The door clicked shut, and with it, so did my patience.

Aizawa left me. 

Alone. 

In this apartment.

I'd spent the entire morning sabotaging his efforts to leave. From curling around his legs to nearly tripping him to standing dramatically in front of the door like some feline gatekeeper, I had done everything in my power to say, You are not allowed to abandon me.

And yet here I was. Alone. Betrayed.

I flicked my tail irritably, glaring at the door as if my sheer willpower could drag him back. The man had the audacity to mumble something like, "You'll be fine for a few hours," before leaving. Fine? Fine?! I'm a cat, not a houseplant!

Fine wasn't on today's menu.

"Alright, Eraserhead," I muttered to myself in my head, pacing dramatically across the living room rug. "You want to leave me here? Let's see how you like it when I leave my mark."

First target: the couch.

I strutted over, sizing it up like a professional art critic inspecting a blank canvas. My claws slid out, gleaming in the sunlight streaming through the window.

Perfect.

With one swift motion, I began shredding the fabric, carving my masterpiece into the armrest. The sound was immensely satisfying—a mix of soft tearing and my own smug purring. The once-pristine surface now looked like it had been attacked by a tiny, furious tornado.

"Maybe next time you'll think twice before abandoning me," I thought again, moving on to phase two of my revenge.

The bookshelves.

I leapt gracefully onto the nearest one, perching there like a gargoyle surveying its domain. Then, with a single, calculated swipe, I sent a book tumbling to the floor.

Thud.

I paused, listening. No angry footsteps storming back. No gruff voice saying, "What did you do now?"

Satisfied, I knocked another book off. And another. Soon, the floor was littered with paperbacks and manuals, all lying haphazardly across the room.

"Oops," I said innocently, batting a smaller book off the edge for good measure.

Next, I moved to his desk.

Aizawa's meticulously organized workspace practically begged to be dismantled. I hopped up, my paws landing softly next to a stack of papers. Leaning forward, I gave them a playful nudge.

They slid across the desk in slow motion before scattering to the floor like oversized confetti.

"Oh no," I said, feigning horror. "How could this have happened?"

My green eyes sparkled with mischief as I moved to the pens and pencils. With a few quick swipes, they joined the papers on the floor. A stray pen cap rolled under the couch, never to be seen again.

I smirked, tail flicking triumphantly.

Still, my masterpiece wasn't complete. Something was missing. Something bold.

Then I spotted it—the curtain.

It swayed gently in the breeze from the open window, practically inviting me to climb it. I crouched low, wiggling my rear like a hunter about to pounce.

And then I leapt.

My claws latched onto the fabric, and I began scaling it like a furry mountaineer. The curtain swayed precariously under my weight, but I didn't care. Reaching the top, I perched there, victorious.

This is my domain now!

Unfortunately, gravity disagreed.

With a loud snap, the curtain rod gave way, sending me tumbling to the floor in a tangled heap of fabric.

I untangled myself, shaking out my fur indignantly. 

Okay, that didn't go as planned. But it was still impressive.

As I surveyed the chaos, a wave of pride washed over me. The couch was shredded, the bookshelves were empty, the desk was a disaster, and the curtain lay in ruins.

Mission accomplished.

But then my stomach growled, interrupting my moment of triumph.

The counter was my next challenge. I leapt up effortlessly, scanning for anything remotely edible. There, on the far side, sat a loaf of bread.

Perfect.

I padded over, sniffing at the plastic wrap. It smelled bland, but I wasn't picky at the moment. With a determined bite, I grabbed the edge of the package and dragged it toward me.

The loaf tumbled onto the counter, and I ripped into it with my claws, scattering crumbs everywhere.

The bread was dry and tasteless, but I chewed it defiantly.

Once I'd eaten my fill (and by "fill," I mean three bites before I got bored), I turned my attention to the sink.

There was a single glass sitting there, half-filled with water. Curious, I reached out with a paw, tapping the edge.

The glass tipped over, spilling water everywhere.

"Oops again," I said with a mew and with a mock gasp.

Satisfied with my work, I hopped down from the counter, leaving a trail of crumbs and wet paw prints in my wake.

I flopped onto the rug, stretching luxuriously. The apartment was a mess, but it was a masterpiece. A true testament to my displeasure at being left alone.

When Aizawa returned, he'd have no choice but to acknowledge my genius.

As I closed my eyes for a well-deserved nap, I could almost hear his exasperated voice saying, "What did you do this time?"

I purred at the thought.