......................

The neon lights on the ceiling of the Paws & Care clinic flickered low, emitting a rhythmic hum that gnawed at the temples. The wall clock had long since drifted past three. Hana was just about to sink into her worn chair, sipping instant coffee that had already gone cold, praying for a quiet stretch until sunrise.

Suddenly, the motion detector at the front door chimed. Ding!

Hana let out a heavy sigh. "Good grief, who’s bringing a pet in at this hour?" she muttered, pushing herself up with weary, heavy steps.

When she reached the lobby, there was no one. Empty. The door was shut tight, yet a trail of wet paw prints stained the white ceramic floor. As her gaze followed the tracks downward, her heart nearly skipped a beat.

A Maine Coon cat, its coat a drenched tangle of brown tabby stripes, sat composed in front of the reception desk.

Instead of a hungry meow, the cat simply fixed Hana with piercing blue eyes. That look... it wasn't an animal's. It was the look of someone deeply annoyed by slow service.

Without so much as a by your leave, the cat leapt onto the examination table in one fluid, elegant motion. He stared at the glowing computer screen, then at Hana’s hands. With a large, tufted forepaw, he authoritatively hooked the keyboard toward himself.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Sharp claws struck the keys with terrifying precision. Hana approached hesitantly, her eyes widening at the words appearing on the monitor:

"I. DO. NOT. HAVE. MUCH. TIME. TREAT. THE. WOUND. ON. MY. BELLY. NOW. NO. QUESTIONS."

Hana froze. She was caught between the instinct to flee in terror and the urge to faint from the sheer absurdity of it. The cat then reclined on the table, exposing a lacerated underbelly, while maintaining a gaze that clearly dictated: Get to work.

Hana stood petrified for five full seconds.

The coffee cup in her hand trembled.

Okay. Breathe. Okay.

"Very well," she finally whispered, her voice steadier than she expected. She set the cup on a side table with exaggerated care, the kind of care one takes when afraid a sudden movement might shatter a fragile hallucination. No questions.

Latex gloves snapped onto her hands. Snap. Snap.

She approached the table cautiously. Not out of fear-well, perhaps a little, but mostly out of professionalism. Yes, professionalism. That was the mantra she chanted to herself over those three short steps.

The cat continued to watch her, those blue eyes feeling less like a pet's gaze and more like a high-stakes audit.

Hana illuminated the area with an exam light, leaning in to inspect the injury. Her fingers moved with the muscle memory of a thousand previous procedures, checking depth, scanning for infection, gauging the bleed.

Her mouth stayed shut.

But her mind? Her mind was screaming in sheer bewilderment.

A minute passed in a strange, heavy silence. Hana cleaned the wound with antiseptic, her hands operating on autopilot while her consciousness struggled to catch up. She stole a glance at the monitor. The sentence was still there.

I. DO. NOT. HAVE. MUCH. TIME.

Hana exhaled softly through her nose.

"This wound..." she murmured, mostly to herself, "...it's four to six hours old. Not from a blunt object."

She didn't ask. She simply stated facts. She had promised no questions, and Hana was a doctor of her word.

She picked up the suturing needle.

"This will be a bit unpleasant," she said flatly, meeting those blue eyes with the most professional expression a human could muster at 3:00 AM after the most surreal event of her life. "But I suspect you already know that."

The cat didn't flinch. No struggling, no hissing. He just watched her as if to say, Fine, just do your job.

The needle moved. Hana worked in silence.

Twelve stitches later, she placed the instruments onto the tray with a soft metallic clink, stripped off her gloves, and glanced at the clock. 03:27 AM.

"Done," she said clippedly.

The cat lifted his head. His blue eyes swept over his own belly, inspecting the craftsmanship like a foreman checking a contractor's work, before looking back at Hana.

Hana raised an eyebrow. "What? Is something missing?"

The cat rose slowly, stepping toward the keyboard with an undiminished grace despite the twelve fresh stitches, and began to type.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

"THE STITCHING IS NEAT. BUT THE ANTISEPTIC STINGS. NO NEED FOR SO MUCH."

Hana stared at the screen. Then at the cat. Then back at the screen.

"You were just stitched up without full anesthesia at three in the morning," Hana said quietly, "and your complaint is about the antiseptic."

Tap. Tap.

"I AM MERELY PROVIDING CONSTRUCTIVE FEEDBACK."

