving calm.
"No," Frics whispered, shaking his head. The movement felt sluggish, as if he were underwater. "No, you didn't... I'm hearing things. It's the fumes in this place. Or I'm sick." He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, trying to rub the illusion away. "I'm dreaming. That's it. A really, really weird dream."
He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping that when he opened them, he'd be back in his lumpy bed, with the familiar sounds of the city waking up outside his window.
A sigh, sharp and impatient, cut through his denial. It was a sound of pure exasperation.
"Your grasp of reality is fragile, mortal boy," the voice said, as cool and clear as before. "But my existence is not dependent upon it. Open your eyes and compose yourself. This groveling is unbecoming."
Frics's eyes snapped open. The cat—Zaneraya—was still there. She was now on her feet, stretching one slender white leg with poise, the very picture of condescending grace. The dream argument crumbled into dust. This was real. The sheer arrogance was too real.
He swallowed hard, his throat dry as sandpaper. "What… what are you?" The question came out as a ragged croak.
The cat finished her stretch and sat down again, wrapping her tail neatly around her paws. Her sapphire eyes seemed to glow with a faint, inner light in the growing twilight of the factory. "What I am is a problem far beyond your comprehension. Who I am is a more pertinent question."
She paused, letting the silence hang in the air, forcing him to wait on her. It was a clear power play, and it worked. Frics held his breath.
"My name is Zaneraya."
The name was like nothing he had ever heard. It didn't clank and grind like the names of Oakhaven. It flowed. It sang. It felt ancient and breakable at the same time.
"Zan… er… aya?" he stammered, the syllables feeling clumsy and foreign on his tongue.
A flicker of something—perhaps approval for his attempt—passed through her eyes. "It will suffice. Now, as for your part in this."
"My part?" Frics said, baffled. He pushed himself into a sitting position, though he kept his back firmly pressed against the metal sheet, his only solid anchor in a world that had turned to liquid. "I don't have a part in anything! I just found you here!"
"You did," she conceded with a slight nod. "And you offered sustenance. Twice. In a world of filth and neglect, you demonstrated… a sliver of decency. A rare and, for my current purposes, useful trait."
Her words were a compliment wrapped in an insult, and Frics didn't know how to feel about it.
"I find myself in a… delicate situation," Zaneraya continued, her gaze sweeping over her own pristine form as if it were a prison cell. "I am bound to this shape, unable to properly fend for myself in this crude, graceless world. I require an associate."
"An associate?" Frics repeated, his mind struggling to keep up. "You mean… like a friend?"
A sound that might have been a dry, humorless laugh escaped her. "Do not presume such familiarity. I require a caretaker. A provider. You have proven capable of finding food and offering it without expecting to be clawed for your troubles. A low bar, but one you have cleared."
Frics stared at her. A talking, magical, unbelievably arrogant cat wanted to hire him. "You want me to bring you food? Here? Every day?"
"And ensure my shelter remains undisturbed," she corrected him. "This ruin is adequate, for now. It is beneath me, but it is private. You will be my warden and my purveyor."
The sheer audacity of it almost snapped Frics out of his fear. "And what do I get out of this deal? I'm risking a lot, you know! If anyone finds out about you… about a talking cat… they'll… I don't know what they'll do! They'll take you away! They'll call me a freak!" The reality of the danger was beginning to set in. This secret was heavy, and it could crush him.
"A predictable, and not entirely incorrect, assessment," Zaneraya said calmly. "You mortals fear what you do not understand. As for your compensation…" She paused, her blue eyes narrowing as if she were peering directly into his soul, seeing the worn-out shoes of his sister, the worry-lines on his mother's face, the hollow jar on the mantelpiece.
"Your life is a struggle," she stated, not as a question, but as a fact. "You chase after scraps of metal for a few coins. You live in the shadow of hunger and debt. You are mired in the mundane."
She let that hang in the air, a perfect summary of his bleak existence.
"I cannot offer you gold or jewels, not in this form," she continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that drew him in despite himself. "But I am not without my own resources. The world you see is not the only one that exists. There are currents, echoes, songs that weave through reality. I can hear them. I can sometimes… nudge them."
She looked pointedly at the rusted pipe nearest to Frics. "You seek fortune in rust. Perhaps, with my guidance, you will find that some pieces of forgotten metal are worth far more than others. Perhaps the security guard who patrols this area will suddenly feel an overwhelming urge to inspect the opposite end of the factory on the day you are here. Perhaps a lost coin will appear glinting in your path when you need it most. I can offer you luck, boy. A touch of wonder in your grey life."
Frics's mind reeled. Luck. It was what everyone in Oakhaven prayed for. It was the one thing that felt even more impossible than a talking cat. Could she really do that? He remembered the pure, musical note from yesterday. Was that what she meant?
He thought of Elara. He thought of his father's medicine. A few extra coins could mean a better meal. It could mean easing the crushing weight on his parents' shoulders, just for a day.
The risk was enormous. A secret this big was a fire that could consume him. But the promise… the impossible, whispered promise of luck…
He looked at the small, white creature sitting so regally amidst the squalor. She was proud and demanding, but she was also alone and trapped. Just like him, in a way. He had felt a connection to her even before she spoke, a shared solitude.
He took a deep breath, the cold, metallic air steadying his nerves. The decision formed in his mind, fragile but resolute.
"Okay," Frics said, his voice barely a whisper. "Okay. I'll do it."
Zaneraya's ears perked.
"But there are rules," he added, finding a sliver of his own strength. "Rule one: you never talk if anyone else is here. Anyone. Ever. You're just a normal cat. Got it?"
She gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod. "Your caution is… acceptable."
"Rule two," Frics continued, "I'll come once a day, in the afternoon. I'll bring what I can. Don't expect feasts."
"Your charity is noted," she replied dryly.
Frics got to his feet, his legs still feeling a bit shaky. He looked down at the cat, his secret, his responsibility. "Okay, then. I'll… I'll see you tomorrow, Zaneraya."
He said her name again, and this time it felt a little less strange.
He turned and walked away, not looking back. He could feel her sapphire eyes on him with every step he took. He pushed through the factory doors and out into the fading daylight, his mind a chaotic whirlwind of fear and wonder.
He hadn't found any scrap metal today. He had found something infinitely stranger, more dangerous, and more captivating. He had a bargain with a ghost, a promise from a symphony he couldn't yet hear. His world was no longer grey. It was now filled with a terrifying and brilliant secret.