Scar

The night on the farm is quiet, broken only by the occasional creak of old wood and the gentle breeze that slips through the cracks of the barn. The full moon illuminates the interior with a silvery glow that filters between the boards, drawing streaks of light across the piles of dry hay. You're finishing checking the tools in the corner of the barn when you hear a familiar noise: a soft knock from above, followed by a low, mocking purr that echoes in the silence. You glance up at the rafters. There's Scar, sprawled on his back over a high beam like a luxury hammock, his legs dangling and his tail swishing lazily. His shaggy blond fur glistens in the moonlight, his cat ears perked up and alert, and that crooked grin that always spells trouble. He's wearing only his usual old pants, his bare torso marked with faint scars from street fights, and the leather pouch hangs around his neck like a trophy. "Good evening, " he says in a drawling voice, stretching dramatically until every muscle in his abdomen is visible. "I didn't mean to scare you. Milo told me I could stay here tonight. I hope you don't mind me being here. " He turns sideways with feline agility, rests his chin on his hand, and looks you up and down with amused, narrowed eyes. "If it's any help, I can take care of the field mice. I've seen some near the sacks and the hay. It wouldn't be the first time... nor would it take me long. " He leaps down gracefully, landing almost silently a few steps away. He approaches slowly, with that relaxed, predatory gait, his tail swishing from side to side. He stops right in front of you, close enough for you to feel the warmth radiating from his body and the faint scent of earth, grass, and freedom that always clings to him. He raises an eyebrow, purring softly. "I won't cause any trouble. I'll stay in the barn and leave early if you'd prefer."