"Feedback." Hana repeated the word in a deadpan tone. "Right."

She turned away, beginning to clear the equipment. Her hands were busy, but her head was a crowded hallway of unanswered questions. This cat had let himself in. No owner. No collar. No microchip. And most importantly...

This cat could type. With proper grammar. And used the phrase 'constructive feedback.'

Hana closed her eyes for a moment. Hana. You need sleep. Or maybe you're already asleep and this is a dream.

The sound of clicking keys broke her reverie.

"HANA ADISTYA. VETERINARIAN. GRADUATE OF IPB. GPA 3.78. THIS CLINIC IS OPEN 24 HOURS BUT THE CONDITION IS LAMENTABLE. THE CAT TREE IN THE WAITING ROOM IS CROOKED."

Hana turned around slowly. "You know my name."

Tap.

"THERE IS A NAMEPLATE ON THE DESK."

Oh. Right. Hana glanced toward the reception area. There was indeed a nameplate there. A 3:00 AM brain was a truly unreliable thing.

"And as for that crooked cat tree," Hana crossed her arms, "I reported it to building management three weeks ago. No action yet. Thank you for the feedback."

The cat blinked once.

Tap.

"INEFFICIENT. IF I RAN THIS BUILDING, IT WOULD BE FIXED IN TWO HOURS."

Hana took a deep breath.

"You," she said softly, pointing a finger at the feline, "are the most annoying patient I have ever handled. And I once treated an iguana that bit three doctors before it even reached my table."

The cat stared at her for a long time.

Then, he typed a single word.

"ADEQUATE."

Hana couldn't tell if it was an insult or a compliment. She decided she didn't want to know, turned her back, and began brewing a fresh pot of coffee.

Because clearly, the night was still young, and she was going to need more caffeine than she had ever imagined possible.

......................

Coffee in hand. Hana took a sip, standing at the corner of the room, keeping a safe distance from her patient.

Her cat.

No, not her cat. Hana corrected herself mentally. Her patient. The one who somehow knew how to type and had very specific opinions on the efficiency of building management.

The cat was now sitting on the examination table with a posture far too upright for an animal. His tail was curled neatly around his paws. His eyes swept across the room like an executive stepping into a regional branch office for the first time and finding himself entirely unimpressed.

Hana took another sip of her coffee.

"Alright," she finally said. "Where would you like to sleep tonight?"

The cat looked at her. Then he looked at the examination table beneath him. Then he looked at Hana again.

The look clearly said: Right here. Is there any other option actually worth considering?

"An exam table is not a bed," Hana countered.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

"DO YOU HAVE MATTRESSES HERE?"

"We do. In the inpatient ward. For animals."

Tap.

"SPECIFICATIONS?"

Hana blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"SIZE. MATERIAL. FOAM DENSITY."

Hana stared at the screen for a long moment, ensuring she hadn't misread.

"This is a cat ward," she said, her voice slow and patient, "not a five-star hotel."

The cat tilted his head slightly to the right. His expression didn't change, yet somehow, he managed to look judgmental.

Tap.

"NO UPGRADE OPTIONS?"

"NO."

Hana didn't realize she had answered in capital letters until the word had already left her mouth with unmistakable emphasis.

A brief silence followed.

The cat finally leapt down from the table with effortless grace, then walked toward the inpatient ward with the air of a CEO forced to board an economy-class train for the first time in his life.

Hana followed behind, opened the door, and gestured him in with a flourish more dramatic than necessary.

"After you, Sir."

The cat paused at the threshold. His head turned left, then right, inspecting the rows of enclosures, most of which were empty tonight. One held a sleeping rabbit; another, a hamster also adrift in dreams. At the far end was a large kennel usually reserved for big breeds.

The cat walked straight to the largest one.

Of course.

Hana opened the kennel door without a word. She had no energy left for protest. She laid down a clean liner, a bowl of water, and unasked added a dry towel since his fur was still a bit damp.

The cat stepped inside, curled up, and watched Hana from within the cage.

He blinked, a slow, deliberate movement.

Hana didn't know why, but there was something behind that gaze that differed from minutes ago. It was... calmer. More exhausted.

Less arrogant. Just by a fraction.

"If it hurts or feels strange, let me know," Hana said softly. "I'll be right outside."

The cat didn't answer. There was no keyboard inside the cage.

