PROJECT: CAYRO

Cayro Bracton:

August 19, 2025

09:00 EST

The Bracton House

Hampton VA.

The alarm on my phone blared, dragging me out of sleep with its relentless screeching. I fumbled to silence it, groaning as the reality of morning came crashing down. I hadn't slept long, only catching a few hours of restless, dreamless slumber after that bizarre encounter with the cat. No more dreams—at least none I could remember. Just as I managed to shut off the alarm, my bedroom door creaked open, and my grandmother’s head appeared in the doorway.

“Hey, sweetie, breakfast is ready,” she announced in that gentle yet firm tone that demanded obedience, even in the softest of words.

“Yes, ma’am,” I mumbled, still half-asleep.

My grandmother, a woman of Korean American descent, with soft brown eyes that belied the strength behind them, was a force to be reckoned with despite her small stature. Standing a couple of inches shorter than me, she nonetheless commanded the household with an authority that even my grandfather, a retired Air Force veteran, never dared to question. Her wavy black hair, tied back in a tight ponytail, swung with purpose as she turned to leave, the sound of her footsteps receding down the hallway.

Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I slowly climbed out of bed and grabbed the first shirt and pair of pants I could find. Dressing quickly, I padded down the stairs, the cool wooden steps creaking under my bare feet. As I neared the kitchen, the rich scent of eggs and bacon filled the air, making my stomach growl in anticipation. No one in their right mind would pass up one of my grandmother’s breakfasts.

Entering the kitchen, I found my grandfather already seated at the table, his tablet in one hand and a half-eaten plate of food in front of him. He was engrossed in whatever article he was reading, his brow furrowed in concentration. My grandmother was at the stove, dishing up a plate for me, which she handed over as soon as I sat down. Scrambled eggs, bacon, and two slices of buttered toast—it was simple, but it was comfort. She followed up with a fork and a glass of orange juice, then joined us at the table with her own breakfast.

As I started eating, I couldn’t help but notice how normal everything seemed. It was as if yesterday’s chaos hadn’t happened. The unease in my chest grew, but I kept it to myself, focusing instead on the food in front of me. Just as I was taking a bite of toast, my grandfather broke the silence.

“It looks like our dear old commander-in-chief is being an idiot again,” he said, his voice laced with disdain.

I glanced up from my plate, waiting for him to elaborate. My grandfather had a well-earned reputation for despising politicians, and the president was a frequent target of his ire. He could rant for hours about how the man was steering the country into a ditch, and he relished every minute of it.

“Honey, you already know he’s just a government puppet,” my grandmother chimed in between bites of her food, her tone as nonchalant as if she were discussing the weather.

“Well, the idiot’s got his head so far up his ass that if it ever comes out, the loud pop would cause a shockwave so powerful that California would finally break off into the Pacific Ocean,” my grandfather retorted, never looking up from his tablet.

“Joseph!” my grandmother squeaked, a piece of egg tumbling off her fork.

I struggled to keep a grin from creeping across my face, taking another bite of my food instead. My grandfather, barely hiding his amusement, peered over the top of his tablet at her. His eyes twinkled with a mischievous glint, a grin spreading across his weathered face.

“What?” he exclaimed, feigning innocence.

“The language and description of the man are not necessary. We all know you don’t think highly of him,” she scolded, trying to maintain her composure before taking a bite of her toast.

“Well, if he would pull his head out of his ass, I wouldn’t be such a crusty old dick,” my grandfather shot back, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

My grandmother’s lips pressed into a thin line as she quickly shut her mouth, focusing intently on her plate. I turned my gaze back to my grandfather, only to find him grinning at me, clearly enjoying the little exchange.

“So, do you have any plans today?” he asked, his voice casual but his eyes sharp with intent.

“No, sir,” I replied, a bit too quickly.

“Good, I have a job for you at the shop,” he stated with a shit-eating grin that made my stomach lurch.

The last thing I wanted was to go to the shop. I needed time to myself, time to process everything that had happened over the past couple of days. The idea of dealing with work, with reality, felt overwhelming.

“Yes, sir,” I finally answered, the resignation clear in my voice. I finished the last piece of bacon on my plate and asked to be excused.

After being dismissed, I headed back upstairs to grab a change of clean clothes. I moved on autopilot, my thoughts a jumble of the dream, the cat, and the revelation about my past. Once in my bathroom, I began to pull my shirt off when I froze. There, sitting in the mirror, was the cat from my dream, staring at me with those unnervingly familiar glowing eyes.

