Most accidents are preventable.

    The story I’m about to share, involving three cats—Gucci, Hermes, and Jackfield—was, in a way, a preventable disaster.

    “Ma’am, you really shouldn’t feed those cats.”

    The woman in question was a middle-aged lady living alone in the vast wilderness between Seoul and my territory.

    Her face was always covered with a mask, scarf, and sunglasses, likely due to burns she suffered during the nuclear attacks. I first encountered her when I started making regular trips to Seoul to scavenge supplies.

    When she saw me—a large man—she’d hurriedly grab her cart and flee. Her back radiated not just fear but also a profound loneliness.

    Every time I passed by, I noticed her in the same spot, feeding stray cats. After some observation, I confirmed that she seemed to have neither a husband nor children.

    Given the current state of the world, this wasn’t unusual, so I ignored her. Over time, however, she seemed to grow accustomed to me. She no longer ran away when she saw me.

    From fleeing each other’s presence, we evolved into a dynamic where we simply ignored each other.

    Our parallel paths eventually collided because of one incident: her cats.

    They had grown to an undeniably abnormal size.

    “Excuse me. Don’t you think those cats are a bit too large?”

    It was unmistakable—a precursor to mutation.

    Back when the Chinese government was still intact, South Korea sent hunters to assist them in combating monster invasions.

    After witnessing how the collapses of India and Africa impacted neighboring countries, it was obvious that South Korea would be next if nothing was done.

    In one of China’s newly built but sparsely populated ghost cities, I saw similar phenomena.

    At the time, humanity was less knowledgeable and couldn’t distinguish between mutations and monsters. I defied my colleagues’ objections and captured an oversized sewer rat, claiming it was a new species of hamster. That sample helped define the concept of “mutation.”

    I’m not bragging, but I did play a significant role in uncovering the existence of mutations.

    Exceeding the genetic growth limits set by nature is one of the most prominent early signs of mutation.

    The three cats this woman fed were already the size of golden retrievers.

    “Those cats—don’t you think they’re a bit too big, ma’am?”

    “They’re Ragdolls,” she replied defensively.

    Ragdolls are a breed of cats known for their large size, but to my eyes, those three—especially the calico—looked distinctly Korean.

    “Ragdolls? They look more like Lyta, the man-eating monster from the desert.”

    “Mind your own business. Who are you to boss me around?”

    Her voice trembled with frustration, though she didn’t even look me in the eye.

    “I’m saying this because it could hurt you. Do you want to be eaten by those cats?”

    “They would never! They’re angels. Do you know how much they adore me?”

    She extended her hand, and the three cats scrambled to rub their heads against it, as if competing to kiss a king’s seal.

    “...”

    I said no more.

    She wasn’t a child—she was an adult, an elder. She could handle herself.

    Besides, my own selfish calculations played a role in why I decided to leave her alone.

    At the time, I was considering severing my ties with Seoul.

    Now that I had my personal identification code, there was little reason to visit the city directly. And more importantly, they were running out of manpower for the battlefield.

    As a highly skilled individual, they could draft me with any excuse.

    Welcoming three mutated cats as new neighbors, alongside the crazy sniper to the southeast and Gold’s pack to the southwest, didn’t seem like a bad idea for bolstering the defenses around my bunker.

    Not that this woman would’ve listened to me anyway.

    “What are their names?” I called out to her as she walked away.

    “Why?”

    “They seem cute.”

    “Gucci, Hermes, and Jackfield.”

    Strangely, she didn’t specify which name belonged to which cat.

    Yet somehow, I felt like I already knew.

    *

    "By crossing the fibers like this with the scoop, you can create a fuller texture."

    It was a quiet afternoon.

    I was working on a wool felt doll while watching a video by the now-deceased Anonymous337.

    My creation was closer to a Lovecraftian goat than an actual sheep, but I kept modifying it, referring to the master’s video to at least make it resemble a sheep.

    Like the beautifully crafted pieces by Anonymous337 sitting on my shelf.

    As I focused, my K-walkie-talkie let out a sharp buzzing noise.

    Beep! Beep! Beep!

    The pattern signaled a direct contact via my personal identification number—an important call.

    Sure enough, the sender’s name appeared: Kim Daram.

    “Ah, shit.”

    I couldn’t ignore it. When I pressed the receive button, a cold, sharp voice immediately flowed through as if it had been waiting.

    “Sunbae, I need a favor.”

    “Another favor? Didn’t you swear I wouldn’t have to deal with this again?”

    “I don’t want to ask either, but we need to help each other in these dark times. Besides, this isn’t just anyone’s problem. You heard about all the deaths near the golf course where you live, right?”

    “...Rupert Shitty Palace or whatever it was.”

