A little while later we're on our way, continuing on with our assignment from earlier. We don’t look like we’re hunting. We look like we’re strolling.

  Master stops at the first corner, leans one shoulder against a warehouse wall like he’s just catching his breath after a long night. His hand drops casual to my head, fingers threading behind my ear, scratching slow circles. I press into the touch, cheek rubbing hard against his palm, purring low and steady so the vibration travels up his arm. To anyone watching from a window or alley mouth, it’s just a man pampering his catgirl bodyguard after a rough job. Sweet. Domestic. Harmless.

  My nose flares wide.

  The air here is thick, layered. I tilt my head under his scratching hand, ears flicking forward to catch the low murmur of voices inside the new target, muffled, male, two of them. One voice higher, nervous. The other lower, bored. Something about “shipment delay” and “Crimson won’t wait forever.” My tail curls once around Master’s calf, slow, possessive before it then unwraps to sway again, tip brushing the wall like I’m marking territory.

  Through the bond his thoughts slide into mine, numbers ?

  I process it fast, cat eyes piercing the gloom, nose sorting scents. Two inside the garret. One smells of cheap tobacco and sweat, the nervous one. Other smells of iron, guard, probably. No one else on this floor. Below, ground level, three more. Cooking smells, stew, onions, cheap wine. Weapons. They’re armed but relaxed. Not expecting trouble tonight.

  Master’s fingers slide down to the base of my tail, gripping once, firm, approving. My purr kicks louder for a heartbeat before I force it quieter. He exhales once through his nose, almost a laugh, then pushes off the wall and keeps walking. Casual. Like we’re just taking in the night air.

  We circle the block once, slow loop, no rush. I drop to all fours for half the stretch, palms and boots silent on the cobbles, tail high and swaying. Master doesn’t comment. He never does when I go low, he just adjusts his pace so I can stay close, hand trailing loose at his side for me to shove my head under whenever I want.

  Around the back of the building the alley narrows to a shoulder width squeeze between 17 and the next warehouse. Rain barrel against the wall, rusted iron, half full, water stinking of moss and dead leaves. I nose it once, nothing useful, then leap light onto the barrel rim, balancing with tail out for counterweight. From here I can see the rear window better, shutters green as promised, but one is loose. Scent pours out stronger now, ink, old paper, wax seals and sweat. Fresh sweat. Someone’s pacing up there.

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  My ears swivel. Tail lashes once, slow, deliberate whilst brushing Master’s shoulder as he steps up beside me. I feed him everything my senses pull in, raw and unfiltered, letting the bond do the sorting.

  Rear window, single latch, rusted. Easy to force. Drop twenty feet to roof below, flat and no guards posted. Scent trail from window to ground, someone climbed down earlier tonight, came back up. Boots, small, female maybe. Not heavy. No blood on the sill. Inside, ledger on table, red sharkskin, brass clasp, three crossed quills embossed. Smells of fresh wax and fear sweat. The nervous one keeps touching it. Guard smells of ale, drunk but not falling down drunk. Crossbow on rack by door. Loaded. Two quarrels in belt. No traps visible on floor, too cluttered with crates and rope coils. But pressure plate under the rug by the door, faint metallic click when nervous one stepped on it earlier. Alarm, probably. Silent.

  Master’s hand slides up to cup the back of my neck, thumb stroking the edge of my collar. "Good kitten".

  We don’t rush in. We keep moving, another slow circuit, this time pausing at the front stoop like we’re debating whether to knock. Master leans against the doorframe, one boot propped on the step. I sit at his feet, knees bent, tail curled neatly around my own ankles, head resting against his thigh, purring soft and steady while my eyes never stop scanning.

  Across the lane a man stumbles out of a tavern and goes to the toilet against the wall, mutters something about “Crimson” and staggers off. No one watches us. No one cares. We’re just another pair in the street, rich man and his pretty pet, probably here to buy contraband or hire muscle.

  My nose twitches again. New scent on the wind, faint, but sharp. Alchemical. Somewhere higher up, maybe the roof. Not from 17. From 19, two doors down. Someone watching the watcher. My ears pin back for a heartbeat, then flick forward. Tail lashes once, low, warning, brushing Master’s calf hard.

  He feels it through the bond.

  Third party ? I send, feeding him the thread of scent. Roof of 19. Crossbow. One shooter. Smells of nerves. Not Cartel. Not Sapphire. Independent. Probably waiting for us to go in.

  Master’s lips twitch. His hand drops to scratch behind my ear again, slow, deliberate circles that make my eyes slit and my purr deepen. "Let them wait."

  We stay like that another ten minutes. Him leaning, me curled against his leg, tail swaying lazy arcs that sweep the step clean of dust. To the world we’re resting. To me though it’s perfect, his scent drowning out the stink, his heartbeat steady under my cheek, the bond humming quiet between us like a second pulse.