The Cold-Blooded Purr

Month One: The Shedding

Erika was the undisputed queen of "Cat-Tok." Her condo in Toronto’s Liberty Village was a meticulously curated shrine to her three rescues: Mochi, Tuna, and Goose. To her twenty thousand followers, Erika was the ultimate "Cat Mom"—Gen-Z, vegan-adjacent, and perpetually covered in orange tabby fur.

The change started on a Tuesday in March. It began with her skin. At first, she thought it was just the brutal transition from the dry winter radiator heat to the damp Ontario spring. She switched her moisturizer to a heavy-duty ceramide cream, but her forearms remained stubbornly rough. By the end of the month, the skin on her shins didn't just feel dry; it felt tectonic. It was forming small, hexagonal patterns that shimmered with a faint, iridescent green under the Ring Light.

"Maybe it’s a filter glitch?" she muttered, checking her reflection in her phone. But the texture was real.

Month Two: The Humidity

By April, Erika had stopped posting videos of herself. She stayed behind the camera, filming Mochi batting at a laser pointer. She had developed an obsessive need for moisture. She spent hours in the bathtub, her skin soaking up the water until the "scales"—there was no other word for them now—glistened like emeralds.

Her diet was changing, too. The smell of her vegan protein shakes made her gag. She found herself standing in front of the open refrigerator, staring at a tray of raw chicken breast her roommate had picked up from St. Lawrence Market. Her tongue, which now felt slightly longer and more muscular, flicked out instinctively.

She felt a strange, primal kinship with her cats. When Tuna arched her back and hissed at the corner of the room, Erika didn’t comfort her. Instead, Erika crouched on all fours, her pupils narrowing into vertical slits, and hissed back. It felt right. It felt like communication.

Month Three: The Blink

In May, the transformation was nearly complete. Erika’s hair had fallen out in thick clumps, revealing a sleek, reptilian skull. Her spine had lengthened, and a heavy, muscular tail now knocked books off her coffee table. She wore oversized hoodies and long sweatpants to hide her body from her roommate, but the smell—a musky, ancient scent—was harder to mask.

She spent most of her time on the floor, basking in the patches of intense humidity that rolled off Lake Ontario. The cats were no longer her "babies." They were something else. They were fascinating. She watched the way the light caught the pulse in Goose’s neck. She studied the twitch of Tuna’s ears.

She had always told her followers that she loved cats because they were "so soft" and "so full of life." Now, as she watched Mochi trot across the laminate flooring, she realized she had been half-right.

Month Four: The Feast

It was a Friday night. The apartment was quiet, save for the distant hum of the Gardiner Expressway. Erika sat on the sofa, her green-scaled hands gripping the cushions. Her eyes, now large and lidless, tracked the movement of the three felines as they gathered for their dinner.

She felt a deep, vibrating hunger—a hollow ache in her gut that water and raw chicken could no longer satisfy. As Tuna rubbed against her scaly leg, Erika didn't reach down to pet her. She didn't feel the usual surge of "Cat Mom" affection.

She felt an appreciation, certainly. A deep, aesthetic admiration for the lean muscle, the delicate bones, and the warmth radiating from the animal’s body.

"I finally get it," Erika hissed, her voice a low, gravelly rasp. "I always thought I loved you because we were the same."

She leaned forward, her jaw unhinging with a wet, sickening pop. Her long, bifurcated tongue tasted the air, savoring the scent of warm fur and beating hearts.

"But I only liked you because you were... nutritious."

The city lights flickered through the floor-to-ceiling windows as Erika lunged, no longer a woman, but a predator who finally understood the true meaning of her obsession.

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