Licorice had by now lowered her head onto his chest. Her eyes were closed, but the purring remained. The purring, in fact, played a direct effect on his eyelids slowly but surely growing heavy.<br/><br/>Soon after, but not too soon, the unmistakable sound of tinkling ivories wafted through his apartment. The cat heard it, too. Her head shot up from his chest, eyes wide. Following a few more notes, she bolted off his chest and sprinted for the front door. Her exuberance, however, came with a price. The force of her launch off his chest left a bloody mark, as her rear claws dug in for traction through his rather thin sleep shirt. Grunting, he then said, "Thanks for that, Lics." He lay back down, hoping that sleep would pay him a visit sooner, rather than later.<br/><br/>The steady sound of a piano being played expertly, however, prevented that from happening. Dragging himself out of bed, he lifted his shirt to examine the damage. He was surprised to see two sets of claw marks, both gently weeping blood. After soaking a cotton ball with rubbing alcohol, he dabbed at the evidence. Naturally, it all stung like hell. "Yeah, thanks again, Lics," he repeated. Now venturing toward the living room, he was curious as to where Licorice had raced off to. Anton froze in his tracks as he saw her sitting on her hind legs, eagerly staring at the front door.<br/><br/>It crushed him to say this to her, but say it he did, "Lics, it's not her."