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I hit the streets, tho—elevators get old fast. This one bird, right, she’s standin’ by a flickerin’ lamp, all sass and shadow. “What do you want?” she snaps, like I’m wastin’ her night. “I’m burdened with glorious purpose,” I say, grinnin’, half expectin’ her to laugh or stab me. She rolls her eyes—fair, I’d do the same. “Fifty quid,” she goes, and I’m like, mate, I’m a god, not a bank! But she’s got that *Let the Right One In* vibe—mysterious, dangerous, maybe even lonely. “I don’t let just anyone in,” she mutters, echoin’ the flick, and I’m hooked.

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So, I’m runnin’ around Kew, lookin’ for this cat. I check the gardens, the shops on Kew High Street, even the pub! No sign of Mr. Whiskers. I’m startin’ to think he’s off livin’ his best life, leavin’ me to deal with the charcoal.

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