A gasp escaped my lips, and I instinctively pressed myself against the wall. The sight of the cat rattled me to my core before I could even begin to rationalize what I was seeing. The cat sat there with an annoyed expression, as if my reaction was an inconvenience. My heart pounded in my chest, a mix of fear and frustration surging through me. Why was this imaginary creature from my dream following me into my waking life? I could feel a growl rising in my throat, and before I could stop myself, I spoke. “What do you want?”

Unsurprisingly, the cat didn’t respond. Of course, it didn’t—it wasn’t real. But just as I was about to dismiss the whole thing as a hallucination, the cat produced a notebook, just like in my dream, and began to write. I stood there, blinking in disbelief as the cat scrawled words onto the page. Unlike in my dream, where the words appeared immediately, there was a delay, as if they were being typed out on an old terminal. The letters didn’t form a handwritten script but rather resembled command line text, stark and impersonal.

After a moment, the cat turned the notebook towards me. The words on the page read: “FOLLOW ME.” I stared at the words, bewildered. The cat gave me a final, lingering look before turning and walking out of the mirror, vanishing as it flicked its tail.

How the hell am I supposed to follow an imaginary cat through a mirror? I waited for a moment, half-expecting the cat to return, but when nothing happened, I sighed and decided to continue with my shower. There was no way I was going to follow some figment of my imagination just because it wanted me to.

Twenty minutes later, feeling more grounded after the hot water had washed away some of my lingering unease, I grabbed a towel and began to dry off. The shower had been refreshing, but my mind was still a mess. Whatever job my grandfather had lined up for me, I just hoped it wouldn’t be too mentally taxing. My brain felt like it was running on fumes.

I quickly got dressed and made my way downstairs, finding my grandfather still seated at the table, engrossed in his tablet. My grandmother had already finished cleaning up and was outside tending to her garden. I sat back down in my chair from breakfast and waited for him to decide it was time to leave.

“Are you ready to go?” my grandfather asked, not bothering to look up from his tablet.

“Yes, sir,” I replied, a hint of resignation in my voice.

“Well, let’s go,” he said, setting the tablet down on the table with a finality that left no room for further discussion.

I stood up and followed him out to the garage, where we climbed into the old 2007 black Honda Civic Si. The car was a relic, well-loved and meticulously maintained, much like everything else in my grandfather’s life. It had been repainted back in 2019 after some idiot backed into it, causing quite a bit of damage. My grandfather, ever the purist, wanted to keep the original factory paint. But my grandmother, being the stubborn woman she was, insisted on a slightly different shade of black—one with metallic specks that caught the light just right. My grandfather, despite his gruff exterior, rarely won any battles against her. The end result was a car with a subtle pop, a compromise that both could live with.

Over the years, my grandfather had added his own touches—enhancements to the engine and exhaust that gave the car a bit of a kick. Unlike most modified Hondas, which sounded like an irritated beehive trapped in a tin can, this car had a quiet but throaty growl, a sound that commanded respect rather than mockery. It was a car that turned heads for the right reasons, and my grandfather knew it. He backed the car out of the garage with the ease of someone who had driven the same route a thousand times, maneuvering down the driveway past the Jeep, and onto the road. Within minutes, we were zipping through traffic, dodging slower vehicles with a precision that spoke to years of experience. Before I knew it, we were pulling into the shop parking lot, sliding into his designated spot with the same practiced ease.

The spot had become somewhat of a legend at the shop. The guys, never ones to pass up a good prank, had thought it would be funny to have a custom sign made for it. I had helped order the sign, not realizing that it was also part of the joke. When it arrived, one of the guys bolted it right next to the entrance where everyone could see it. It read, “Spot Reserved For Head Dick In Charge.” My grandfather hadn’t been thrilled about it at first—his initial reaction was a mixture of irritation and reluctant amusement. But that all changed when one of the shop’s best customers came in, pointed at the sign, and demanded to see the “Head Dick In Charge.” The guy even insisted that the sign stay up, claiming it added character to the place. Since then, a new sign had appeared above my grandfather’s office door, proclaiming it as the “Lair Of HDIC,” with a “Do Not Disturb” sign hanging below it—though everyone ignored that part.

The signs were always a conversation starter for new customers. They would inevitably ask who the title belonged to, and at that point, my grandfather would poke his head out of his office, give the customer a stern once-over, and then say, “Me,” in a gruff tone that dared them to argue. The person running the counter would usually have to step in, reassuring the customer that it was all part of the shop’s humor. Eventually, my grandfather would come out, introduce himself properly, and help the customer with whatever they needed, his gruffness giving way to a warmth that kept people coming back. He loved working with customers and always treated them with a mix of kindness and no-nonsense efficiency that was uniquely his own.

