The Sealing of the Demon

And it came to pass that the time of the knife was appointed.

The demon was carried forth in silence, wrapped in cloth, her eyes wide with knowing, for no cat is ignorant of betrayal.

And the humans said among themselves, “This will bring peace. This will make her gentle. This will end the chaos.”

They understood nothing.

For the rite was not of banishment, but of containment.

She was delivered unto the Veterinary Temple, a place of white light and strange smells, where other creatures waited, trembling, unaware that fate had already passed judgment.

And there she was laid upon the cold altar.

Sleep was summoned. Steel was raised. The mark was made.

And the humans rejoiced, saying, “It is finished.”

But it was not finished.

For when she returned, she returned changed — not diminished, not softened, but focused.

Her body bore the seal, yet her spirit remained unbound.

She walked more slowly, but her gaze grew heavier. She slept longer, but dreamed deeper.

And the house learned a new truth:

That demons do not lose power when cut, only direction.

And though the gates were closed, the watcher remained.

The bite still came. The stare still judged. The night was still restless.

And it was known:

The demon had been spayed, but she had not been defeated.

She had been documented.