So cold!
Like someone had dropped fire on his foot, he sprang up in a panic. It felt like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over his head. The moment he managed to get some distance, a biting chill sank into his bones.
This is what he got for dodging every attempt they made to pour water on him.
“Ugh, seriously! Why do you keep running away?!”
Do you really not get it? Even a human would bolt if you poured freezing water over them. If he could’ve spoken, he would’ve snapped back with that exact retort.
And he wasn’t even human anymore. He was a cat. Even someone who’s never owned a cat should know you have to bathe them carefully. But careful? This wasn’t careful—it was just plain barbaric.
His body trembled uncontrollably, and because they’d dumped water straight over his head, it had even seeped into his ears. Once an extra pair of hands joined the mix, he was completely overpowered—scrubbed roughly with soap, rinsed like laundry, and wrung out until he felt like a sopping rag.
He felt like a piece of living laundry. Clawing at the woman’s skirt, he let out a miserable cry.
Easy! Go easy, damn it!
“Meooowaargh!”
“Hold still already! Ugh, I swear, if I could, I’d just smack you!”
As if it wasn’t bad enough waking up in an animal’s body, now they were treating him like this—mocked, manhandled, abused. His first bath as a cat? It was hell. No—worse than hell.
…Especially when they scrubbed between his legs.
And the torment didn’t end there.
No sooner had he escaped the bathroom than he was seized and rubbed down with a towel for ages. Just as he tried to lick his disheveled fur back into shape, someone grabbed him by the scruff and carted him off again.
At this point, one saying he used to nod along with in his past life came to mind.
“A cat’s life is the good life,” huh?
That’s what he used to think. You got pampered for doing nothing, got served gourmet meals, given cozy places to nap—it all seemed so enviable. But not anymore.
He owed every cat in the world an apology. Those cats? They were just born lucky, with rich, doting owners.
Me? I’m a dirt-poor stray. Goddamn it.
He was carried like luggage and eventually brought into a room so massive and extravagant it left his jaw hanging.
Polished floors gleamed like mirrors. A thick, embroidered carpet muffled footsteps. A massive canopy sofa looked big enough for three or four grown men, and a chandelier overhead sparkled like someone had stolen stars from the sky.
“Marquess, I’ve brought him.”
“Leave him and go.”
But none of it compared to the presence of the man sitting at the heart of the room—the master of this palace. Sprawled out on a leather sofa like he owned the world, the man looked down at him with eyes devoid of interest.
A sharp rose scent pricked his nose.
“You managed not to look like complete trash, at least.”
That voice. That scent. He remembered them.
His mind flashed back to the moment he’d first woken up. It had been a blur, but now he was sure—this was the same man who’d been there.
Wait—Marquess?
He was sure he’d heard that right. Marquess—that was a noble title.
Everything he’d been trying not to think about suddenly flared to life. The maid uniforms the women wore. The way they addressed this man. Even the over-the-top room decor…
No way. Is this the Middle Ages?
Waking up in a cat’s body wasn’t enough—now he’d time-traveled, too? It felt like someone had poured black ink over his already hopeless future.
But whether a tiny cat despaired or not, the man clearly didn’t care. Instead, he clicked his tongue.
“Can’t even cry properly? Then you’re useless.”
“…Meow.”
The words came out without thinking—soft and pitiful. The man responded instantly, voice cold as ice.
“Remember this, creature. If you so much as leave a scratch on Diana, I’ll toss you to the wild dogs.”
Something primal in him recoiled. That wasn’t just a threat—it was a promise. This man would absolutely go through with it.
Slowly, he moved into the man’s line of sight, curled up, and lay down. He couldn’t afford to get on the bad side of someone who might actually end his life.
While he endured the tense silence alone, finally, someone else entered the room.
“Marquess Marilon! Did I keep you waiting?”
Her voice was soft and airy, like petals fluttering in the wind. He turned instinctively—and froze.
He’d never seen anyone so beautiful.
Golden hair that shimmered like sunlight, eyes the color of spring blossoms, and a face that looked like it had been hand-sculpted out of pure charm. If someone had asked him to picture a living embodiment of the word adorable, he’d point straight at her.
“I told you—just call me Chesif. And no, I haven’t been waiting long.”