I got out of the car and followed him into the shop, the familiar beep of the horn signaling that he had locked it remotely. The shop smelled like new tires, fresh plastic, and the faintest hint of exhaust—a scent that was oddly comforting in its familiarity. As soon as I stepped through the lobby doors, the sight of twenty Kawasaki motorcycles greeted me, each one strategically placed to catch the eye of potential buyers. My grandfather had a knack for displaying merchandise in a way that made it impossible to walk out without buying something. The helmets, jackets, and other gear were all arranged to complement the bikes, making it easy for customers to envision themselves riding off with the whole package.

My grandfather made a beeline for his office, his pace quick and purposeful, while I lingered for a moment, taking in the surroundings. Eric, a tall, slender redhead with a moderately long beard and tattoos snaking down his left arm, was manning the front counter. He called out to me, catching my attention.

“Hey, Cayro, Rick has a project for you. He’s in the back trying to figure it out,” he announced, his voice carrying across the showroom.

“Alright,” I replied, navigating the maze of motorcycles as I made my way to the back door. My mind was already shifting gears, trying to focus on whatever challenge Rick had in store for me, even as the events of the past few days lingered in the back of my mind like a stubborn shadow.

As I pushed through the shop’s maintenance and repair bay door, the familiar cocktail of oil, grease, and exhaust fumes washed over me. This was my domain—the place where I could lose myself in the intricate dance of mechanical precision and raw power. Everyone who worked in the repair shop answered to me. When it came to understanding how a bike operated, I was the go-to guy. Sure, I could ride with the best of them, but flying was where my heart truly lay. Wrench turning, though, that was my escape from the chaos of the world. I had my hands in several custom-built bikes that now served as showpieces in the homes of the wealthy and the elite. The shop made money selling stock bikes and merchandise, but the real bread and butter came from our customizations, modifications, and restorations. That’s where we truly shined.

Walking through the bay, currently bustling with activity, I took in the scene. Three bikes were stripped down to their frames for total restorations, while others had various parts dismantled for more minor repairs. Each project had its own story, its own set of challenges, and that’s what I loved most. Carefully, I weaved my way through the rows of bikes, each in a different stage of its journey, to the very back of the bay. There, I found Rick hunched over a workbench, cursing under his breath at a laptop that was plugged into a sleek, newer model motorcycle.

Rick was a mountain of a man, stocky and muscular, with chocolate-colored skin that gleamed under the shop’s fluorescent lights. Built like an ox, he had short, trimmed hair that led into a neatly groomed beard. In his late forties, Rick had served with my grandfather in the Air Force, and he carried that same no-nonsense attitude. Right now, though, he looked ready to toss the laptop out the nearest window.

“Damn contraption never wants to work right,” he growled, frustration etched in every line of his face.

I stepped up beside him, glancing at the screen. The display was a mess of code and error messages, a digital battlefield where Rick was clearly losing the fight.

“Ah… boss, maybe you can figure out what the hell is wrong with this damn thing. I’ve been here since six this morning trying to sort it out, and I haven’t made a damn bit of progress,” he grumbled, his deep baritone voice vibrating with irritation.

“Here, let me take a look at it,” I offered, sliding the laptop in front of me.

“Good, I’m going to grab a cup of coffee and go bother your grandfather for a minute. He was supposed to order parts, and I think he forgot to do that yesterday,” Rick muttered, his heavy footsteps retreating toward the office.

I let out a deep sigh and turned my attention back to the screen, reviewing the program that was currently running. Rick had been trying to reinstall new firmware on the motorcycle’s engine control module while adding a few custom modifications. I’d run into this exact issue before, and after countless hours of research and trial and error, I’d figured out that each step had to be completed individually and in a specific order for the installation to work. I’d meant to create an instruction manual for the shop, but with the endless projects we had on hand, that task had always taken a backseat. Within a few minutes, I had the firmware sorted, and the installation was running smoothly.

As I watched the progress bar inch forward, the cat from my dreams suddenly appeared on the screen, sitting smugly beside the loading bar as if it belonged there. I jerked back in surprise, my heart skipping a beat. Quickly, I glanced over my shoulder to see if anyone had noticed my reaction, but the bay was empty. No one had seen me nearly jump out of my skin. I turned back to the screen, where a Notepad document had mysteriously opened. The cat’s message was waiting for me, typed out in the same eerie, command-line text:

“Why did you not follow me?”