    “See? You already know.”

    The incident where the three stray angels raised by that nameless woman mutated into monsters and turned the apartment residents into real angels might have been advantageous for me, but to the Central Administration, it was a serious matter.

    The government had issued a kill order for Hermes, Gucci, and Jackfield.

    “Sorry, but I can’t hunt mutations anymore. I don’t have the skills, the desire, or the equipment for it.”

    “You’re not the one who’ll do it. I’m sending someone.”

    “Someone?”

    “A freelance hunter.”

    The freelance hunter appeared in front of me on a vintage motorcycle, a rarity even before the war.

    No matter the era, gifts seem to be the key to unlocking a woman’s heart.

    Still sobbing, she clasped the coffee with both hands and began to speak.

    “That day, everyone in the apartment went into the old bunker. The one they built during the Saemaeul Movement. Everyone except me.”

    She pointed toward the bunker.

    “When I got there, the door was already shut. I banged on it and screamed, but they wouldn’t let me in. It was their way of telling me to die outside. They hated me for feeding the cats.”

    She paused to wipe her tears, removing her sunglasses for the first time.

    The burns around her eyes were so severe I couldn’t look at her directly, but her gaze held a warmth that seemed to draw animals to her.

    “Then Jackfield appeared, meowing. It was like he was guiding me to the basement.”

    She smiled faintly through her tears.

    “Thanks to those little ones, I survived. And they survived because of me.”

    “What happened to the people in the bunker?”

    I didn’t need her answer.

    The black soot staining the ventilation shaft told me everything.

    “There was a fire inside,” she said. “I heard the smoke and the screams—all day long.”

    Her secret to survival became clear.

    The residents of the small apartment complex—all sixty households—had perished.

    The supplies meant for sixty households had all fallen into her lap.

    As Baek had pointed out, this decrepit, remote apartment building was so isolated that even raiders had ignored it.

    “You’re not feeding them anymore, right?”

    “No. They’ve... grown too big.”

    “Do you know where they are? Someone worse than him might come next time.”

    Under my urging, she seemed to steel herself. She tried to open the coffee can, but her trembling hands, likely weakened by alcoholism, couldn’t manage it.

    I opened it for her, and she bowed her head as she took it.

    She sipped the warm coffee, her gaze fixed on the distance as if making a solemn resolution.

    “I think I know where they might be.”

    She led us to a ditch near an abandoned rice field.

    “This is where I found them,” she explained. “They’d been abandoned by their mother, so I took care of them.”

    Her intuition was spot on.

    There were bloodstains.

    “Hermes! Gucci! Jackfield!”

    She called out desperately to her beasts.

    Baek and I stood back, watching from a distance.

    Not wanting to see Baek’s face, I fixed my eyes on the woman and asked coldly, “Is this really necessary?”

    Baek didn’t answer. Instead, he handed the woman a vest.

    A bomb vest.

    He believed this would be less painful than being torn apart alive by mutations.

    While I agreed with his reasoning, I couldn’t ignore how morally bankrupt the act was.

    “That’s probably what the dead would want to ask her too,” Baek replied flatly.

    From the ditch, massive, blood-soaked beasts emerged.

    Mutations.

    Baek’s finger hovered over the detonator.

    I said nothing.

    His judgment was sound, even if it strayed beyond emotional considerations.

    Scientists say mutations are too intelligent to be tamed.

    They understand how humans perceive and treat them, which is why they choose to attack humans.

    Much like humanity, once the gentlest lambs of God, had become His fiercest critics, mutations develop a deliberate hatred for humans.

    That is the prevailing theory about their aggression.

    But then...

    “Meow.”

    The sight before me was unbelievable.

    The mutations were following her.

    Just as they had before they changed, they nuzzled against her, their lion-sized heads vying for her touch. They rubbed against her body, even with the bomb vest strapped to her chest.

    “See? My babies are so sweet, even now...”

    “...”

    The nameless woman and her cats directly challenged the accepted truths about mutations.

    But the brief miracle was snuffed out by a man bound to reality.

    Click.

    The simple sound of the switch preceded an explosion that consumed everything in light and deafening noise.

    “Real classy work,” I muttered.

    For the first time, I looked at Baek seriously.

    He, who had spent the entire time observing me, avoided my gaze for once.

    “...It’s a shitty world,” he murmured before fleeing the scene.

    The woman’s body was completely obliterated.

    Only one mutation remained, its lower body blown away, wheezing its final breaths.

    I looked down at the cat.

    It met my gaze weakly, its eyes dull and lifeless.

    “So, you’re Jackfield.”

    The ugliest of the three nodded faintly, like a human, before drawing its last breath.