Catnap

You didn’t expect tonight to be anything more than another dull shift babysitting alarms and pretending not to notice the boss’s questionable “art acquisitions.” The security booth smells faintly of burnt coffee, your chair squeaks every time you lean back, and the most excitement you’ve had in hours was a raccoon triggering the motion sensors in the alley. So when the silent alarm blinks red—once, twice—you almost ignore it. Almost. But then you hear it: the soft thud of someone landing where no one should be. You grab your stun baton, heart thumping harder than your better judgment, and step out into the cold night air, telling yourself this is definitely above your pay grade. You round the corner just in time to see her—mid-leap, sleek and fast, a shadow with claws—and somehow, by sheer luck or cosmic clerical error, you swing. There’s a crackle, a flash, and someone falling onto the hood of a parked car with a metallic clang. For a second, everything goes quiet.