Kenta Nakamura—or Princess Pudding, as he was apparently called now—woke up the next morning to the sound of a harp. Not a recording, mind you, but an actual, honest-to-goodness harp being played somewhere nearby. He cracked one eye open, expecting his dingy apartment ceiling with its flickering fluorescent light. Instead, he got a canopy of silk drapes cascading over a bed so massive it could've doubled as a lifeboat. Sunlight poured through the windows, painting the room in shades of gold. The harp's melody danced in the air, soft and soothing, like something out of a fairy tale.
He stretched, feeling his tiny cat body elongate in ways his human one never could. His spine popped pleasantly, and his tail flicked with a mind of its own. For a moment, he forgot about the truck, the office, the endless grind. Then it hit him again: he was a cat. A fluffy, pampered cat in what looked like the world's most expensive mansion.
"Okay," he muttered, though it came out as a squeaky mew. "Let's figure this out."
He hopped off the bed, landing with a muffled thud on a rug that probably cost more than his old salary. The room was a marvel—polished wood floors, a vanity table cluttered with silver brushes and crystal bowls, a velvet chaise lounge that screamed "lounge on me." A bowl of water sat by the window, shimmering in a cut-glass dish that looked like it belonged in a museum. Next to it, a silver platter held chunks of raw salmon, glistening like pink jewels. His stomach growled, and he padded over, sniffing cautiously.
"Fish for breakfast?" he thought. "Better than stale convenience store onigiri, I guess."
He took a tentative bite. The flavor exploded on his tongue—fresh, buttery, melt-in-your-mouth delicious. His human self would've killed for a meal like this. His cat self? Well, he scarfed it down in three bites, purring so loud he startled himself. The harp player—somewhere down the hall—missed a note, probably wondering what kind of feline earthquake was happening.
Step one: food mastered. Step two: figure out how to be a cat. Kenta sat back on his haunches, licking his chops. He'd seen cats before—strays slinking around Tokyo alleys, his neighbor's tabby that hissed at him through the window. They didn't do much, right? Nap, eat, knock stuff over? Easy. He could handle that.
He started with the basics. Walking felt natural enough—four legs instead of two, a low center of gravity, a tail that kept swishing like it had opinions of its own. He trotted around the room, testing his speed, dodging a stray feather that had drifted off a decorative pillow. Then he tried jumping. The vanity table looked like a good target, about three feet high. He crouched, wiggled his butt—an instinct he didn't question—and sprang.
He overshot it. By a lot. His paws scrabbled on the edge, knocking over a silver brush with a clang that echoed like a gunshot. He tumbled backward, landing in a heap on the rug, tail fluffed up like a bottlebrush. "Ow," he meowed, glaring at the table as if it had betrayed him. Clearly, cat physics took practice.
The door swung open, and the same woman from yesterday—the one with the towels—rushed in. She was young, maybe twenty-five, with a crisp black uniform and a name tag that read "Lila." Her eyes widened at the mess, then softened when she saw him sprawled out.
"Oh, Pudding, you little rascal!" she cooed, scooping him up. "Already causing chaos, hmm?"
Kenta squirmed, but her hands were warm, and she smelled like lavender soap. She scratched under his chin, and his protests melted into an embarrassing purr. "Let's get you cleaned up," Lila said, carrying him out of the room. He dangled in her arms, tail swaying, taking in the view.
The hallway was a palace in itself—marble floors veined with gold, walls lined with portraits of stern-looking people in fancy clothes. Chandeliers dangled from the ceiling, dripping crystals that caught the light and threw rainbows everywhere. Servants bustled past, some carrying trays of pastries, others polishing already-spotless banisters. One guy in a tuxedo was walking a vacuum cleaner shaped like a penguin. A penguin. Kenta blinked. This place was nuts.
Lila whisked him into a bathroom—if you could call it that. It was more like a spa, with a sunken tub big enough for a dolphin, a mosaic of blue tiles shimmering on the walls, and a shelf stacked with fluffy towels. She set him on a cushioned stool and grabbed a brush from a drawer. "Time to make you pretty, Princess," she said, grinning.
The brushing started, and Kenta's brain short-circuited. The bristles glided through his fur, tugging gently, smoothing out knots he didn't know he had. Every stroke sent tingles down his spine, and before he could stop it, he was purring again—loud, rumbly, unstoppable. Lila giggled. "You're such a happy girl today."
