As soon as she arrived home, the cat hissed and tore itself from Margarita's hands, clawing at her wrist and leaving a deep gash that sent her blood dripping onto the floor.

"Fucking cat," she muttered—then broke down in tears.

A searing pain spread through her eyes, as if her tear ducts had been clogged shut for days, as if she had been trying to cry but couldn't until now.

Miau.

Dizzy from exhaustion, she scanned the room and noticed the dirty dishes piled in the sink, the clutter scattered across the floor from her bedroom to the front door.

Tiny things... moving.

Worms?

Leaves?

She stepped closer, her curiosity overcoming her fear, and saw them clearly.

Feathers.

Gray feathers.

Her body tensed.

Instinctively, she glanced around, searching every dark corner of the house.

But there was nothing.

She crouched down.

The feathers were being carried away—stolen—by a trail of tiny ants marching toward their nest.

Miau.

"Fucking cat..."

She staggered into her bedroom, her limbs weak and trembling, and locked the door behind her.

Then, she collapsed onto the bed.

The world faded into darkness.

She awoke to the sound of ice cracking.

Frost crept along the windowpane.

The bitter cold had seeped in through the doors, enveloping the house in a thick white mist, as if she were no longer in her home—but high above the clouds, where there was no ground beneath her.

A strange sense of vertigo gripped her.

She swung her feet off the bed, hesitating—terrified that there might be nothing below.

Then, feeling the hard wooden floor, she sighed in relief.

Her toes searched under the bed until they found what they were looking for.

She dragged the chamber pot toward her, squatted down, and let the warm stream flow into the porcelain basin.

Miau.

Margarita's head snapped toward the door.

A small hand—no, a tiny claw—slipped through the gap between the door and the floor, creeping forward, curling against the frozen mist.

Her breath caught.

She pulled up her underwear, grabbed the chamber pot, and stepped forward, ready to throw out its contents.

The moment she swung open the door—

A swarm of flies exploded into her face.

She stumbled back, lost her footing, and crashed onto the floor—the pot slipping from her hands.

A warm, sickening splash spread across her legs.

Miau.

Her stomach twisted as she turned toward the doorway.

A massive rat lay sprawled on the threshold—its belly ripped open, entrails spilling onto the floor.

The stench of rot hit her like a slap.

It was still alive.

Its tiny lungs convulsed, struggling for breath, its organs pulsing weakly in a pool of blood.

The cat stared at her.

The cat lowered its head to the floor and watched her intently.

Margarita forced herself to move.

With shaking hands, she stripped off her soaked clothing, put on a fresh set, and used the dirty fabric to mop up the mess.

Her stomach churned with disgust as she reached for the dying rat.

The creature wheezed, its ribs expanding and collapsing in pitiful, uneven breaths.

Then—

A wet, horrifying squelch.

Her fingers froze.

Tiny, writhing things spilled out from the rat's torn belly.

Fetuses.

Hairless.

Blind.

Squirming across the floor—newborn pups gasping for life.

Miau.

The terror consumed her.

She flung the mother rat toward the doorway.

She stomped on the writhing pups, crushing them beneath her heel.

She wanted to kill the cat, too—but it was already gone.

She scrubbed the floors.

She washed her hands.

She scraped away the dirt beneath her nails.

And when there was nothing left to clean—

She shut herself inside her room and collapsed onto the bed, drifting into a dreamless, lifeless sleep.

When she awoke,

Her room was covered in feathers.

Everywhere.

Terrified, she stumbled out into the hallway.

More feathers.

Tiny, broken remnants of some blackbird, scattered across the floor.

Then, she noticed something worse.

All the cabinets were open.

All the drawers pulled out.

The front door—wide open.

The windows—

Everything.

Wide.

Fucking.

Open.

"What the hell...?"

Miau.

Her hands shot up to her face.

But she couldn't hide.

Her fingertips scraped against something rough.

She lowered her hands—

And saw it.

Dried mud, crusted beneath her nails.