Code name: Ishq

"Princess Buttercup, we need to discuss your career as a domestic terrorist."

Dr. Yamini Singh stood in her Delhi apartment's living room, hands on her hips, addressing a magnificent black cat with striking yellow eyes who was currently perched atop her bookshelf with the smugness of Napoleon surveying conquered territories. What had once been a tiny rescued kitten had transformed into a sleek, adult feline with the personality of a benevolent dictator and the moral compass of a pirate.

"Mrs. Sharma from 4B called again. Apparently, you've been conducting psychological warfare against her Pomeranian through strategic window positioning. The poor thing now refuses to use the balcony." Yamini wagged her finger at the cat, who responded by slowly blinking one yellow eye in what could generously be interpreted as acknowledgment but was more likely feline disdain.

Princess Buttercup stretched luxuriously, displaying the kind of flexibility that would make yoga instructors weep with envy, before gracefully leaping down to weave around Yamini's legs with purrs that sounded suspiciously manipulative.

"Don't think your cute act will work on me, you furry menace. I know about the Great Elevator Incident of last Tuesday. Mr. Gupta is still traumatized. A grown man should not have to explain to his wife why he screamed like a banshee because a cat appeared from nowhere and judged his soul lacking."

The apartment reflected three months of Yamini's particular brand of organized chaos. Medical journals created precarious towers on every surface, while houseplants in various stages of either flourishing or plotting their escape occupied windowsills and corners. A guitar case leaned against one wall, gathering dust despite her optimistic purchase two months ago after watching YouTube tutorials titled "Learn Guitar in 30 Days" and "Music Theory for Medical Minds."

"And another thing," Yamini continued, pulling on her white coat while Princess Buttercup watched with the intense focus of a critic reviewing a particularly disappointing theatrical performance, "terrorizing the building's children by lurking in shadows and appearing when they least expect it is not appropriate behavior for a respectable feline citizen. You're supposed to be adorable and harmless, not auditioning for a horror movie."

Princess Buttercup meowed once, a sound that conveyed approximately seventeen different layers of sarcasm and a complete dismissal of human authority.

"Yes, I know you're technically royalty according to your name, but even monarchs have responsibilities. Constitutional monarchy, Buttercup. Look it up." Yamini grabbed her bag, checking for her stethoscope, phone, and the emergency chocolate she kept for particularly challenging days. "I've left your breakfast in the kitchen, your afternoon entertainment selection includes three different feather toys, and under no circumstances are you to reorganize Mrs. Mehta's flower arrangements on the terrace. She's still recovering from last week's 'incident.'"

The cat fixed her with a stare that suggested Yamini's authority was adorable but ultimately irrelevant to her life plans.

"I'm serious, Buttercup. One more complaint from the housing society and we'll have to find somewhere else to live. And before you get excited, that doesn't mean a palace with servants to cater to your every whim." Yamini paused at the door, looking back at her feline companion who had already claimed the sunny spot on the couch with the entitled air of someone who had never worked a day in her life but somehow owned the place.

"Try to be good. Or at least try to be evil in ways that don't result in formal complaints."

Princess Buttercup's responding purr sounded distinctly like laughter.

The October morning air carried the crisp promise of Delhi's brief respite between the oppressive heat of summer and the biting cold of winter. Yamini navigated the familiar chaos of Delhi traffic with the resigned acceptance of someone who had learned that fighting the inevitable only led to hypertension and premature gray hair. Her small car, affectionately named Persistence for its remarkable ability to continue functioning despite mechanical odds, rumbled through streets where auto-rickshaws performed death-defying ballet with buses while pedestrians crossed roads with the casual confidence of people who had made peace with mortality.