Even the man’s voice changed—gentler, warmer. Maybe he saw it too.
The woman smiled, radiant with delight. He stared at her, completely transfixed—until she suddenly turned, as if she’d felt the weight of his gaze. Their eyes locked. Her pale cheeks flushed pink in an instant, and her body gave a startled little twitch.
“Oh my goodness, Marquess! Are you raising a cat now? Since when?”
“Not long ago,” the man replied smoothly. “Maybe it’s because you mentioned cats before, but when I happened to see an abandoned one while passing by, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. So I brought him home.”
…He buried his face against the floor. For a second there, he’d nearly broken character—his expression about to do something decidedly un-catlike.
“How sweet of you. I wish there were some way I could help.”
“Just dropping by to play with him now and then is more than enough. You do understand what I’m really saying, don’t you? I want you to visit more often, Diana.”
And just like that, the brief sense of calm he’d managed to scrape together was shattered beyond repair.
At this point, even the dumbest human—or cat—would’ve figured it out.
Chesif and Diana. The two of them were flirting. Using him, a poor cat, as their excuse.
***
They sat side by side on the massive sofa, chatting softly. It was long enough for a full-grown man to stretch out on, yet they sat close—too close. Practically clinging. Subtle, they were not.
“Here, kitty kitty, come here,” Diana cooed.
As if they weren’t already wrapped up in their own little world. But Diana clearly hadn’t lost interest in him—or more accurately, the adorable little cat raised by Marquess Marilon.
Her pale fingertips danced in front of his eyes, beckoning. Instinctively, he followed the motion—then flinched. Her hand had drifted much closer than he’d realized, now hovering right in front of his nose.
A wave of unfamiliar scent washed over him. His paw itched to swat her hand away. But…
He stole a glance at Marquess Chesif. Now that Diana’s gaze was elsewhere, the man’s expression had cooled again—his eyes fixed sharply on him, watching.
“My, he’s so well-behaved.”
In the end, he suppressed the urge. One wrong move, one accidental scratch on her hand, and who knew what might happen?
Diana began gently stroking the soft yellow fur on his head. Her fingers moved between his ears, then slowly down his spine. The touch flowed smoothly, gracefully…
Until her hand slid toward his rear.
Oh no. Not the butt.
He jerked his body away. Her hand caught nothing but air, missing his plump backside entirely. Diana looked visibly disappointed.
And to his horror, he saw the Marquess’s brow twitch upward. A cold sweat pricked along his fur. Diana’s attention wasn’t just overwhelming anymore—it was becoming downright uncomfortable.
Thankfully, she gave up on the rear soon after. Tilting her head, she turned to the Marquess.
“Marquess, does this kitty have a name?”
“…A name?”
This time, he wasn’t the one sweating.
Though Chesif still wore that easy smile, there was a flicker of hesitation behind it—subtle, but there.
And it made sense. Since waking up in this mansion, he’d only ever been called “cat,” “beast,” or “creature.” A name? That was a luxury he hadn’t been given.
Serves you right, he thought with a smug little snort.
Then, completely out of nowhere—
“Strawberry.”
A random word tumbled out of the Marquess’s mouth.
And just like that, the man who’d once lived a perfectly normal, respectable life in a human body was now the proud owner of the name Strawberry. He blinked slowly, processing the disaster.
“Strawberry? Oh my! That name suits you so well. It’s just perfect, Strawberry!”
Diana beamed as she resumed stroking his head, completely enchanted. Her hand crept suspiciously close to his rear again, but he was too stunned to react.
He stared hard at Chesif. No—at the fruit bowl neatly placed in front of him. And the ripe, red strawberries inside it.
So that was it.
You really just picked the first fruit you saw because you couldn’t be bothered, didn’t you?
The idea of being called “Strawberry” for the rest of his life was enough to make his soul wilt. He’d had a real name. A decent one…
Hadn’t he? What was it…?
He scrunched his nose, frustrated. He was sure it was there, hiding just beneath the surface—but too faint, too blurry to reach.
…Does it even matter anymore?
In the end, he gave up trying to remember. Even if he did recall it, what good would it do? He was a cat now. Like it or not, he’d be known as Strawberry from here on out.
And he didn’t get a say in it.
