?Life always has a way of delivering the punchline at the absolute worst timing.

  ?My name is Mikio Umada. Thirty-five years old.

  In the industry, they call me "Mada-Mada-O," a cruel play on my name.

  ?"It stands for Mada-Dame-na-Otoko—The Man Who’s Still a Failure. Catchy pen name, right?"

  I’ll never forget the face of the editor who laughed while saying that. But today, that humiliating nickname officially became a thing of the past.

  ?"…Are you serious? We’re actually moving forward with the publication?!"

  ?In a cafe in front of the station, I leaned forward so hard I nearly smashed my battered laptop. The editor across from me gave a wry smile and nodded.

  ?"Yes. The web reception and the sheer structural integrity of the story—Mikio, you won. Today is your graduation from being 'Mada-Mada-O.'"

  ?My heart hammered against my ribs like a tolling bell.

  I won.

  ?The "Strategy" of analyzing reader preferences, piercing the market gaps, and building the foundation brick by brick. And the "Inspiration" for the final scene that fell from the heavens. Everything had finally borne fruit.

  ?Immediately, her face flashed through my mind.

  Hikari. The woman who worked as a clerk by day and rushed to a part-time job at a bento shop by night.

  She had worked herself to the bone with two jobs just to keep me fed, yet she never once told me to quit.

  ?"She’s been tripping over things lately. Her glasses must be out of focus," I thought. "Once the book deal is signed, I’ll buy her the best pair money can buy."

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  ?Basking in such naive optimism, I walked toward the station, whipped by the cold winter wind. Just as I reached for my phone to send her a message—

  ?There, at the mouth of a dark alleyway where the streetlights couldn't reach, a cat was crouched on the asphalt.

  Her belly was unnervingly swollen. A pregnant stray.

  And beyond her—at the corner—the blinding headlights of a truck came roaring toward us at high speed.

  ?(…Don’t do it. I have things to do. My ultimate strategic objective is to make her happy. I don’t have time for distractions like this…)

  ?The image of her, smiling with an exhausted face, flickered in my mind.

  If I die here, I’ll be "Mada-Mada-O" for eternity.

  Logically, I knew this. The "Writer" part of my brain issued a cold, rational warning: Ignore it.

  ?And yet.

  ?"…Aw, for crying out loud, wait!"

  ?Cursing under my breath, my feet were already kicking off the asphalt.

  How pathetic. So much for strategy.

  But if I ran away now, I’d never be able to look her in the eye again. After all, she was the one who had kept picking up a "half-dead stray dog" like me all these years.

  ?A dull impact.

  The sky spun.

  The warmth of the cat I scooped up, and the sensation of soft fur.

  ?(…Ah, I guess… I really was… Mada-Mada-O after all…)

  ?My consciousness dissolved into the pitch-black void.

  ?When I next opened my eyes, my vision was incredibly low and blurred.

  ?"Myaaa."

  ?A strange sound came out. A high, raspy squeak.

  Looking around, I saw three other fluffy lumps making similar noises.

  And before me stood a giant—the stray cat from that night, licking me with deep affection.

  ?(You’ve got to be kidding me. Don’t tell me I’m… one of her kids?)

  ?I was confused, but strangely, I felt no fear.

  My siblings crying beside me were as adorable as plush toys.

  I didn't have a mirror, but I was certain: I was born from this beautiful mother cat. I must be a promisingly handsome kitten myself.

  ?(Heh… with looks like these, she’ll be smitten the moment I show up. I’ll use this "beauty" to heal her—the woman who’s always so busy she’d welcome even a cat's help.)

  ?I narrowed my eyes in satisfaction and began to nurse.

  ?Mikio Umada, Writer. Age of death: 35.

  Cat. Name: None yet.

  ?I didn't know it then.

  The cold reality that I was the only one in the litter with a prominent "mustache" pattern under my nose—making me, to put it mildly, quite ugly.

  Nor did I know the truth of the "fading light" illness Hikari had been hiding to keep me from worrying.

  ?The first page of the world’s most clumsy and arduous "repayment" had just been turned.

  ?