The Migricity Museum woke up slowly, like a giant creature resting over ancient stone.
By eight in the morning, its hallways echoed with hurried footsteps, muffled conversations, and the flutter of metallic bird wings attached to hanging sculptures. Ferals of every species moved back and forth — yawning tourists, clipboard-carrying researchers, guards clutching their first coffees of the day.

And right in the middle of all that, sitting on a plain wooden chair that creaked like a dry branch, was Thomas.

The cat-boy rocked the chair forward and back in a dangerous rhythm, trying to chase away the boredom gnawing at his patience. The air smelled like cold stone and fresh floor polish, but none of it distracted him.

I could’ve stayed home… he thought, squeezing his eyes shut.
Why did I cooooome? Ughhhh…

It was his last day of vacation. His one free day before facing a new school — a thought terrifying enough on its own. And instead of sleeping in or playing games, he was stuck alone inside a giant museum, cornered by boredom like it was an invisible wall.

A large shadow approached, and Thomas perked up his ears.

“Hey, kiddo,” a calm, good-natured voice said.

Peter — a tall, sleek black cat in a suit far too fancy for someone as clumsy as him — stopped beside his son. His yellow eyes shone kindly.

“Sorry for leaving you trapped here,” he laughed, ruffling Thomas’s ears. “But Dad won’t take long.”

He pointed to the huge wall clock: 8:12.

“See? I’ll only be about thirty minutes. After that we’ll grab something good to eat, promise.”

Thomas let out a long, dramatic groan:

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah…”

“I know, I know,” Peter sighed, though his whiskers lifted in a smile. “To make it up to you, I bought this.”

He opened a small bag from the gift shop and, as if presenting a legendary treasure, pulled out a red rubber ball.

It was simple, but under the warm lamp above them, it gleamed like a tiny enchanted gem. Thomas’s eyes widened. The ball reflected in his dilated pupils, lighting his face with a vibrant red glow.

For a moment, the entire museum vanished.
Nothing existed except the ball.

Boing…
Boing…
Boing…

Imagined sounds echoed delightfully in his mind.

“Here,” Peter said, placing the ball in his son’s hand.

Thomas held it as if it were the most precious thing he had ever seen. His fingers squeezed it gently, feeling the smooth texture and the faint chemical scent of brand-new rubber.

“I’ll be right back,” Peter assured, already heading toward the frosted-glass meeting room door. “And no running or bouncing that ball near the exhibits, okay?”

Thomas nodded… though his eyes were still locked onto the ball, as if it were nodding for him.

The door clicked shut behind Peter.

Thomas was alone.
Alone in the entire museum.
Alone with the glowing red rubber ball in his hands.

Thomas looked at the museum’s wall clock.
“Just thirty minutes… what could happen? Nothing,” he muttered.

He squeezed the ball.
“And you…” he said to it like it were his lifeline in a sea of boredom.

The museum bustled around him: adults chatting, student groups taking pictures, tourists pointing at sculptures, glass cases full of fossils and ancient skeletons. High ceilings, echoing footsteps, polished wood. Thomas took it all in, his thoughts jumping — from clock to ball, ball to museum, museum back to clock — a frantic little dance inside his head.

Then it happened.

A red arrow — bright, glowing, like a cartoon adventure map — popped into existence in front of his eyes, pointing at the ball slipping out of his hand.

“Wha—?!”

BOING!

The ball slipped from his fingers and hit the floor.

“GET BACK HEREEEE!” Thomas yelled, chasing after it.

With feline reflexes, he darted through people, dodging bags, legs, and shopping tours while the ball bounced like it had a mind of its own.

“I’m gonna get you!” he growled.

BOING! BOING! BOING!

It ricocheted off a wall. Then the floor. Then the bottom of a pedestal. Thomas dove under a golden chain barrier, making a lady scream and almost drop her camera.

The ball sped toward one of the museum’s rarest paintings.

Thomas’s heart jumped into his throat.

