Kenta Nakamura, now Princess Pudding, woke to the sound of a vacuum cleaner shaped like a penguin whirring across the room. Sunlight streamed through the arched windows, glinting off the chandelier and turning the marble floor into a sea of sparkles. He yawned, stretching his paws until his claws peeked out, then flopped back onto his velvet bed. The pillow beneath him smelled faintly of lavender, and a silk blanket—tucked around him by some overzealous servant in the night—slipped off as he rolled over. Day three of cat life, and he was already starting to forget what a spreadsheet looked like.
His stomach rumbled, a tiny growl that echoed in his fluffy chest. Breakfast was priority one. He hopped down, landing with a soft plop on the rug, and padded over to the silver tray by the window. Empty. Not a scrap of salmon or tuna in sight. He blinked, tail flicking. This wouldn't do. In his old life, he'd have shuffled to the convenience store for a sad bento box. Here? He had options.
He trotted to the door—tall, carved wood with a gold handle way out of reach—and sat, staring at it. "Okay," he meowed to himself. "Time to test the system." He'd seen Lila come running yesterday when he'd knocked over that brush. Maybe noise was the key. He swatted at a decorative vase on a nearby table, sending it wobbling. It teetered, then steadied. No crash. No Lila. He huffed, ears flattening. Plan B, then.
He opened his mouth and let out the most pathetic mew he could muster—soft, quivering, like a kitten lost in the rain. Nothing. He tried again, louder this time, adding a little warble at the end. Still nothing. Frustration prickled under his fur. Fine. Time to pull out the big guns. He sucked in a breath and unleashed a yowl—a long, dramatic wail that bounced off the walls and probably woke half the mansion.
The door flew open. Lila burst in, apron askew, a feather duster clutched in one hand. "Pudding! What's wrong, baby?" She dropped to her knees, scooping him up and cradling him like he'd just escaped a fire. Her eyes darted around, searching for danger. Kenta blinked up at her, then let out a tiny, pitiful mrrp. Her face melted.
"Oh, you poor thing," she cooed, stroking his back. "Are you hungry? Let's get you some breakfast, hmm?" She carried him out, still murmuring apologies, and Kenta purred smugly against her shoulder. Step one of cat mastery: humans were suckers for a good meow.
The kitchen was a cathedral of stainless steel and white tile, buzzing with activity. Chefs in tall hats chopped vegetables at lightning speed, ovens hummed, and a massive island groaned under trays of pastries and fruit. The air smelled like butter and herbs, with a hint of something fishy that made Kenta's whiskers twitch. Lila plopped him onto a cushioned stool, then clapped her hands. "Princess Pudding needs her breakfast!" she announced, like she was heralding a royal decree.
A chef—a wiry guy with a mustache that curled at the ends—hurried over, bowing slightly. "Tuna tartare today, Your Highness?" he asked, dead serious. Kenta stared. Your Highness? He nodded—or tried to, which just made his ears flop—and the chef scurried off. Minutes later, a tiny porcelain plate landed in front of him, piled with diced tuna so fresh it glistened, garnished with a sprig of parsley like it was art.
Kenta dug in, purring with every bite. The texture was silky, the flavor a punch of ocean goodness. His old self would've wept at this—three years of instant noodles, and now he was eating like a king. Or a princess, apparently. He licked his chops, savoring the last morsel, then glanced around. The kitchen staff watched him, beaming like proud parents. He flicked his tail. Power felt good.
Breakfast done, he decided to explore. Lila was busy folding napkins, so he slipped off the stool and padded out, tail high. The mansion sprawled like a labyrinth—hallways stretching forever, rooms opening into more rooms, each one dripping with excess. He passed a library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a ladder on wheels, a ballroom with a polished floor that reflected his fuzzy face, and a gym where a treadmill hummed next to a juice bar stocked with kale smoothies. He paused at that one, wondering if cats could drink kale. Probably not worth the risk.
The garden called him next. He slipped through a glass door left ajar, stepping onto the stone path he'd conquered yesterday. Roses bloomed in riots of red and pink, their petals scattered across the ground like confetti. A fountain gurgled nearby, spraying mist that caught the sunlight and turned it into tiny rainbows. He hopped onto a low bench, warm from the sun, and flopped down, letting the heat soak into his fur. Birds chirped overhead, and that peacock strutted past again, eyeing him like a rival. Kenta hissed lazily, just to keep it moving.
