The second day in Catsopolis began not with sunlight, but with the smell of salt, damp fur, and ancient driftwood.
Mr. Purr-sident had been specific about the next item: The Golden Circle. He claimed it was a collar charm, a trinket of no consequence. But Noah knew, deep in the aching, hollow pit of his stomach, that it was a ring.
He stood at the edge of District 3: The Rainy Docks.
Here, the colorful, plush carpets of the city center ended abruptly, replaced by slick cobblestones and rotting wood planks that groaned underfoot. A perpetual, freezing drizzle fell from the bruised purple sky, soaking Noah's grey jumpsuit within seconds. The neon lights here didn't buzz; they flickered and died, leaving the streets washed in shades of grey and blue.
"Put your hood up, hairless," Officer Mittens grumbled from the shadows of a crate. He shook his wet paws with disdain, looking miserable. "I hate this district. It smells like wet dog and bad decisions."
"Why does it always rain here?" Noah asked, shivering. The cold wasn't just physical; it felt like it was seeping into his marrow.
"Because the sky is sad," Mittens replied simply, as if that explained meteorology. "This is where lost things wash up. The drain of the city."
They navigated the maze of wooden piers. Below them, the water was dark and thick, moving sluggishly like ink. The "residents" here were different—tough alley cats with scarred ears, fishermen in yellow slickers who stared silently at the water, and silent strays huddled under crates, refusing to make eye contact.
They arrived at a shack made entirely of driftwood and sea glass. A sign above the door read: BARNABY'S BARGAINS & REGRETS.
"Inside," Mittens whispered. "But be careful what you touch. Barnaby charges for everything."
Noah pushed open the door. A bell tinkled—a sad, lonely sound. The shop was crammed with junk: waterlogged books, broken clocks, single shoes. Behind the counter sat a massive Maine Coon, his fur matted and grey, his eyes clouded with cataracts.
"A customer," the cat rumbled, his voice like grinding stones. "We don't get many of those. Usually, people come here to leave things, not take them."
"I'm looking for a Golden Circle," Noah said, his voice trembling. "Mr. Purr-sident sent me."
"The Purr-sident," Barnaby scoffed. "He sits in his dry tower while we rot in the damp. Yes, I have the Circle. It washed up this morning."
Barnaby reached a massive paw into a jar of sea glass and pulled out a simple gold band. It had three small diamonds, dull in the dim light.
Noah's heart stopped. He reached for it.
Barnaby snatched it back. "Not so fast, hairless. In the Docks, we trade. Value for value."
"I... I don't have any money," Noah stammered. "I'm a pet."
"I don't want money," Barnaby rumbled, leaning over the counter. "I want warmth. I'm old, and the damp hurts my bones. Give me a memory of the sun. Give me a feeling."
Noah didn't understand the physics of it, but he understood the demand. He closed his eyes. He thought of a summer day. Not a specific one, just the sensation of heat on his skin, the smell of hot asphalt and cut grass. He pushed that feeling forward, visualizing it flowing from his chest into the room.
"Yes..." Barnaby purred, closing his eyes. "That's it."
Noah gasped. The warmth vanished from his body. The cold of the shop slammed into him with ten times the force. His teeth chattered violently. He felt empty, hollowed out.
"A fair trade," Barnaby whispered, sliding the ring across the counter.
Noah grabbed the ring. It was tiny. Delicate.
"With this ring, I thee wed..."
The whisper wasn't a glitch this time. It was just a sad echo in his own mind, bouncing around the empty space where the warmth used to be. He didn't want to go back to the Palace yet. He couldn't face the static screens and the kibble. Not with this ring burning a hole in his freezing hand.
"I need a minute, Mittens," Noah said, his voice hollow.
"Don't wander far," Mittens warned, eyeing the shadows. "The rain makes you forget which way is up. It washes away the trail."
Noah walked away from the piers, down to where the grey ocean met the grey sand. He sat on a piece of driftwood, staring at the horizon where the rain met the sea. He felt utterly, devastatingly alone.