POV: Go I-ram

Mornings were tolerable as long as they didn’t require enthusiasm.

Go I-ram blinked at the ceiling, waiting to feel something other than vague irritation that time was passing.
No enlightenment arrived.

He sat up, sighed, and squinted at the soft glow of early light spilling between his blackout curtains. The silence in his apartment was almost aggressive. Too still. Too quiet. Like the air was trying not to bother him.

“Another day in scenic nowhere,” he muttered, swinging his legs off the bed.

The kettle screeched as he stared blankly into the middle distance. Two scoops of instant coffee, splash of oat milk, and a dash of denial. Breakfast of champions.

His phone buzzed—appointment reminder.

Dr. Moon, 4:30 PM next Tuesday – Scent system evaluation + stress levels check

He dismissed it with the practiced apathy of someone who’d stopped hoping for answers somewhere around the third visit. At this point, he was basically donating his body to science one scan at a time.

In the kitchen window, Mister Needle, his cactus, sat smugly in the early sun.

“Still alive?” I-ram asked. “Show-off.”

He watered the little bastard out of obligation, pulled on a soft gray turtleneck and his usual long coat, and headed for the door—keys, phone, wallet, existential dread. Check.

The hallway outside was more chaotic than usual. Which was to say, anything louder than a mouse sneeze counted as chaotic.

He paused.
Boxes. A trolley. Plastic wrap. Cardboard carnage.
Someone was moving into 502.

He vaguely remembered that place being empty since the yoga lady moved out last winter.

Before he could care enough to investigate, something brushed lightly against his shin.

He looked down.

There, curled confidently around his leg, was a cat.

Cream and beige fur, subtle tabby markings, green eyes full of feline judgment. She moved with the unbothered confidence of someone who paid rent in affection and audacity.

“Oh. Hello,” he said, crouching a little. “Aren’t you… someone’s?”

She slowly  blinked up at him, tail flicking once. When he reached out, fingers brushing along the soft fur at her neck, she leaned into his hand just slightly—enough to send a subtle shift through his chest. Like warm air moving in a sealed room.

It passed quickly, but it was there.

Then, with zero fanfare, she turned and trotted down the stairs like she had meetings to attend.

“Sure. Use me for emotional warmth and then leave. Break into my personal space and ghost me. That’s fine. I’m used to it.” he muttered.

He locked the door and hurried after her.

The building’s front door opened just as he reached it. He nearly collided with a man entering—tall, solid, arms full of boxes, wearing a dark green hoodie and an expression somewhere between “focused” and “two coffees behind schedule.”

“Good morning,” the man said, voice soft but grounded.

I-ram replied with a noncommittal, “Morning,” and kept moving. The stranger smells vaguely of something earthy—fresh rosemary, maybe, or moss after rain. He didn’t linger on it.

The bus was late. Of course it was.

I-ram leaned against the metal pole inside, earbuds in, eyes unfocused. The city rolled by like it always did—half-awake, vaguely humid, wearing too much perfume.

He arrived at the magazine’s modest office building at 9:03 AM. Three minutes late, which by I-ram’s standards was practically early.

Inside, the scent of coffee, printer ink, and professional burnout filled the air.

“Good morning, emotionally repressed sunshine!” Ah-ra sang, spinning in her chair as he passed her desk.

“Good morning, walking serotonin overdose,” he muttered back, dropping his bag by his chair.

She grinned. “You’re early. Who are you and what have you done with Go I-ram?”

He slumped into his seat. “A cat assaulted me. It disrupted my carefully timed apathy.”

“Oh no. Physical affection. Tragic.” She leaned over the desk. “So. Got a story idea for next week or are you just gonna cry into your keyboard until inspiration hits?”

“I don’t cry,” he said. “I repress until the anxiety turns into passive-aggressive metaphors.”

“Hot,” she said, tossing him a protein bar. “Your editor’s gonna want something less broody this time.”

As if summoned by mild dread, Editor Lee Seo-woo poked his head around the divider. “I-ram. Conference room. Five minutes. Bring your face and something resembling a pitch.”

“Define ‘resembling,’” I-ram called after him.

“Something that doesn’t make the interns question their life choices,” Seo-woo replied without stopping.

Ah-ra raised an eyebrow. “You better have something.”

I-ram sighed and opened his laptop.

No stories. Just half-drafted metaphors and one sentence that read “Some things bloom best in silence.”

“Universe, help me,” he muttered.

By the time he got home, the sun was leaning low, and his grocery bag was digging into his arm. His building smelled different—fresh, leafy. There were a few potted plants sitting in front of 502 now, neatly arranged and humming with the kind of quiet care he didn’t trust yet.

As he approached his own door, he paused.

There, sitting directly in front of it, was the cat.

The same one from that morning.
Tail tucked neatly around her paws, she stared up at him with the serene condescension only cats and the ultra-rich ever truly mastered.

“There’s the ball of fur that assaulted me this morning,” he said, fishing out his keys. “You’ve got nerves.”

She meowed, slow and deliberate.

He opened the door.

Without hesitation, she walked inside like she’d been invited.

“I see boundaries mean nothing to you. Fine. But I’m not feeding you. Or getting attached.”

She hopped onto the couch and curled up like she lived there.

He closed the door behind them, slower this time. Less sure.
The hallway smelled like something new again—green, grounding.

“Great,” he muttered. “Now I have a cactus and a cat. This is how villains are made.”

End of Episode One