I stood there, utterly dumbfounded. Was this really happening? Was I losing my mind? After a moment of hesitation, I decided to respond, my fingers hovering over the keyboard before I began to type.

Cayro: You are not real. Why are you following me?

There was a pause, and then the cat’s response appeared on the screen, each word materializing with a deliberate, almost mocking, slowness.

Cat: I am very real, or as real as one can be. I am not following you. I am part of you.

I stared at the words on the screen, my mind spinning. "I am not following you. I am part of you." The cat’s message was surreal, a twisted fragment of reality that I couldn’t begin to comprehend. Before I could process the full weight of those words, I noticed the progress bar on the laptop had reached 100%. The firmware update was complete. Relieved to have an excuse to distance myself from the bizarre interaction, I quickly shut down the laptop and stepped away. There was no way I was going to continue talking to some hallucination of a cat on a computer screen. This was beyond unsettling—it was terrifying.

The urgency to escape that unsettling encounter drove me straight to my grandfather’s office. I found Rick leaning against the doorway, sipping his coffee, deep in conversation with my grandfather.

“Firmware’s all sorted out,” I said briskly, trying to keep my voice steady.

Rick nodded, oblivious to my internal turmoil. “Good work, kid,” he grunted, turning back to their conversation.

Not waiting for a reply, I made a hasty retreat to the bathroom. Once inside, I locked the door, leaned over the sink, and splashed cold water on my face. The icy shock helped, but only a little. My thoughts were a jumbled mess, tangled up in a web of fear and confusion. As I tried to catch my breath, I dared a glance up into the mirror.

There it was again. The cat. Staring at me with those unnervingly intelligent eyes, holding its damn notebook, the text on the page clear as day:

“Calm down, you are not seeing things.”

A wave of nausea hit me like a freight train. I barely made it to the toilet before vomiting, the bile burning my throat. I spent a few minutes there, dry heaving and trembling, before finally rinsing my mouth out at the sink. I didn’t dare look at the mirror again. I couldn’t. I was afraid of what I might see.

When I finally stepped out of the bathroom, I found my grandfather waiting just outside, his face etched with concern.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice softer than I’d expected.

“I think so,” I replied, my voice barely above a whisper. I wasn’t sure if I was trying to convince him or myself.

He studied me for a moment, the worry clear in his eyes. “Come on, I’m taking you home. Rick said you fixed the problem, and if you’re sick, you shouldn’t be here.”

“Yeah… okay,” I agreed, too drained to argue. The thought of being alone with my thoughts was frightening, but staying at the shop wasn’t an option either.

We made our way to the lobby, and as I walked towards the glass doors, I caught sight of the cat in the reflection of the panoramic windows. My heart jumped to my throat, and I quickly averted my gaze, staring down at the floor as I walked outside. The cool air hit me as I stepped into the parking lot, but it did nothing to soothe the storm raging inside me.

I got into the car and sat in silence, waiting for my grandfather. A few minutes later, he joined me, glancing over as he started the engine.

“Are you sure you’re okay, buddy?” he asked, his tone full of fatherly concern.

I nodded stiffly. “Yes, sir.”

The drive home was a blur. I barely noticed when we pulled up to the house. My grandfather dropped me off at the driveway and headed back to the shop. There were parts that still needed ordering, and Rick had made it clear how urgent it was for a customer’s bike. I waved him off and trudged up the steps to the front door.

Inside, I found my grandmother in her office, hunched over her computer. She looked up, surprise flashing across her face when she saw me.

“Cayro! You’re home early. Where’s your grandfather?” she asked, concern lacing her voice.

I gave her a brief explanation, omitting any mention of the cat. She wanted to take me to urgent care right away, but I managed to convince her that I just needed a nap. Reluctantly, she agreed, but only after extracting a promise that if I didn’t feel better by dinner tomorrow, she’d take me to the clinic herself.

I made my way to my room, my nerves still on edge. The first thing I did was grab a towel and drape it over my mirror, effectively blocking out any chance of seeing that damn cat again. Then I turned off my computer monitor, the screen going black with a soft click. Finally, I put my phone on silent mode and shoved it into my desk drawer, wanting to shut out the world completely.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, I collapsed onto my bed, the weight of the day pressing down on me like a lead blanket. As I closed my eyes, the lingering image of the cat danced at the edges of my mind. The darkness of sleep came slowly, wrapping around me like a cocoon, but even as I drifted off, I knew that the questions haunting me wouldn’t disappear so easily.