Sunlight spilled into Canan Kane's apartment, creeping past the thin blinds to illuminate the scuffed floor and mismatched furniture. The sparse, single-bedroom space wasn't messy, but it bore the marks of someone who lived there out of necessity rather than love.
The blaring of his alarm clock shattered the morning peace.
Canan groaned, burying his face deeper into the pillow. The sound was relentless, drilling into his skull with all the subtlety of a jackhammer.
"Damn thing," he muttered, flailing an arm toward the nightstand. His fingers grazed the clock but failed to silence it.
He opened one bleary eye and aimed. His second attempt was more successful, though the clock went skittering across the floor with a muted thud.
For a moment, he lay there, debating the merits of just staying in bed. The precinct could survive one day without him. Couldn't it?
A sharp scraping sound interrupted his musings, followed by a soft thud on the windowsill.
Canan cracked an eye open to see a ginger blur perched outside the window, its amber eyes narrowed in undisguised impatience. The Scottish Fold let out a loud, insistent meow, its ears twitching as it pawed at the glass.
"Oh, great," Canan muttered, throwing off the covers. "You're worse than the damn alarm clock."
The cat meowed again, sharper this time, as if offended by the comparison.
Canan trudged to the window, sliding it open just enough for the feline to leap inside. The cat landed gracefully, tail flicking once before it padded into the apartment with an air of regal entitlement.
"You're welcome," Canan called after it, but the cat didn't so much as glance back.
In the kitchenette, Canan yawned as he opened a cupboard. His favorite mug sat on the top shelf, next to a precariously placed jar of sugar. The ginger cat had already claimed a spot on the counter, watching him with unblinking intensity.
"Coffee first," Canan muttered, reaching for the mug.
The world tilted.
Suddenly, Canan was no longer in his body. He watched himself from an odd, detached angle, his movements playing out in eerie clarity.
His hand closed around the mug, nudging the sugar jar in the process. The jar tipped over the edge, shattering against the floor. Illusory Canan jumped back, his face a mix of fury and exhaustion. The ginger cat leapt backward too, landing with an indignant yowl before arching its back, its fur bristling as it hissed at the mess.
The scene shifted.
Now, his hand darted out to catch the sugar jar, saving it from falling. But the mug in his other hand struck the counter, cracking with a faint, jagged line. Illusory Canan scowled at the damaged mug, while the cat sniffed cautiously at the air, one paw raised as though it were testing the waters.
Another shift.
Both hands reached for the sugar jar, releasing the mug entirely. The jar wobbled but didn't fall, while the mug hit the floor with a satisfying crash. Illusory Canan winced at the shards scattering across the tiles. The cat leapt down from the counter, circling the mess with wide eyes and a twitching tail, its steps light as though avoiding an invisible minefield.
The final scene was different.
This time, Canan's hand hovered near the mug, hesitating. Slowly, Illusory Canan turned his head, locking eyes with… himself. His expression wasn't angry or confused—just quietly knowing, as though he had seen something Canan hadn't yet understood.
The world snapped back into focus.
Canan gasped, his hand still outstretched toward the mug. His breath hitched as he glanced between the jar and the mug, both untouched.
He turned his head toward the kitchen corner where he had been watching himself from moments ago.
Nothing. Just sunlight catching on the peeling paint of the wall.
A soft meow broke the silence. The ginger cat sat on the counter, tail flicking lazily as it regarded him with an almost accusatory stare.
Canan ran a hand through his hair, muttering, "Yeah, yeah, I get it. I'm losing my mind."
The cat tilted its head slightly as if agreeing.
The cat's ears twitched, and it hopped down from the counter with a soft thud. It padded to the fridge and sat expectantly, staring at it as though demanding tribute.
Canan retrieved the mug carefully this time, setting it down with exaggerated precision before turning his attention to the cat.
"Breakfast," he said, opening the fridge. "Right. Can't start your day without it, huh?"
The cat tilted its head slightly, its eyes never leaving him.
With a sigh, Canan pulled out a small bowl of leftover chicken and set it on the floor. The cat sniffed at the offering, then began eating with slow, deliberate bites.
"Glad someone's having a good morning," Canan muttered, pouring water into the coffee machine.
The rest of the morning was a gauntlet of minor disasters.
Canan tripped over the edge of a rug on his way to grab his jacket, narrowly avoiding a vision when he steadied himself against the wall. The toaster jammed, the shower curtain slipped off its rod, and a wobbly chair threatened to collapse under him as he bent to tie his shoes. Each time, the world blurred, splitting into fractured scenarios before snapping back into place.
Through it all, the cat remained an unruffled observer, now perched on the back of the couch, it watched him like a spectator at a one-man circus act.
"What?" Canan snapped, catching its unblinking gaze. "Devious little furball, don't you dare judge me."
The cat yawned, flashing its tiny pink tongue, then stretched luxuriously as though to say I couldn't care less.
By the time Canan was ready to leave, his nerves were frayed, and his patience worn thin. But he hadn't broken anything. Not yet, anyway.
Straightening his tie in the mirror, he caught sight of his reflection and scowled. "Curse or blessing?" he muttered, adjusting the knot. "You tell me."
Despite his frustration, a flicker of resolve sparked in his chest. Whatever this power was, it wasn't going to beat him. He had survived worse than a few strange visions, and he wasn't about to let some mystical nonsense derail his life.
"I don't know what your deal is," he said aloud, addressing the strange power that had overtaken his life, "but I'm the one calling the shots. You're a tool, and tools work for me."
The cat let out a soft chirp, as if in agreement—or maybe amusement. Canan chose not to dwell on it.
He turned to the cat, which had sprawled luxuriously across the couch. "Don't wreck the place while I'm gone," he said.
The cat blinked slowly, then stretched, its paws curling as it rolled onto its side.
Canan shook his head with a faint smirk. "Yeah, I'll take that as a promise."
Stepping out into the crisp morning air, Canan felt the day's weight pressing against him already. But as he locked the door behind him and glanced back at the window, he caught sight of the cat watching him from the sill.
Its amber eyes gleamed in the sunlight, unblinking as it tracked his movements.
Canan raised an eyebrow. "Creepy little thing," he muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets.
The day stretched ahead of him, uncertain and full of challenges. But for the first time since the visions had started, Canan felt ready to face them.
Whatever this power was, it was his now.
And he would make it work.