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Run
Talking
Kids
Adventure
3D
Pet
I don't remember when the chase started. Maybe it began when the gold was stolen. Maybe before that. Maybe it never really began - maybe I was always running. In Cat Runner, I run not because I want to, but because I can't stop. The city flashes by: cars, trains, barricades, turns too sharp to think about. The world is built like a treadmill dressed as freedom. I chase a robber I never quite catch. I collect gold I never really spend. I leap, slide, weave through chaos. And for what? For justice? For closure? Or just to keep moving? The world changes - different neighborhoods, different lighting, new obstacles - but the rhythm never does. Left. Right. Jump. Slide. Again. Again. Again. The controls are so tight they disappear from thought. My paws know the pattern better than my mind does. I dodge cars not with logic, but with instinct. The pace grows faster, but the goal stays just out of reach. I see the robber's tail disappear around the next corner. I push forward. But the city never ends. It's not designed to. Every crash resets the dream, not the story. I start again, still chasing, still hoping that maybe this time I'll get there. Deep down, I know I won't. But that doesn't matter. I'm a runner. That's all I am now. Visually, Cat Runner is vibrant and cheerful - deceptively so. Everything's glossy, clean, coated in candy-colored paint. The soundtrack is bouncy, the cat is cute, and even failure feels soft. But there's something haunting about how seamless it all is. The gold respawns. The robber reappears. I'm never allowed to rest. It's a dream in which no one wakes up. Not me. Not the thief. Just movement. Permanent, pixel-perfect movement. And maybe, in its own way, this is what the game's really about. Not winning. Not catching. But running forever, because stopping means the dream breaks. And even if it's a lie, I'd rather keep running than fall back into the stillness.
