Against the Algorithm

Chapter 36: Crayfish and Favoritism

Yao, seated cross-legged on the plush rug near the coffee table, a towel draped across her lap as she gently dried off what looked to be a very damp, very vocal, very tiny gray-striped Maine Coon kitten. The creature's pale gray eyes blinked slowly, large ears twitching as it let out another indignant squeak of complaint at the toweling, its fur sticking out in fluffy clumps.

Yao didn't notice him at first. Her full focus was on the wriggling ball of fur in her hands, her fingers moving with careful precision as she patted the kitten's sides, checking its paws, brushing out its soaked tail with slow, deliberate strokes. "You're lucky we found you. That box was nearly tipped into the gutter." she murmured, her voice quiet, nearly drowned out by the kitten's soft mewls.

Sicheng's eyes swept back toward Da Bing, whose tail was flicking slowly—watching, unmoving, the picture of majestic feline judgment as he gazed down at the scene with a level of disdain only a 35-pound Siberian cat could achieve.

But he didn't pounce. Didn't hiss.

Which told him everything.

This wasn't a turf war.

This was a situation Da Bing had already deemed non-threatening. Maybe not approved. But tolerated.

Sicheng stepped forward, his voice low and calm. "Xiǎo xiānnǚ... want to tell me where the second cat came from?"

Yao flinched, startled, then tilted her head up toward him—her eyes wide, her cheeks pink, her hands still cupped protectively around the meowing kitten. "I... I didn't mean to—he was in a box, Cheng-ge. In the rain. I couldn't leave him there."

Sicheng exhaled slowly and crouched down beside her, one hand reaching out to gently scratch behind the kitten's ears. It leaned forward immediately, mewing louder as it tried to press its small head into his palm. He grunted. "It's a he ?"

She nodded. "Yeah. No chip. No collar. I'll take him to the vet tomorrow afternoon to make sure he's okay."

Sicheng's gaze drifted back to Da Bing, whose eyes narrowed ever so slightly in response to the sudden shift of his attention.

The Captain looked back at the drenched fluffball, then back at his girlfriend.

And sighed.

"Fine," he said. "But I'm naming him."

Yao blinked in surprise. "You are?"

His eyes glinted, one brow rising in lazy challenge. "You already brought him home. The least I get is naming rights."

The kitten sneezed.

Yao blinked down at him, then smiled—small, relieved, soft in that way that always pulled something warm and stupidly protective in his chest. "...Okay," she agreed. "But nothing dumb."

"No promises," he muttered, eyes narrowing again as the kitten meowed and tried to crawl up her hoodie. "Still think he might be a tiny con artist."

From his perch, Da Bing let out a slow, warning yowl —just enough to remind them both that this was still his home first.

Sicheng merely muttered, "Great. One was already enough of a problem," but his hand slid behind her back anyway, resting there with the same quiet steadiness it always did—silent, certain, hers.

Sicheng watched her rise with practiced ease, retrieve her compact white hairdryer from one of the lower cabinets, and plug it into the nearest outlet with a quiet click . Without pause, she knelt again, carefully adjusting the setting to the lowest warmth and airflow before lifting the small machine with both hands, directing the stream toward the damp fluffball now nestled in the crook of her knees.