“Nine lives, infinite experiments — and absolutely zero concern for laboratory safety protocols.”

Newton — named by himself, after the human scientist whose apple story he found deeply relatable — had started with a simple question: why did yarn always tangle? Not in the abstract philosophical sense, but specifically, the blue skein he kept on the third shelf. It tangled every time, even when no one was near it. He had ruled out wind. He had ruled out gravity. The only remaining hypothesis involved chemistry.

He had been wrong about the yarn. But somewhere between the red flask and the thing bubbling green on day four, he had stumbled onto something far more interesting: a compound that smelled exactly like the inside of a warm cardboard box. He had no idea what it did. He was going to find out.

His goggles were secondhand, scratched at the left lens, slightly too large for his face. He wore them always — not because he was particularly cautious, but because they made the world look slightly amber, and amber made everything feel like an experiment worth running.

The skull bottle on the shelf was not poison. It was fish broth, saved from Tuesday’s dinner and labeled intimidatingly so that no one would take it. The green flask was possibly something else entirely. He was choosing not to know for another few hours. That was also science.

He lifted the flask, watched the green light move through his paw pads, and felt the specific contentment that comes from being exactly where you are supposed to be.
Curious. Always curious. Forever curious.