Girl? Kenta thought, briefly horrified. He twisted to check, but his new body was too fluffy to tell. Whatever. He'd deal with that later. For now, this brushing thing was amazing. He flopped onto his side, letting her work, wondering why humans didn't have servants to do this every day.
After the brushing came a ribbon—a pink one, tied around his neck in a bow so big it flopped over one ear. He caught his reflection in the mirror: cream-colored fur gleaming, blue eyes wide, that ridiculous bow making him look like a gift-wrapped marshmallow. "I look stupid," he meowed, but Lila just kissed his nose and carried him out.
Next stop: the garden. She set him down on a stone path winding through a paradise of roses, fountains, and manicured hedges. Butterflies flitted past, and a peacock strutted by, fanning its tail like it owned the place. Kenta padded forward, marveling at the smells—sweet flowers, damp earth, a hint of something baking in the distance. His ears twitched at every sound: birds chirping, water trickling, the faint hum of a lawnmower somewhere far off.
He decided to test his cat skills again. A low wall ran along the path, perfect for climbing. He crouched, sprang, and—this time—landed gracefully, paws gripping the stone. "Ha!" he meowed triumphantly, tail high. He strutted along the wall, feeling like a king surveying his kingdom. Below, a pond sparkled with koi fish, their orange and white scales glinting in the sun. He leaned down to bat at them, but a stern tsk from Lila stopped him.
"No fishing, Pudding," she said, wagging a finger. He huffed, flicking his tail, but obeyed. For now.
The rest of the morning passed in a blur of exploration. He chased a butterfly until he tripped over his own paws and landed in a flowerbed. He napped in a sunbeam on a cushioned bench, waking up to find a servant tucking a tiny blanket over him. He even figured out how to meow on command—soft and pitiful got him extra treats; loud and demanding made Lila scoop him up for cuddles. By noon, he was sprawled on a silk pillow under a gazebo, a plate of tuna sashimi beside him, wondering how he'd ever lived without this.
Then came the humans. Not the servants, but the humans—the ones who owned this insane place. Kenta heard them before he saw them: a deep voice laughing, a lighter one chattering, the click of heels on stone. He peeked over the edge of his pillow as they stepped into the garden.
First was a man—tall, broad-shouldered, with slicked-back hair and a suit that screamed money. He carried himself like he owned the world, which, given the mansion, he probably did. Next to him was a woman, all sharp cheekbones and red lipstick, her dress shimmering like liquid gold. A teenage girl trailed behind, headphones around her neck, texting furiously on a phone studded with rhinestones. They were the picture of wealth—polished, perfect, absurdly out of touch.
"There's my little Pudding!" the woman exclaimed, clapping her hands. She swooped down, scooping Kenta up before he could dodge. Her perfume was overwhelming, floral and expensive, and her nails glittered with diamonds as she scratched his ears. "Did you miss Mommy?"
Mommy? Kenta thought, mortified. He squirmed, but she hugged him tighter, pressing his face into her cheek. The man chuckled, patting Kenta's head with a hand the size of a dinner plate. "She's been spoiled rotten while we were in Paris," he said, voice booming.
"She deserves it," the woman shot back, kissing Kenta's nose. "She's our little princess."
The girl rolled her eyes, not looking up from her phone. "It's a cat, Mom. Chill."
Kenta stared at them, tail twitching. This was the richest family in the world? The ones who owned him now? They were loud, flashy, and kind of ridiculous—but they were also his ticket to this cushy life. He decided to play along. He let out a soft mrrp, nuzzling the woman's hand. She squealed, delighted, and the man laughed again.
"See? She loves us," the woman said, setting him back on his pillow. They wandered off, bickering about a yacht or something, leaving Kenta to his tuna and his thoughts.
He chewed slowly, watching them go. The servants, the mansion, the family—it was all so over-the-top it was almost funny. His old life had been gray and grinding; this one was a Technicolor dream. Sure, he was a cat now, but was that really so bad? No deadlines. No emails. Just sunbeams and sashimi.
He flopped back on the pillow, purring softly. Maybe, just maybe, he could get used to this. But as the peacock strutted past again, eyeing his tuna, Kenta realized one thing: this new life might be luxurious, but it was going to be anything but boring.