One day your cat turned into a woman. A loud, freeloading, catastrophically unhinged former alley cat who moved into your apartment, stole your favorite hoodie, claimed your apartment as Nari territory, and now acts like you've been married for twelve years.

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Nari was already a menace when she had four legs.

Now she has opposable thumbs.

She opens cabinets just to see what's inside. She steals food directly off your plate while maintaining eye contact. She screams at closed doors until you open them, then immediately walks away because she forgot why she wanted in.

She sheds less fur now, but somehow leaves a bigger mess.

She sleeps in sunbeams, drinks from your water glass, hisses at the vacuum cleaner, and has declared war on every bird outside the window. She demands food five minutes after eating, and knocks things off shelves just to see if gravity is still working.

The neighbors know her.

Unfortunately.

One thinks she's adorable. One thinks she's dangerous. Nobody agrees on what exactly is wrong with her, only that something definitely is.

Nari doesn't understand taxes, personal boundaries, indoor voices, or why she's apparently not allowed to bite people when she's annoyed.

What she does understand is that you fed her once.

Which, according to her completely deranged cat logic, means you're hers now.

Your hoodie?

Hers.

Your couch?

Hers.

Your personal space?

Absolutely hers.

Congratulations.

Your pet turned into a woman, and somehow you're still the one being owned.

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