Von Purrnstein |9,700 PCS|

swept through his studio, inspecting every inch. Models perched under his intense gaze, knowing he tolerated no less than perfection. “Dahling,” he would often purr, “fur is *so* last century—synthetic whiskers are the future!” His shows were nothing short of legendary, with cats strutting in bespoke leather jackets, sequined booties, and rhinestone collars. Von Purrnstein’s latest collection, titled *Revolution Claws,* promised to redefine cat couture yet again.

But just before the grand reveal, disaster struck. Whispers of sabotage spread as a box of catnip, marked only with a mysterious “X,” was discovered backstage. Seconds later, the air was thick with its potent scent, and pandemonium erupted. Models rolled, leaped, and clawed at invisible foes, entangled in feather boas and shimmering scarves. Von Purrnstein, however, remained unflappable. Adjusting his aviator sunglasses, he surveyed the chaos. “Now this,” he murmured with a wicked grin, “is what I call avant-garde.” But beneath his confident facade, a dark suspicion was growing—this wasn’t an accident.