My Cats Ruled the Apocalypse

[Apocalypse countdown: 24 hours. Pets will transform into guardians to protect their owners. Each person may keep up to three.]

The moment I heard the system notification, the world went insane.

Pampered little pets were being dumped onto the streets in droves, while ferocious dogs—usually avoided at all costs—were snatched up like gold.

My boyfriend, Dominic Caldwell, got the news and rushed straight to my apartment.

He bundled up my three sleeping cats in one go and flung open the window, ready to toss them out.

Quick as lightning, I stepped in front of him, blocking his move.

"Dominic, what are you doing? I raised them!"

He exploded on the spot. "Haven't you heard the notice? The apocalypse starts in twenty-four hours! You expect these blind, crippled cats to protect you?"

I planted myself firmly in front of the window, refusing to budge. When brute force didn't work, he tried persuasion.

"Scarlett, listen to me. Kill these useless cats, and we'd have six slots. Then we could raise more beasts. We'd be invincible."

I wouldn't yield. Chest puffed out, I tried to bluff.

"Who said they can't protect me? The eldest isn't blind, the second isn't crippled. They're fine cats."

"Anyway," I added, "if you so much as touch them today, you'll regret it!"

Dominic stared at me wide-eyed, like I'd gone insane.

He hurled the cat bundle to the ground with a thud and cursed, "They're not blind! Only I must be blind to have picked a fool like you! We're done. Don't even think about begging me when the apocalypse hits, you idiot."

The door slammed so hard it shook the walls. Once he left, I hurriedly freed the cats, my heart still racing.

This wasn't the first time I'd been cursed at like that. Ever since graduation, my reputation as a "Saintly Cat Mama" had stuck.

And all of it was because I was, without a doubt, a total cat slave.

After university, I rented my own apartment. To fulfill my childhood dream of raising pets, I rescued two stray cats on a rainy night.

One male, one female—Leo and Luna—and I raised them like my own children.

People didn't think it was strange to adopt two strays. The problem was how insatiable they were.

Five-dollars-a-pound cat food? Nope. Ten-dollars-a-pound? Still no.

All the fancy canned food and treats that other kittens loved? Refused.

They only ate fresh meat. Three pounds of chicken? They could go through four or five a day.

Got tired of chicken? Bring on the pork. Or beef.

If I didn't buy it, they'd sneak out and steal it from the butcher's stall.

From that moment, I became a mother who was constantly cleaning up after her little monsters.

Debts piled up—one creditor to the next—and my already fragile wallet was drained monthly just to feed them.

Meanwhile, I was overworked, malnourished, and fainted at my desk more than once.

Neighbors pitied me. The ladies in the building kept warning me.

"Since the cats can hunt for themselves, why not just let them go?"

"You're young, your strength is limited. Starving yourself now could cause lasting damage."

Hungry and hooked up to an IV drip, I had to admit they made sense.

So, on a dark and stormy night, I "sent" Leo and Luna out into the world.

…

Honestly, the day I sent them away was the first time I truly ate my fill.

Barbecue, fried chicken, spicy crayfish, bubble tea, cake, ice cream… everything I usually denied myself, I devoured until I needed the walls to support me.