Record 26 – The Morning That Bit Back

I woke to a sharp, hollow ache deep in my belly. Not normal hunger. Not the kind you feel before breakfast. This was heavier, deeper, like an empty space inside me had grown teeth. The rooftop where we slept felt colder than it had last night. The metal pressed into my paws as if the building itself was warning me to move.

Fog hung over the city like a thick blanket that forgot how to keep warmth. The streets below were still frozen in that strange stillness – no engines, no footsteps, no shop doors slamming open for the morning rush. Just silence waiting for something to break it.

Repsik stirred beside me. His eyes opened halfway, slow and sticky with sleep. His first word wasn’t “hello,” or “you awake?” It was a low groan that felt pulled from his bones. “Food.”

I understood. My own stomach clawed at me again. We walked to the edge of the roof and looked down. The world below hadn’t changed overnight. Cars sat abandoned at odd angles. Papers drifted in lazy circles. No humans. No motion. No scent of warm bread or frying eggs or anything that hinted life had lived here yesterday.

Instinct told us to find food. It pushed hard. But something new shaped the instinct into a choice instead of a rush. “We search together,” I said. The words came out steady, even though my belly twisted.

We climbed down the fire escape. The metal rattled under our weight, sending short echoes into the empty street. When we landed, the ground felt soft with dust and old leaves, almost like stepping onto a memory.

No voices. No dogs. No open doors. The morning had none of its usual noises. Just two hungry minds in a world still trying to understand itself.

Then a faint scent brushed past us. Weak, stale, carried by the drifting fog. Not fresh, not inviting – but food all the same. We turned toward it at once.

And followed it toward a silent apartment building.