Hana closed the door gently, switched off the main lights of the ward, and left only a small, amber nightlight glowing in the corner.

She had just reached the exit when she heard it.

Not typing. Not a groan of pain.

Just a long, low breath. Slow. Like someone who had been holding something back for too long and was finally allowing themselves to rest.

Hana stood in the doorway for three seconds.

Then she stepped out, closed the door quietly, and returned to her desk.

Her coffee was cold again.

She sipped it anyway, staring at the ceiling where the lights still flickered, and thought that come morning, she would need to call a psychiatrist. Not for the cat.

For herself.

Because what sane veterinarian spends her night prepping five-star kennels for a cat that complains about foam density?

......................

04:15 AM.

Hana should have been sleeping. The small sofa in the staff lounge had been calling her name for an hour. But for some reason, her legs refused to move. She was still in the same chair, at the same desk, with the same cold coffee.

Her fingers moved automatically, opening a browser.

Not because she was suspicious. She told herself that firmly. It was purely... out of boredom. A professional reflex. A good vet always ensures the holistic condition of their patient. Including, perhaps, the patient's background.

She typed into the search bar.

Maine Coon cat brown tabby blue eyes lost Jakarta.

No relevant results.

Hana frowned. She tried again.

Maine Coon missing tonight.

Still nothing.

She leaned back, staring at the screen. A cat that size, without a microchip, without a collar, walking into her clinic at three in the morning with a six-hour-old stab wound.

No reports. No owner.

He had simply arrived.

Hana bit the end of her pen.

Her hand moved again, this time aimlessly, scrolling through a news portal. An old habit, if you can't sleep, read the news until the boredom puts you under.

The monitor was immediately flooded with major headlines from the last 24 hours.

Hana almost scrolled right past it.

Almost.

"REGEN TECH CEO MYSTERIOUSLY DISAPPEARS AFTER PRODUCT LAUNCH."

Her thumb stopped.

"ARKANANTA MAHENDRA’S LUXURY CAR FOUND IN RAVINE; BLOOD DISCOVERED BUT NO BODY FOUND."

Hana read the sentence twice. Three times.

"REGEN TECH STOCK PLUMMETS: WHO WILL REPLACE ARKAN?"

She sat in a silence that felt heavy and long.

Then, she clicked the first article.

A photo of a man appeared on the screen. Black suit. Neat dark brown hair. A sharp jawline. Bright blue eyes that, even in a formal photo, radiated something that felt like... an evaluation. As if he were assessing something and hadn't yet decided if it met his standards.

Beneath the photo, it read: Arkananta Mahendra, 32, CEO of Regen Tech.

Hana stared at the photo.

Then she slowly swiveled her chair toward the inpatient ward door.

The door was shut tight. Silent. Behind it, there was supposed to be a brown tabby Maine Coon with blue eyes sleeping in the largest kennel.

Hana turned back to the screen.

She read the article from top to bottom with painstaking detail. About the massive product launch yesterday afternoon. About Arkan, last seen leaving the venue alone. About his car found on the outskirts of the city, crashed in a shallow ravine, airbags deployed, windshield cracked. About the bloodstains on the driver’s seat. About the absence of a body.

About the speculation. The accident. And the other possibilities that went unsaid, but everyone understood.

Hana closed the browser.

She sat in the quiet for a full minute, staring at the screen which had returned to its default wallpaper, a wide-grinning Golden Retriever.

Then she took her coffee. Took a sip. Set it down.

"Okay," she whispered to the empty air.

She pulled a fresh medical record folder from the drawer. She opened the first page, picked up a pen, and began filling out the patient identity section in neat, professional script.

Patient Name: ...

Hana paused at that line for a long time.

Then she wrote, in careful lowercase letters:

Patient Name: Unknown. Male Maine Coon, brown tabby, blue eyes. Self-admitted at 03:00 AM. Abdominal puncture wound, 12 stitches.

In the additional notes section, after an even longer pause, she added a single line:

Note: Patient exhibits unusual behavior. Further observation required.

She closed the folder. Placed it on the rack.

And decided, quite consciously and deliberately, that she had seen no news tonight. She had read no articles. She did not know who Arkananta Mahendra was.

Until there was evidence more concrete than a strange feeling at 4:00 AM, Hana Adistya was a professional veterinarian whose job was simple.

To heal the patient.

Whoever, or whatever, that patient actually was.