The door creaked open, and Meow stood smugly at the threshold like he owned the place—which, to be fair, he kinda did. His tail flicked with flair, eyes half-lidded in that lazy-but-judgy way only cats can master.

"Follow me, peasants," Meow purred, voice rich with sarcasm and that silky American drawl, like an aristocrat who'd overdosed on sass. "Time for the royal tour, courtesy of the one and only Me. And no, I don't accept tips—unless it's salmon. Or tuna. Or dignity. Actually, just bring food."

Nolan and Alya trailed behind him like two starstruck tourists, wide-eyed and slightly dirty, still reeling from the last twenty-four hours. War. Blood. Explosions. A demon car. And now this—velvet carpets, holographic chandeliers, and a cat giving them a house tour like it was the Ritz.

Meow pushed open a door with his paw—somehow dramatically—and revealed their room.

It was sleek. Stylish. Two single beds, glowing softly in ambient lighting, separated by a small desk and matching dressers. Everything smelled like lavender and clean sheets. The floor was a rich hardwood, polished to a mirror shine, and the walls responded to their presence—soft yellow on one side, gentle purple on the other.

Alya dashed in, tossing her stuff on the yellow-themed bed. "This is mine!" she beamed.

Nolan shrugged. "Purple's mine anyway. Matches my eyes. And my soul. Probably."

Meow hopped onto the desk and looked at both of them with narrowed eyes.

"Just a reminder," he said coolly. "This room has sound sensors, movement trackers, and moral decency detectors. Try anything remotely hormonal, and I'll unleash the Russian dog. Don't test me. He once barked at a nuke and the nuke ran."

Both Alya and Nolan froze, faces igniting like firecrackers.

"W-We're not—!" Alya stammered.

"YOU PERVERTED CAT!" Nolan roared.

Meow leapt down, clearly satisfied with the chaos he had caused. "Just kidding. Keep it yourself in control, warm bloods. I like my walls trauma-free. "

With the awkward tension successfully installed, he padded off dramatically.

"Tour continues. Let's roll. Don't touch anything unless you wanna explode or, worse, activate Alan's morning alarm. Spoiler: it's a shotgun."

The house at night was a different kind of dream. Every corridor shimmered with clean white panels, accented by soft glows in red and cyan. The lighting adjusted as they walked, as if welcoming them.

"This entire place is Alan's?" Alya asked, still clutching her arms like she didn't belong.

"Yep," Meow chirped. "My master is richer than your entire bloodline history. Don't look so surprised. He's not just a killer—he's a multitasker. He kills with one hand, invests with the other."

They passed a sprawling library with moving shelves, a zen garden enclosed in glass, and even a gravity-control gym.

"Is that a kitchen with an A.I. butler?" Nolan gasped.

"Nope," Meow said. "That's just Alan in a mood. Last week he made pasta so spicy it knocked out a Nexus spy mid-bite. True story."

When they reached Alan's room, Meow paused dramatically.

"Behold, the forbidden chamber. The king's lair. Trespassers will be... swiftly disciplined. Like, 'open casket not recommended' disciplined."

The door slid open to reveal a spacious room with dark red curtains, cyan-glowing edges, and a bed that looked like it belonged in a designer catalog. A rack of weapons hung on the wall—dual sickles included—spotlighted like trophies.

Alya tilted her head. "Why… a double bed?"

Meow smirked. "Trying to make your chance already, little girl?"

Alya scowled, blushing hard. "WHAT?! NO!"

"Uh-huh. Sure," Meow teased. "Anyway, he sleeps alone. Usually. Probably. I mean, technically, emotionally, he sleeps with demons. Don't tell him that it's me"

Dinner was next. The scent hit them before they even reached the table.

"Alan cooks?" Nolan whispered.

Meow strutted in like a proud parent. "Oh, he does everything. Death. Decapitation. And dumplings. I taught him, of course. He denies it, but I have footage."

Alan was already at the table, arms crossed, chewing his gum with surgical intensity.

Mou sat on a velvet cushion, front paws crossed, a bowl of premium-grade food before him. He didn't even acknowledge their entrance. Royalty didn't nod at peasants.

Alya and Nolan hesitated. The table was massive, the food perfectly plated. Real meat, vegetables that weren't synthetic, and… was that actual dessert?

Alan looked up and spoke dryly. "Sit down. Eat. Try not to make it look like a documentary on starving beasts."

The moment food touched their lips, both teens exploded. Hands flying, mouths full, no words, only animalistic noises of joy.

Alan chewed slowly and stared. "You two are worse than prisoners of war. and you also Meow"

Mou may be live in harsh situation, but he eats like he's descended from czars."

Mou burped in agreement without eye contact.

Alan sighed. "Starting tomorrow, I'm teaching you both how to eat like humans. Or I'll chain you to Mou and let him glare discipline into you."

"Yay… bootcamp table manners," Nolan muttered.

Later that night, back in their room, Alya and Nolan lay in their beds, staring at the ceiling.

Quiet hung in the air like a third roommate.

"This is weird," Nolan said.

Alya nodded. "Yeah. But also… kinda warm. Like, emotionally. Not thermally."

A pause.

"Do you think we're safe?" Alya whispered.

"I think…" Nolan exhaled. "For now, yeah. With Alan? It's chaos, but it's better than the streets. And the food didn't kill us, which is a plus."

Alya smiled softly. "So we're a team now?"

Nolan chuckled. "More like a pact. You, me, Mou, the sarcastic cat, and the Reaper which is literally cook!"

She laughed, and the sound was light, like something long forgotten.

"Family," she said quietly.

"Yeah," Nolan replied. "Family."