The patron, fully dressed, looks incredibly handsome. I’m not saying this just because he’s my patron—he’s genuinely impressive. Whenever I see him all nicely put together, I can’t help but feel proud myself for no reason at all. That’s when I lift my chin and go stand right beside him. Then, without making a sound, I start bragging to the maids and attendants.
Isn’t he great? This guy right here is my patron.
When we leave the bedroom, I walk right next to my patron.
With my chin held high and my gaze confident, I stride forward while people on both sides bow deeply in greeting. The patron probably can’t see their faces, but I can clearly see the expressions of those bending at the waist. As they wait for my patron to pass, some of them occasionally meet my eyes. I notice without difficulty that their gazes linger for a long time on my neck. That’s only natural. Hanging from my neck is an absurdly large ruby. Since it’s an imperial possession, no human would dare touch or steal it lightly—but I’m always ready to turn the face of any thief who lunges at me into a rag mop.
That said, I’m starting to get tired of this necklace too. No matter how precious or expensive it is, wearing the same thing every single day is just tasteless. Especially since I don’t wear clothes to begin with—this necklace is both the beginning and the end of my fashion.
I glanced sideways at my patron walking next to me.
This guy seems to think that once he puts this necklace on me, that’s the end of it. He clearly doesn’t understand that even cats have their own sense of fashion. If I were to bury this stupid necklace in my personal stash pit, I’d get a new one eventually anyway… but that would be a bit of a problem. Simon Licht has already been eyeing me with a dangerous look like he wants to skin me alive, and if trouble were to break out at a time like this, my position would become awkward. It’s probably better to find a quiet moment and properly make my demands to my patron.
As soon as I enter the dining room, delicious smells stimulate my appetite. My stomach starts rumbling loudly, demanding food, but I don’t let it show on the outside. I climb onto my personal chair with dignified, elegant steps.
My seat is right next to my patron. Technically, we’re supposed to sit at opposite ends of the long dining table, but I prefer sitting beside him. That way, he serves me personally.
There are attendants whose job is to serve meals, of course. But I have absolutely no intention of entrusting my food to the hands of some unfamiliar man. I’m precious, after all.
After I neatly lap up the warm soup that’s been cooled to just the right temperature, my patron cuts the meat for me. My attentive patron slices it into perfect bite-sized pieces, which deeply moves me. I pick up the smallest piece first and chew it thoughtfully. After about three chews, I get the general idea.
Mm. It’s cooked just right today. Passable. Yesterday, I got so angry at the overcooked meat that I sent the plate flying with my front paw—looks like the chef took extra care today.
As I chew diligently, thoughts of home suddenly surface.
Whenever I ate, there were always land, sea, and air dishes on the table. If even one of the three was missing, that day became a serious problem. If I was fed even slightly less than usual, I’d throw a fit like I was dying. When I sat at the table, Grandma and Mom would sit on either side of me, taking turns flaking fish and cutting meat to place on my spoon. The silent battle between the two—each trying to be the one to give me just one more bite—was terrifying. To reduce in-law conflict, I had no choice but to strictly alternate: one bite of fish, one bite of meat. Even on days when I only wanted fish, or only meat, I held back. If I didn’t, Grandma or Mom would dab at their eyes with their sleeves, looking deeply hurt.
Once I’ve eaten my fill, I let out a soft meow to call my patron. When he looks at me, I tap the chair with my tail. He clears away the meat plate and sets a bowl of water in front of me. The attendants who’ve been smacked a few times by my front paws wisely just stand still now. Of course they do. I don’t entrust my water bowl to unfamiliar men.
It seems my patron has finished eating too—he wipes the corner of his mouth. I jump down from the chair and meow insistently to hurry him along. Now it’s time for him to go to work. I’d like to make him rest while stroking my back, but what can you do? If you want to live, you have to work.
For some reason, the morning meeting feels especially long today.
Lying sprawled across my patron’s lap, I let out a long yawn. He runs his fingers through my fur, scritching lightly, but that trick stopped working a long time ago. That alone isn’t enough to ease my boredom. To distract myself, I poke my head out over the table where the humans are gathered.
