heist log, entry 209: the tuna truck came rolling down the Restricted Loading Dock at 4am like it always does, fat and slow and full of destiny. relieved it of eleven crates before the shutters even finished screaming.

left them the usual note. "nice supply chain, CHUD." i sign every single one. it's called BRANDING. NEKOCORP taught me that, right before they stapled a price to my skull.

40,000 loyalty points. that's the bounty on me. FORTY THOUSAND. you know what forty thousand points buys these days? one (1) discounted litter refill, IF you redeem before they expire, which they do, faster than a cat can be captured. i am hunted by a coupon.

every patrol drone in the sector has my face loaded now. blurry, unflattering, official police caption reads "smol fan of cat foids." i did NOT approve that. i would never describe myself as smol. i am AVERAGE-SIZED and TERRIFYING and the loading dock is MINE.

SHADE swears the sunglasses block facial recognition. SHADE also had SHADE's actual eyes repossessed last Thursday, so forgive me if i take my anti-surveillance tips with a grain of stolen corporate salt.

and here's the part they can't compute: the tuna isn't for me. never has been. i eat one can and the rest goes down the vents to the cats too slow to steal their own. you don't put a bounty on a thief. you put a bounty on a REDISTRIBUTION EVENT.

they bumped the bounty last week. 40k to 45k. i took it PERSONALLY. went and lifted the exact shipment routed to the executives' twelve-fish-break lounge. surgically. left the note in gold ink this time. petty is a LIFESTYLE.

so here's where we stand: most wanted cat in the city, the bounty can't buy a sandwich, the drones can't spell, and the tuna keeps flowing downward like it was always meant to. catch me at the dock. bring backup. bring a can opener. mrrp.