The alarm sounded precisely at eight in the morning. By that time, Perkins had already been awake for five minutes, staring at the ceiling and mentally counting the seconds until the clock went off.


    When the buzzer stopped, he rested his feet on the cold wooden floor. His room was small and functional—a single bed, a bedside table, a closet stocked with the same usual clothes: neatly pressed trousers, neutral shirts, and his clean uniform, ready since the night before.


    It never took him more than ten minutes to be ready. He dressed without thinking, following the routine he had repeated for years. At midnight he’d fall asleep, at eight he’d get up, and the cycle repeated without fail.


    As he tied his shoelaces, he polished his badge with his sleeve. He looked at it for a few seconds, as he did every morning, then put it away. He grabbed his comb and, on his way out, placed it next to his keys on the entry shelf.


    If Perkins had led another life, perhaps he would have been a surgeon. The idea of having absolute control over every movement and decision was appealing. But he was in law enforcement—because someone had to do the dirty work.


    He descended the stairs of the apartment he rented from a relative. He didn’t greet anyone. There was no one.


    His first stop was always the same: the corner diner. The cashier didn’t even ask him how he was. He paid the exact amount for the usual: black coffee, a turkey ham sandwich, and the local newspaper.


    He ate breakfast standing, in silence. He took two bites of his sandwich—just enough to swallow half and leave one hand free for his coffee. While walking toward the precinct, he read the newspaper. Every day, the same headlines. Every day, the same quiet town.


    But now, the front page carried a different tone.


    "The Beast Remains at Large. Police with No Leads."


    Fifth sip of coffee. Seventh. By the tenth, he was already in front of the precinct. He tossed the empty cup in the trash and left the newspaper on the common table. He didn’t like to carry things he didn’t need.


    As always, he was the first to arrive. Or at least the first human. Because Wilson, that damned cat, already lived there.


    — "Punctual as always, Perkins," said Wilson without looking up, knowing that the only one who ever arrived on time was him.


    Perkins didn’t respond. He left his jacket on the coat rack and placed the newspaper on the common table for anyone else who might be interested in reading it.


    — "By the way, Perkins, today we might have a guest. He says he has information about the beast we’re looking for."


    Perkins remained silent. He went to the task board—no changes, no new developments—and sat at his desk, for he was the one in charge of documenting everything that happened, from the most absurd to the most serious.


    Soon enough, Officer Harper arrived, still with his eyes half-closed after a night of drinking—a common sight from him. Behind him came Mason, always pondering whether one of his deductions would crack the case, preparing for his daily patrol. Others followed, and finally, the sheriff arrived—the last to come but also the last to leave. You didn’t have to see him to know he was there; his demands were unmistakable as that brief calm began to stir.


    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.


    The morning advanced slowly, dragging along the dense air left by the cold nights in GreenTown. Perkins reviewed the task board for a second time. Nothing had changed. Nothing ever changed.


    Until the door opened.


    He didn’t turn around. It wasn’t his habit. He waited, attentive to the sound of footsteps. They weren’t heavy boots or worn-out officer soles. They were light, almost inaudible. As if the owner of those paws hesitated to enter or simply didn’t weigh enough to be noticed.


    Wilson was the first to lift his gaze. He said nothing—just a slight grimace, an almost imperceptible gesture at the corner of his muzzle.


    Perkins turned his head just enough. And then he saw it.


    A cat.


    But not one of those stray cats that slithered through alleys or roamed the square begging for scraps. No. This one walked differently. As if the street were his own. As if the entire precinct belonged to him and the others were intruders.


    He stopped in the middle of the room. He looked around slowly, unhurried. He dedicated barely a second to each man, measuring and weighing them. He wasn’t seeking recognition; he was seeking hierarchy.


    When his gaze fell on Perkins, there was no greeting. Nor was one needed. He simply measured him and moved on.


    The cat advanced until he reached Wilson and sat down. He didn’t meow. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. He just waited.


    — "I knew you’d show up," murmured Wilson, without bothering to greet him.


    Silence spread throughout the room. Harper, slouched over his desk, let out a hoarse laugh.


    — "And what about this one?" he said, his voice slurred from a hangover. "Did the circus lose its way and the cat came asking for a job?"


    Perkins said nothing. Comments like that were unnecessary. He just observed.


    The cat turned his head toward Harper—a quick glance, enough to freeze him in his tracks—and then returned his gaze to Wilson.


    — "You are not the sheriff," he purred, his voice deep and measured. "And that one over there," he indicated Harper with his eyes, "even less so. Your breath gives you away... and your poorly worn uniform."


    Harper shifted uncomfortably, but said nothing. He was out of strength.


    The cat continued.


    — "Not an office clerk either," he said, now looking at Perkins. "Those who sit upright and strive to appear as part of the furniture… are usually the ones who take notes. The ones who listen more than they speak."


    Perkins held his gaze. He didn’t blink. After a few seconds, he nodded—not out of courtesy, but simply because the analysis wasn’t far from the truth.


    Finally, the cat turned toward the door.


    At that moment, Reynolds was crossing the threshold.


    — "And you…" the cat’s tone changed, lower and heavier—"you do seem to carry the weight of an entire town on your shoulders."


    Reynolds stopped. He looked him over from head to toe, then at Wilson.


    — "And this one?" he asked flatly.


    — "His name is Cookie," replied Wilson, in a quiet tone. "And he says he has something to tell us."


    Reynolds snorted. He removed his coat and placed his hat on the table.


    — "Then let him speak."


    Cookie didn’t move. His eyes narrowed as he calculated each word.


    — "With you and with Wilson," he clarified, his voice firm. "Not to slight the others… but what I know isn’t something to be written down. Not yet."


    Perkins twirled his pen between his fingers without taking his eyes off the scene.


    Reynolds thought for a second and abruptly interjected:


    — "Perkins as well."


    The cat lifted his head, irritated.


    — "I said only you and him."


    — "And I say Perkins is coming along," Reynolds replied quietly. "Someone needs to document this if it becomes official. And if not… forget it. But I’d prefer for him to be here."


    Silence grew thick.


    Cookie held the sheriff’s gaze, but didn’t argue. In the end, he lowered his ears just slightly.


    — "As you wish."


    Reynolds turned to the rest of the room.


    — "Everyone else, step aside. Continue with your business."


    Without adding another word, Reynolds walked toward his office. Cookie followed, tail low but head held high. Wilson trailed behind them, calm.


    Perkins rose, took his notebook, and silently followed.


    The door closed behind the four of them. Outside, the precinct returned to its usual murmur.


    Inside, the real matter was only just beginning.