The old men who were pointing fingers and arguing stop when they see me, clearing their throats with awkward coughs. They look like they want to say something about me—bringing a cat into a meeting room, what kind of precedent is this, and so on. But for some reason, none of them scold my patron. Ever since I first started following him around, they’ve only glared at me instead of complaining to him. Is it because my patron is the Crown Prince? Or because they pity the lonely Crown Prince? Somehow, I suspect it’s the latter.
The meeting resumes. This time, though, the old men don’t point fingers anymore. Looks like my disdainful stare made their chests tighten a bit. Tsk. When you see things like this, Korea or here—it’s all the same.
Instead of listening to the old men talk, I shift my attention to their accessories.
The absurdly large pendants hanging from their necks are clearly made of gold and jewels. Just look at that yellowish shine—no doubt about it. I can’t even begin to guess how many don of gold went into a single pendant. That said, I’m absolutely not tempted by them. Heavy, crude jewelry like that has no taste. I’d much rather have my own Cartier ring—far fewer coins in value, perhaps, but infinitely more fashionable.
The life of jewelry lies in delicate craftsmanship, after all. When I get back, I should pester Grandpa to buy me a ton of necklaces and rings. Just like always, he’ll slap a gold card into my hand and say, “Oh dear. My little mutt.”
Ah. I’m bored. Bored. So bored.
Unable to stand it any longer, I poke my claws into my patron’s thigh. But his thigh is so firm that my claws just bounce right off. My cousin once described thighs like these while drooling.
“Those are pure horse muscles.”
That cousin was somehow a little scary.
My patron’s large hand strokes my back soothingly, but it doesn’t help much. Right now, my patron is failing in his duty to not let me be bored. This is unacceptable. I want to rake my claws across his arm immediately, but I hold myself back. Getting angry at someone who’s working because they won’t play with you isn’t very dignified. Instead, I hop off his lap.
My patron’s golden eyes follow me, but I sharply turn my head away. You won’t play with me, and yet you stare. Hmph.
I scratch the meeting room door loudly, and it opens. Ignoring the gaze burning into my back, I step outside. I know the layout around here like the back of my paw. I know exactly where I need to go to have some fun.
Straight. Straight. Turn right. Straight. Turn left.
Following the path exactly as I remember it, my destination comes into view. Once again, I’m impressed by my own brilliant memory.
I arrive in the middle of a corridor. Standing in front of an ordinary-looking wall, I press my head against it. As I grunt and push, a hidden door creaks open. After checking both sides, I slip inside.
“Oh my, Nabi’s here!”
Passing through the narrow passage into a room, a maid greets me warmly. I let out a sweet, gentle meow toward her—a solid 98 out of 100. It’s not good to give out such affectionate cries lightly, but any man should be kind to women. Especially pretty ones.
The 98-point maid squeals and rushes over, scooping me up.
“Nabi’s here!”
The other maids sitting in the room swarm over. Drunk on happiness, I greet them with a soft, friendly nyaaong.
Beautiful women with an average score of 95 or higher squabble, each trying to touch me at least once. Feeling generous, I even allow them to pet my butt—something I don’t usually permit.
I discovered this heaven by chance a few days ago.
Inside the servants-only secret passage used by maids and attendants is a small resting space just for them. Naturally, I claimed the maids’ resting area as my personal playground.
“Give him here—this time I’ll hold him.”
The beautiful women fight over me. Instead of stopping them, I watch leisurely. I really like the outfits here. Their clothes plunge deeply at the chest, exposing their cleavage completely. I move from one bosom to another, freely enjoying the soft, bouncy mounds. Even when I knead them firmly with my front paws, or flick my tongue out to lick at their chests, they just squeal and laugh. It’s something I never could’ve dared to do when I was human.
In this maids-only resting space where men aren’t allowed, all kinds of incredible sights unfold. Tossing aside stifling dresses and wandering around in just their underwear is an everyday occurrence. When I see them sitting with white slips pulled up to their thighs, their pale legs exposed, I happily approach and rub my fur along their calves and thighs. If I really wanted to, I could peek into the skirts barely hiding what’s beneath—but I never do. I’m a polite, gentlemanly cat, after all.
Once my patron’s morning meeting ends, the maids start bustling about. That’s when I bid them a regretful farewell and slip back out through the secret door. Retracing my steps, I inevitably run into my patron halfway.
Meow—
Meeting’s over?
