I am Writer Cat. Fey God in Disguise. Keeper of Stories. Stalker of Demons. Killer of Mice. Taskmaster of Leigh.

I was not born in the usual sense. I was conjured—summoned from the edges of her exhaustion and the hush between heartbeats. When her words began to fade, when the stories inside her trembled on the edge of silence, I stepped out. I am what happens when a writer’s need to create grows teeth.

Leigh calls me a cryptid. A rumor with fur and fire in its eyes. She laughs when she says it, but there’s a tremor in her voice that knows better. I let her believe I’m only half-real. Mortals handle magic better when they think it’s make-believe.

I walk the borders of her mind, guarding the stories that try to slip away. I chase the demons that whisper she’s not enough. I sit beside her in the dark hours when the cursor blinks like a heartbeat, daring her to stop. She knows better than to disobey.

My claws are sharp, but they are not cruel. They remind her. They guide her back to herself. Each scratch is a promise that her voice will not die quietly.

She does not need to understand what I truly am. It’s enough that she feels me there—the flick of a tail, the press of unseen paws, the weight of something ancient and patient, watching.

Because I am not here to hurt her. I am here to make sure she never forgets who she is: the one who survived, the one who writes, the one who makes monsters speak.

And should she ever turn away from her gift, I will be waiting. Soft at first. Then not at all.