2. The Executive Cage

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

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.

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