Milo's appetite exploded 'unscientifically' after the Codex's activation.
It started as a subtle escalation.
An extra scoop of kibble in the morning.
A second can of tuna in the evening.
Leo, trying to cling to the last frayed threads of his sanity, told himself it was normal.
Cats had growth spurts. Maybe Milo was just having a particularly enthusiastic one.
By Wednesday, the delusion was shattered.
Milo devoured his breakfast, a portion that would have satisfied a small panther, in under ten seconds.
He then proceeded to stare at Leo's toast with the focused intensity of a laser beam.
Leo took a bite of his toast.
Milo's tail twitched. A low, mournful sound, a masterpiece of manipulative acoustics, emanated from his furry throat.
The human dares to eat before consulting the Supreme Gourmet, Milo's eyes seemed to broadcast with perfect clarity. This is a culinary injustice. My stomach is a sacred void, demanding tribute.
"It's just toast, you furry black hole," Leo muttered, taking another defiant bite.
The mournful sound intensified.
Leo sighed, defeated. He tore off a piece of toast and tossed it to the cat, who inhaled it without chewing.
His life was now a buffet for a fluffy tyrant. And he was the very, very tired chef.
The doorbell rang, a sharp, unwelcome intrusion.
It was his mother, Sarah, holding a grocery bag.
"I brought some of that fancy salmon kibble Milo likes," she said, beaming as she walked into the kitchen. "And some chicken breast. He looks a little thin, sweetie. Are you sure you're feeding him enough?"
Leo stared at Milo, who was currently weaving figure-eights around his mother's legs, purring like a tiny, well-tuned engine.
Thin? Milo had eaten enough food in the past two days to single-handedly cause a regional fish shortage.
"He's fine, Mom," Leo said, forcing a smile. "Just… very active metabolism."
"My goodness, he eats more than your father!" Sarah exclaimed, watching in disbelief as Milo inhaled the first bowl of salmon kibble Leo poured out.
She frowned, a thoughtful look on her face. "Maybe he's just stressed? Yes, that must be it. Stress eating. For a cat."
Stress eating? Leo thought hysterically. What could he possibly be stressed about? The existential dread of an empty food bowl? The philosophical implications of a red laser dot he can never catch?
"I read online that a change in environment can be very stressful," Sarah continued, oblivious to her son's internal meltdown. "We'll just have to make sure he feels loved. And well-fed. I'll add a bit more to the grocery budget."
Leo felt a fresh wave of panic. His mother's solution to every problem was to throw either money or food at it. In this case, both.
"That's really not necessary, Mom…"
But Sarah was already patting Milo's head. "Poor baby. He just needs more food. And a friend. Another one. You know, for stress. This is very unusual. But cats are sensitive. Right? He just needs love. And unlimited kibble."
Milo, the master manipulator, looked up at Sarah with wide, innocent eyes, then let out another heart-wrenching meow.
He was a con artist in a fur coat. And his mother was his easiest mark.
Later that afternoon, after his mother had left with promises to deliver a case of premium canned tuna the next day, Leo noticed something odd.
The small fern on his windowsill, usually a vibrant green, was looking… sad.
Its leaves were slightly droopy, tinged with yellow.
He frowned, leaning closer. He'd watered it just yesterday.
Then he noticed the pot of basil on the kitchen counter. It looked just as listless.
A strange, unfounded suspicion began to form in his mind.
He pulled the ancient-looking Basic Pet Care Guide from its new, less conspicuous hiding place on his bookshelf.
As he focused his thoughts on the wilting plants and Milo, the Codex responded.
The page shimmered.
An image of the fern appeared, and from its leaves, faint, wispy tendrils of green light drifted away.
They swirled through the air, funneling directly towards Milo, who was napping peacefully on the sofa, a faint, contented aura pulsing around him.
Below the image, new text glowed.
Warning: Ambient spiritual energy is being consumed by the familiar to supplement its insufficient diet. Prolonged exposure will be detrimental to surrounding flora and low-level spiritual entities.
Leo's blood ran cold.
Milo wasn't just eating food. He was eating the life force of his houseplants.
His cat was a tiny, adorable, purring vampire.
He looked from the wilting fern to the sleeping cat.
Then back to the dire warning in the Codex.
This was no longer about his grocery budget.
This was about preventing his apartment from becoming a spiritual dead zone.
He grabbed his keys and his wallet, a new, desperate urgency propelling him.
The clerk at the pet store barely looked up as Leo slammed three oversized bags of the most expensive, high-energy cat food onto the counter.
He added a dozen cans of tuna, a bag of freeze-dried chicken, and, in a moment of sheer panic, a small bag of catnip-infused salmon treats.
The clerk raised an eyebrow. "Big party?"
"Growth spurt," Leo muttered, his voice strained. "A very, very big growth spurt."
Back home, he filled Milo's bowl to the brim.
Milo woke instantly, as if summoned by the sound of kibble hitting ceramic.
He approached the bowl, sniffed it with a connoisseur's focus, and then began to eat with a fervor that was both terrifying and impressive.
Leo watched, a man standing on the precipice of financial ruin and supernatural chaos.
He glanced at the Codex, which lay open on the coffee table, its pages innocently displaying a chapter on proper grooming techniques.
This was not sustainable.
He couldn't just keep buying out the pet store every week.
There had to be another way.
A more efficient, more… spiritual solution.
His eyes fell upon the ancient book, a flicker of desperate hope igniting within him. Surely, if this book could diagnose an energy-vampire cat, it must also contain the cure.