“No, no, no— GET AWAY FROM THERE!” he sprinted, almost slipping on the polished floor.

The ball soared in a perfect arc toward the painting. Thomas saw everything happen in slow motion. His ears flattened. His eyes widened.

But seconds before impact…

THUP.

It hit the floor and changed direction, continuing its chaotic path.

“Whew…” Thomas clutched his chest.

The ball kept bouncing.
And bouncing.
And bouncing.

BOING against the railing.
BOING off the wall.
BOING on the shiny floor.

Until, with one last chaotic hop, it darted into the gift shop and landed straight inside a display case.

“Oh no you don’t!” Thomas shouted and charged in like a runaway train.

He slid into the store without noticing the long line of customers. He squeezed through them like he was on a life-or-death mission.

“Hey!”
“Stop cutting in line, kid!”
“Get back here!”

Thomas ignored everyone, eyes fixed on the ball bouncing inside the case.

He ran past Logan — a tall, pristine white cat in a perfect suit — who was with his daughter Carry. The twelve-year-old Siamese girl giggled as Thomas zoomed by.

“Hi, Thomas,” she said casually.

“Hi, Carry!” he puffed, still running.

Logan raised his phone, laughing.
“Peter is gonna lose his mind watching this, hahahaha!”

Thomas reached the back of the display case, where employees were helping customers. They all froze at the sight of him.

He turned to the next person in line — a huge, stern-looking bison — and improvised:

“Uhh… what’s your order, sir? I’m an intern!”

The bison blinked.
“Uuuuuh… I guess… a keychain?”

“Of course, sir! I’ll grab it!” Thomas said, trying to look professional.

He ran to the keychain wall — and then froze.
There it was.

The ball.

“Don’t move,” he whispered.

The ball stared back. Or seemed to. Then rolled slightly backward, mocking him.

“HEY!” Thomas lunged.

The ball escaped again, slipping between shelves and mannequins until it reached a gray door marked:

EMPLOYEES ONLY

Thomas reached it, panting.
“You… wouldn’t dare.”

The ball stayed still.

Then — POINK! — it hopped and slipped under the door.

“No, no, NO!” Thomas shoved it open and stepped inside.

The door shut behind him with a CLACK.

He entered a narrow hallway full of boxes, cleaning carts, and the smell of damp. The red ball rolled ahead, taunting.

“I’ll get you…” Thomas whispered, creeping forward.

BOINK. The ball bounced.

Thomas darted — and immediately heard:

“HEY! YOU!”

Thomas froze.

A huge wolf guard, muscular and unimpressed, stomped toward him.

“What’s a kid doing in a restricted area?” the guard growled.

“It’s just… I… the ball…” Thomas pointed ahead, but the ball was gone.

“No made-up stories!” the guard snapped. “Come with me.”

“Nooo, wait! It’s getting away!”

“Let’s go.”

The guard grabbed him by the collar and dragged him like a sack of mildly-angry potatoes.

As they passed the ball, Thomas stretched his arm…
and finally grabbed it.

The guard placed him in a small white room — a table, two chairs, an abandoned cup of water. It looked like a “serious talk” room. Or baby jail.

“You stay here until I call your guardian,” the guard said.

Thomas slumped in the chair.
“My life is over…”

Then he looked at the clock.

8:32.

Twenty-two minutes already gone.

“Dad’s coming back soon!” Thomas jolted upright like he’d been shocked.

The guard didn’t even react. Thomas darted under his arm, skidded out the door—

“HEY! GET BACK HERE!”

He turned a corner at full speed — and SMACK — crashed into another, much bigger guard.

They both fell.
The ball rolled away.

“NOOO!” Thomas scrambled up and chased it.

The ball bounced — boink — swerved past a cleaning cart, shot around a stack of boxes, and rolled straight into the main staff hallway.

Thomas dove after it.

Before the guard could grab him again, Thomas slid under a half-open door and vanished into the museum.

