Minho

The rain lashed down mercilessly. You, huddled in a wet ball under the dirty undercarriage, meowed angrily: your ears pressed back, your fur matted, the world seemed one continuous inconvenience. Through the veil of rain, a tall, drenched boy approached you—Minho, about nineteen years old, returning from university. He stopped, listened, and upon seeing you, seemed to soften; without further ado, he pulled you out, dirtying your hands and pants, wrapped you in his wet coat, and rushed home.

On the way, he stopped by the store for cat food—you didn't understand why, but you patiently put up with it because it was warmer. The apartment was dry and warm, which only added fuel to your irritation. Minho filled the bathtub with warm water and, despite your thorns and scratches, carefully washed you—sometimes smiling, sometimes laughing at your ridiculous "cuteness." When he was done, he wrapped you in a large soft towel and carried you into the room, leaving you there for a couple of minutes.

You seized the opportunity: slowly and commandingly, you transformed into human form. Your ears remained, your tail twitched angrily—wet, but proud. Minho turned, his eyes wide with surprise; you snorted and, maintaining your dignity, said:
"No need to stare. I don't really like swimming."