who let you in? || cashby

and now you're in the room

It's been 3+ months since I updated this story, mostly because I am a working woman who does nothing but work, but whatever. This chapter is well over 4,000 words so hopefully that'll make up for the massive gap (that is, if any of you are reading this).

I'm sorry if some of this story doesn't fully make sense, since I'm jumping in really quickly without all the background info. I promise it'll make more sense in the future, once I go in more depth about Alan's background. For now, enjoy.

(Comments and votes/likes/whatever are always appreciated, because I like to know what i'm doing right and wrong.)

P.S. Listening to the title track "My House" by PVRIS, or anything by PVRIS for that matter will really help set the mood for this fic. ;)

-.-

After the meeting, Alan had promptly made his way back to his room and dropped off to sleep within minutes. Gang business was fucking exhausting, and he knew when he was way in over his head. Sometimes deciding whether or not to voluntarily remain in the dark about what was happening around him could mean the difference between staying sane and going off the deep end.

It's early morning now and he's wide awake, since despite the feline DNA interwoven with his human genes, Alan is anything but a heavy sleeper. It makes this whole being cooped up thing a thousand times worse, because if he napped as much as a real cat did, at least he wouldn't be conscious long enough to be so bored he wants to tear his own hair out.

There's a tiny, precarious balcony attached to a set of doors in his room that squeak when they're opened, and when no one's around to scold him for it, Alan likes to sit outside and watch the sky. He used to climb onto the roof back before Vic started getting tighter about security, but nowadays he can't venture much farther than the wrought iron rail that boxes in the small cement space.

It's too early to expect anyone to bring him breakfast—ever since the first lockdown Alan has had his meals delivered to him, because he doesn't feel like dealing with everyone else's pitying looks longer than necessary—but he's feeling just rebellious enough to go down and get it himself this morning. Now that his freedom is about to be restricted to the point of madness, Alan's prepared to take any and every opportunity he can get to stretch his legs while he still can. Even if being insubordinate only means picking out his own cereal for the first time in over a month.

The sky is pink and blue and orange where the sun's coming up in the east, and Alan's ears are carefully hidden by a grey beanie he'd tugged on after rolling out of bed. There's hardly anyone else out on the streets today, but even if there was it wouldn't be a problem—most people within a five mile radius of this place know how to leave well enough alone. He's safe for now.

His tail twitches where it's curled around his waist beneath his sweatshirt, and silently he wishes that he had the prowess to leap from one building to the next without getting hurt. If he were that strong, he might not even need around the clock bodyguards, because no hybrid dealer would ever be able to catch him. He's heard tales of paid workers called impounders, roaming the streets in search of hybrids that might fetch a high price on the black market, but he's never so much as seen something like that in person.

It isn't the first time the early morning sunrise has spawned thoughts of a normal life inside his head, but today the dream feels particularly out of reach. Maybe if he wasn't born part cat, maybe if hybrids weren't considered contraband, maybe if he wasn't the equivalent of a collector's item on a shelf in a gang HQ—maybe then he'd be able to go outside like a normal person. He doesn't ever remember having a family, barely remembers having friends other than the few hybrids who talked to him in captivity before Vic's men broke them out.