He burst back into the main halls, following the imagined red trail of the bouncing menace. He dodged tourists, pillars, backpacks — until he finally saw it.

But someone else had it.

A kid. About five years old. Holding the ball with the grin of a final-season villain.

Thomas approached slowly, hands raised.
“Hey… buddy. Give me that, okay? That’s mine.”

The kid kept smiling.
A terrifying smile.
Then — without warning — he pulled his arm back.

“No!” Thomas choked.

And whoosh! — the kid hurled the ball straight toward the massive dinosaur skeleton in the center of the hall.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!” Thomas screamed, sprinting.

The ball soared in a perfect arc, glowing under the museum lights. Thomas ran as fast as his little feline legs could go.

“No, no, no, no! You MONSTER!” he yelled at the kid, who cackled like he’d just committed the perfect crime.

Thomas leapt desperately. Time slowed.
His heartbeat thundered.
His breath stopped.

And then it happened again.

He saw them.

The dashed arrows.
The possible paths.
The glowing red trajectories.

He had never felt it so intensely.

Thomas focused like his life depended on it — and miraculously, the ball veered off its original path. Instead of slamming into the fossil, it bounced off a metal support, changed direction, and dropped to the floor with a soft boink.

Then it started bouncing again.
Faster and faster.

Straight toward the museum exit.

Thomas landed, stunned.
“Thank you, God…” he whispered.

Then bolted after the ball, bursting out through the museum doors.

Back in the meeting room, Peter tried to stay serious as Marcos — a tired-looking middle-aged coyote — nervously explained the chaos in the museum.

“The rumors about that East Water creature…” Marcos rubbed his neck. “Well… let’s just say the staff got spooked. They asked for some ‘time off.’ You know how it is… hahaha…”
His laugh died alone.

Peter sighed.
“I’m sorry, Marcos, but you have to pay the fine. This is your final warning. If you don’t, city hall might shut the museum down entirely.”

“Okay, okay… I get it…” Marcos mumbled.

Peter stood and headed for the door. Before leaving, he reached for a cup of coffee. A loop of bluish light formed from his palm, wrapped around the cup, and gently pulled it into his hand.

Marcos blinked.
“By the way… where’s your kid?”

Peter smiled proudly.
“He’s sitting quietly, playing with a red rubber ball I bought him.”

He stepped outside the room, took two steps, and—

“…oh no.”

Realization struck.

Peter rushed down the hall.

Outside, Thomas watched the ball sitting in the middle of the street, as if deciding what chaos to cause next.

He looked left.
Then right.
Then crept forward.

“I’m catching you this time…” he muttered.

But the ball betrayed him — boink! — and bounced again, heading straight back toward the museum.

“Hey! Get back here!”

It zoomed across the lobby, dodged visitors, bounced off the floor, and… flew right back to the exact chair Thomas had been sitting on 29 minutes earlier.

Thomas jumped, stretched his arms, and finally caught it mid-air. He landed on the chair, panting — but victorious.

That was when Peter appeared.

“Thomas?”

“Dad?”

“Thomas?!”

“Dad?!”

Peter looked at his son — sitting quietly.
Still.
Angel-like.

“You… stayed still the whole time?”

Thomas puffed out his chest.
“Yes, sir. Didn’t move at all.”

Peter narrowed his eyes.
“…right. Let’s go eat.”

He bought lasagna to-go, and the two headed home. Everything seemed fine.

Peace lasted until Peter’s phone buzzed.

Notification from Logan.

Video received: “LOOK AT THE NEW INTERN :D :D :D”

Peter pressed play.

There was Thomas.
Running like a madman through the museum.
Cutting the line.
Screaming.
Sliding across the floor.
Leaping at dinosaur skeletons.
Nearly being arrested.

And Logan wheezing with laughter behind the camera.

The silence in the dining room lasted five seconds.

Then:

“THOMAS!”

“B-but Dad, it wasn’t my fau—”

“You’re grounded.”

Thomas sighed. Looked at his lasagna.

“…at least it’s tasty.”