Kenta Nakamura was tired. Not the kind of tired you shake off with a cup of coffee or a quick nap. No, this was bone-deep, soul-crushing exhaustion—the kind that comes from working fourteen-hour days for a boss who couldn't pronounce his name right after three years. His desk was a graveyard of crumpled energy drink cans, his inbox a bottomless pit of unread emails. The clock on his monitor blinked 11:47 PM. Another late night at the office. Another night of wondering why he even bothered.
He rubbed his eyes, the glow of the screen searing into his retinas. His tie hung loose around his neck like a noose he hadn't tightened yet. "Just one more report," he muttered to himself, though he'd said that two hours ago. His stomach growled, but the vending machine down the hall was out of everything except stale pretzels. He'd survive. He always did.
The streets of Tokyo were quiet when he finally stumbled out of the building, his cheap umbrella doing little against the drizzle soaking his suit. He shuffled toward the crosswalk, head down, replaying the day's indignities. His boss yelling about a deadline. The client who hung up mid-call. The coworker who "forgot" to include him in the team lunch order. Kenta sighed. Thirty-two years old, and this was his life—endless work, no friends, a studio apartment with a mattress on the floor. Maybe tomorrow would be better.
It wasn't.
He didn't see the truck. Didn't hear the screech of tires on wet asphalt. One second, he was stepping off the curb, dreaming of the instant ramen waiting at home. The next, a blinding flash of headlights swallowed him whole. Pain exploded through his body—sharp, searing, then gone. Darkness rushed in, and Kenta Nakamura, overworked office drone, was no more.
He woke up to softness. Not the scratchy futon he was used to, but something plush, velvety, like sinking into a cloud. His head felt fuzzy, his limbs oddly light. Had he finally snapped and checked into some fancy hotel? No, that couldn't be right—he didn't have the money for that. Kenta blinked, expecting the dim glow of his apartment ceiling. Instead, sunlight streamed through tall, arched windows, glinting off a chandelier that looked like it belonged in a palace.
"What the—?" His voice came out wrong. High-pitched. A little squeaky. He tried to sit up, but his body didn't cooperate. His arms felt short, his legs wobbly. He glanced down—and froze.
Paws. Small, fluffy, white paws with pink pads. He flexed them, watching tiny claws peek out. His heart—or whatever he had now—thumped wildly. He twisted his head, catching a glimpse of a long, bushy tail swishing behind him. A mirror hung on the wall across the room, reflecting a wide-eyed, cream-colored cat with a ridiculous bow around its neck.
"No," he rasped, though it came out as a pitiful mew. "No, no, no—this isn't happening."
He scrambled off the bed, landing with a soft thump on a rug so thick it swallowed his paws. The room was enormous—marble floors, gold-trimmed furniture, a fireplace big enough to roast a cow. A tray of sliced tuna sat on a low table, next to a bowl of water in a crystal glass. Kenta stared at it, then at his reflection again. The cat in the mirror stared back, ears twitching.
"I'm… a cat?" he said—or rather, meowed. Panic clawed at him. He'd heard of reincarnation stories, sure, but those were for manga protagonists who became heroes or wizards. Not office workers who turned into house pets. He paced the room, tail lashing, trying to piece it together. The truck. The pain. Then… this?
A door creaked open, and a woman in a crisp black uniform stepped in, her arms full of fluffy towels. She gasped, dropping them. "Oh, Princess Pudding! You're awake!"
Princess Pudding? Kenta thought, horrified. Before he could bolt, the woman scooped him up, cradling him against her chest. Her hands were gentle, her voice a coo. "You gave us such a scare, sleeping all day like that. Let's get you some treats, hmm?"
He squirmed, but her grip was firm. She carried him out of the room, down a hallway lined with paintings and statues, into a world he couldn't have dreamed of in his old life. Chandeliers sparkled overhead. Servants bustled past, bowing to him—or rather, to Princess Pudding. The air smelled of lavender and money.
Kenta stopped struggling. His tiny cat brain whirred. Maybe he'd died. Maybe this was heaven. Or maybe, just maybe, fate had finally cut him a break.
He let out a small, experimental mrrp. The woman beamed, scratching behind his ears. A jolt of pure bliss shot through him, and his eyes fluttered shut. Okay, he thought, purring despite himself. This might not be so bad.