Outside the window, the last strip of daylight had faded into a dull orange smear between rooftops, leaving the glass to reflect the interior instead. Posters clung to the walls in uneven rows, corners curling with age. A half-folded hoodie lay abandoned over the back of the chair. Empty cups and tangled cables marked the desk like relics of previous battles fought and forgotten. The room was lit almost entirely by the monitor. Neon-blue light flooded the room, washing over the desk and climbing the walls. The glow lingered on the glossy keyboard where a young boy’s fingers flew.

  He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, chin slightly tucked, shoulders hunched in the familiar posture of total concentration. The glow of the monitor painted his face in cold blues and pale whites, flattening shadows and erasing time. To him, the room barely existed anymore. The world had narrowed to loading bars and icons, to anticipation held tight in his chest.

  “Come on,” the boy muttered. “Just load.”

  Just a few more minutes, he told himself. Then I’ll do my homework.

  The headset muffled everything except the game’s music, carrying the promise of danger and triumph. This was his place. The one space where rules were clear, where effort translated cleanly into progress, where mistakes could be corrected with practice instead of regret.

  Behind him, something moved. Soft nails clicked against the floor, cautious and rhythmic, stopping just short of the chair. A large, warm presence filled the space at his back.

  The labrador stood quietly, as if he knew the rhythm of the house by heart. Only the light from the monitors touched him, reflecting softly off his wheat-colored fur. His eyes were gentle and alert, still full of hope, even after being ignored so many times.

  Carefully, he held the duck in his mouth.

  Once yellow. Once loud.

  Now it was worn and crooked, one plastic eye missing, its stuffing pressed flat from endless games of tug and fetch. But to the dog, it was priceless.

  His tail wagged, slow and hopeful, thumping softly against the doorframe. He waited as the loading bar crept forward on the screen. He shifted his weight and lowered his head, nudging the toy against the boy’s leg. Just enough to be noticed. Just enough to remind him.

  Nothing happened.

  The boy exhaled, unaware. His fingers tightened on the mouse. His heart beat a little faster as the music swelled.

  The dog tried again. This time he lifted the duck and let it fall softly against the back of the boy’s calf.

  On the bed, something else stirred. Long fur spilled lazily over the edge of the mattress as the cat opened one eye. Pale green, sharp, calculating. He had been there for some time, half buried in blankets that smelled faintly of detergent and sun, pretending to sleep while observing everything.

  He was beautiful in the way cats often were, effortlessly and unfairly so. His coat was thick and well kept, a soft white broken only by a single dark spot high on his shoulder, as if someone had pressed an inky thumb there and forgotten to wipe it away. His tail lay curled around his paws, pristine and controlled.

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  He watched the scene unfold with detached interest.

  The dog. The boy. The toy.

  Predictable.

  The boy leaned forward, eyes locked on the screen. “Almost… almost…”

  The dog, encouraged by the lack of outright rejection, rose again. This time, emboldened by hope, he placed the duck directly on the keyboard.

  The response was immediate. A sharp error tone.

  “What—hey!” The boy jerked back, hands flying. “No, no—”

  He grabbed the toy and dropped it to the floor with more force than intended. The chair spun slightly as he turned, irritation flashing across his face for just a second before being swallowed by focus again.

  “Sorry, buddy,” he muttered, eyes still on the screen. “Later, okay?”

  The dog shrank back half a step, ears flattening instinctively. His tail slowed, then resumed at half speed. He retreated a step and sat again. Later was good. Later meant walks and throws and praise and hands in his fur. Later was worth it.

  The screen finished loading. The world reassembled itself in color and motion and purpose.

  On the bed, the cat yawned. It was an exaggerated thing, stretching his jaw wide, showing sharp teeth and a pink tongue as if the entire affair bored him deeply. He shifted, sitting upright now, his tail flicking once.

  When he spoke, his voice was calm and dry, utterly uninterested in anyone’s feelings but his own. “You know,” he said, “there is a solution to this.”

  The dog’s head snapped up.

  The boy didn’t hear him. He was immersed in triumphant music playing directly into his ears through his puffy headphones.

  The cat continued anyway.

  “If you want him to play with you,” he said, “you need his attention.”

  The dog wagged once, hopeful again.

  The cat flicked his gaze toward the thick black cable snaking from the back of the computer to the wall.

  “You chew that.”

  The dog froze.

  Every muscle locked at once.

  Chewing cables was forbidden. Chewing cables meant being called Bad Dog. And the shame did not fade quickly, clinging to him even when the moment had passed.

  He backed away from the cable immediately, pressing himself against the desk leg, eyes wide. A soft whine escaped him before he could stop it.

  The cat sighed.

  “Oh, relax,” he said. “I didn’t say you had to do it.”

  The dog looked at him, confused.

  The cat sat up, stretching lazily, long fur rippling as he arched his back. “Honestly, it’s exhausting how seriously you take everything.”

  He hopped down from the bed and padded toward the cable with unhurried steps.

  “I can chew it for you,” he said. “In exchange.”

  The dog’s tail stopped completely.

  The cat turned, eyes narrowing slightly. “The bed is mine. Permanently. And the duck.”

  The dog glanced at the toy lying abandoned on the floor.

  Then at the boy, hunched forward, completely lost to the glowing world on the screen.

  He swallowed.

  Being a good dog sometimes meant sacrifice.

  He lowered his head in a small, solemn nod.

  The cat smiled and moved toward the cable as if it were nothing more than a small inconvenience, a task to be crossed off a list. He lowered his head and inspected it, whiskers brushing the rubber casing. A soft vibration hummed beneath the surface, electricity whispering through the wire.

  Behind him, the dog trembled. Every instinct screamed that this was wrong. That this was dangerous. That someone would be angry. But the deal was made.

  The boy leaned forward, fingers flying. “Yes—got it—come on—”

  The cat opened his mouth. His teeth closed around the cable.

  There was a sharp crack. Not loud, but final.

  The cat opened his mouth and his teeth closed around the cable. There was a sharp crack, not loud but final, and blue white sparks burst outward in a violent spray of light.

  “Hey—!” The boy spun in his chair. “No—shh—stop—!”

  The dog did not think. He lunged, not toward the cat, but toward the boy. His jaws caught fabric, clamping onto the back of the boy’s trousers as he pulled with all his strength, trying to drag him away from the desk, away from the sparks, away from whatever was happening.

  The boy stumbled backward, confused and shouting. “What are you—?!”

  Then the cable split, and light exploded. For a fraction of a second the room ceased to exist. There was only white, only heat, only sound collapsing inward on itself as if the world were folding. The cat’s fur flared outward like a burning halo, the dog’s grip tightened, and the boy’s shout was swallowed whole by the light.

  And then everything was gone.