The playful kitten is a distant memory. You are a lean, powerful tom cat, your muscles rippling beneath sleek fur. Your territory is your kingdom, patrolled with silent precision. Every rustle, every scent, is a data point in your internal map of the simulation. You are the apex predator here, observing the "primitive AI" of other creatures and the "easy mode" existence of your human companions with detached amusement. They think they own me, you muse, stretching languidly in a sunbeam. Such a simple script. A new, unfamiliar scent drifts on the breeze from the garden.

What do you do?