Why Does The Green Cat Disappear In Mystery Of The Green Cat?

While we were eating, Tristan Shaw suddenly set down his fork and looked at me. “Who is Fatcat Cook?” The fork in my hand froze midair. My heart skipped a beat. Fatcat Cook. That name was someone Lena Moore and I made up on a drunken night. We had agreed that if anything ever went wrong and we couldn’t reach each other, we would use “Fatcat Cook” as a code. No one else knew that name existed. Only the two of us. And Lena had been missing for a full month. She said she was going to Valoria for a trip. Then she never came back. I looked at Tristan’s calm, almost indifferent face, and felt my heart sink. How did he know that name?

On Christmas Eve, my friend, Lenny Gibson, sends me a text message. "I've rented a Maybach for our cat so that we can go back to our hometown for the holidays. It'll be seven thousand dollars per person. The car is fitted with air conditioning and security cameras. Don't you think this is a good deal?" I glance at my bank app, which has just deducted my monthly house mortgage from my account. "Nah. Bebe isn't a spoiled princess. I can't afford to rent such an expensive car." The next day, I receive a selfie of Lenny hugging Bebe while seated in the Maybach. "It's such a shame that you aren't here, Noah. The Maybach's owner is a hot chick, not to mention she's kind-hearted enough to give me a ride home as well!" On the evening of Christmas, I hear sounds of rapid knocking coming from the front door as soon as I enter the house. Lenny's anxious parents can be seen standing on the doorstep. "Is Lenny here with you? He hasn't come home at all! He told us yesterday that he wanted to prepare a birthday gift for you, so he had us give him 20 thousand dollars!" Before I can recover from my shock, the police come knocking on my door as well. It turns out that I'm the last person Lenny has contacted…

"Are you sure you want to do this? If you go through it, you’ll no longer be Luna and might become a rogue." "I'm sure." I removed our wedding ring, which he slipped into my fingers three years back on the desk as payment. "Alright, when your werewolf Valentine’s Day arrives, I’ll help you break the mate bond with Alpha Owen." The witch used a dagger to cut my palm and let the blood pour into a test tube. Ten days later, I endured the unbearable pain of severing the mate bond. I changed the surname I had followed for three years, obtained a new identity, and drove away from the Starry Pack in a second-hand car bought from the black market. Owen, you will never find me again. You should have known it would end like this from the day you betrayed me. One month later, a question exploded on social media, spiraling out of control. #Where did Luna Kya go?#

My neighbor abandoned her cat, so I took it in. It never warmed up to me, but never stopped meowing at my husband. I grew suspicious. One night, my husband claimed to be working late. I knocked on the neighbor’s door. She stroked her slightly rounded belly. “Ms. Hill, what brings you here so late?” Her eyes gleamed with defiance and smugness. Something clicked. I understood everything. When my husband crept home at dawn, he found both sets of parents waiting. A divorce agreement lay on the coffee table.

I had just gotten home when a parent in my son’s class group chat erupted: [Ms. Zinn, what kind of place are you running? Do you let just any random stray off the street become a teacher?] [My daughter came home, grabbed two forks, and tried to jump off the balcony. She said it was Miss Never who told her to!] The homeroom teacher panicked and denied it at once, insisting there was no such person as Miss Never at the kindergarten. She even posted the official teaching schedule in the chat to prove it. On the security footage, there was not a single trace of this so-called Miss Never. However, later, my son whispered to me in secret, “Mom, Miss Never is an old lady with a cat’s face.” “She says only kids can see her.”

In the late stages of her pregnancy, my wife slipped away into the mountains with her childhood sweetheart, seeking some reckless thrill under the open sky. Fate, however, had other plans. She suffered a massive hemorrhage, and the two were rushed to the hospital. As a doctor, I took one glance at her condition and instructed the nurse to prepare for the cremation. In my previous life, I had risked everything to save her. On that very operating table, she and the child inside her perished together. Her childhood sweetheart, overcome with grief and fury, rallied others to accuse me of seeking personal revenge. Their rage was relentless, and they broke my hands. "A butcher like you, without medical ethics, deserves nothing less than eternal damnation!" they shouted, their words burning like brands on my soul. Yet I distinctly remembered—the surgery had been a success. Her vital signs had stabilized. Clinging to hope, I begged my in-laws to conduct an autopsy, to uncover the truth buried beneath the accusations. Instead, they called the police, who swiftly charged me with performing surgery under the influence of alcohol. Stripped of my rights, I was thrown into prison, where suffering became my only companion. Years later, upon release, I stumbled across a sight that tore what was left of my heart to shreds—my wife, alive and well, behind the wheel of a luxury car, accompanied by her childhood sweetheart and their child, living off the fortune I had worked tirelessly to build. Their betrayal didn't end there. Coldly and methodically, they lured me into a trap, casting me into a cement mixer to erase every trace of my existence. When I next opened my eyes, time had rewound itself. I was back on that fateful day, the one when her hemorrhage began.