Then he heard voices. Loud, brassy ones, drifting from the other side of a hedge. The family. He perked up, ears swiveling. Time to study his new overlords—or, well, the humans he'd be manipulating for treats and belly rubs. He slunk off the bench and crept closer, weaving through the roses until he could peek through the leaves.
The man—Mr. Moneybags, Kenta dubbed him—lounged in a wicker chair, sipping something amber from a glass. His suit was navy today, paired with a tie that probably cost more than Kenta's old rent. The woman—Lady Glitz—paced nearby, her heels clicking on the stone, a phone pressed to her ear. "No, darling, the yacht needs to be gold-trimmed, not silver," she snapped. "Silver is so last season." The teenage girl—Phone Princess—sprawled on a lounge chair, scrolling TikTok, her neon sneakers dangling off the edge.
Kenta tilted his head. They were ridiculous, but fascinating—like a reality show he'd stumbled into. He decided to test his powers again. He stepped out from the hedge, fluffed his fur, and let out a soft mew. Three heads swiveled his way.
"Pudding!" Lady Glitz dropped her phone mid-call, rushing over. She scooped him up, burying her face in his fur. "My precious baby! Where have you been?" Her perfume hit him like a floral tsunami, but he leaned into it, purring on cue. She squealed, hugging him tighter.
Mr. Moneybags chuckled, setting his drink down. "She's got you wrapped around her paw, Vanessa." He reached over, scratching Kenta's ears with a meaty hand. Kenta leaned into that too, milking it. The man grinned. "Smart cat. Knows who's boss."
Phone Princess glanced up, smirking. "She's just scamming you for treats, Dad." She popped a bubble with her gum, then went back to her screen. Kenta flicked his tail. Smart kid. He'd have to watch her.
"Let's get her something special," Vanessa said, setting him on a cushioned chair. She clapped her hands, and a servant materialized—literally, out of nowhere—with a tray. On it? A tiny bowl of caviar. Actual caviar, black and shiny, piled in a crystal dish. Kenta stared, whiskers twitching. His old self had never even smelled caviar, let alone eaten it.
"Go on, sweetie," Vanessa urged, nudging the bowl closer. He sniffed it—salty, briny, weirdly luxurious. He took a lick. It popped on his tongue, sharp and rich. Not bad. Not tuna, but not bad. He ate half, then flopped dramatically onto his side, purring loud enough to rattle the tray. The family laughed, delighted.
"Such a drama queen," Mr. Moneybags said, sipping his drink. "She fits right in."
Kenta smirked internally. Drama queen? Maybe. But he was learning fast: a well-timed meow, a cute flop, a little purr, and these humans were putty in his paws. He spent the next hour lounging there, soaking up their chatter—yachts, private islands, a gala next week where Vanessa planned to wear a dress made of peacock feathers. He filed it all away, plotting his next move.
Afternoon rolled in, lazy and warm. He wandered back inside, tail swishing, and found a sunbeam spilling across a velvet sofa in some parlor room. He hopped up, circled twice, and flopped down, letting the heat melt into his bones. His eyes drifted shut, but his mind buzzed. This life—sunbeams, caviar, humans at his beck and call—was a far cry from the gray grind of Tokyo. Sure, he had to wear a bow and dodge that peacock, but the trade-off? Worth it.
Then came the chaos. A door banged open, and a pack of maids rushed in, armed with feather dusters and brooms. "Quick, quick!" one yelped. "The chef's new soufflé exploded, and there's chocolate everywhere!" Kenta cracked an eye open, watching them scramble. Exploded soufflé? He had to see this.
He hopped down and trotted after them, weaving through legs and dodging a stray mop. The kitchen was a war zone—chocolate splattered across counters, a deflated soufflé dish smoking on the island, the mustached chef yelling in French. Kenta slipped under a table, tail flicking with glee. A dollop of chocolate landed near his paw. He licked it—sweet, creamy, a little smoky. Heaven.
Lila spotted him, gasping. "Pudding, no! That's not for kitties!" She scooped him up, wiping his whiskers with a napkin. He meowed in protest, but she just hugged him, laughing. "You're trouble, you know that?"
Trouble? Maybe. But as he purred in her arms, chocolate still tingling on his tongue.