Andrei Stevens POV
February 1974
I watched the frost etch delicate patterns on the windowpane of my father's study, my stomach a tight knot of anticipation. Presenting the Mortimer the Mouse dossier to Mom had been an exercise in controlled exposure—a test of my theory against her economist's mind. The pride in her eyes had been a relief. Her decision to show Dad had sent a jolt of pure, childlike panic through my system-augmented mind.
A five-year-old writing a business-ready publishing proposal wasn't gifted; it was a potential laboratory specimen. I braced for skepticism, for worried glances, for a gentle suggestion to focus on toy trains.
Instead, Daniel had taken the folder with the solemnity of a board report. He'd asked sharp, logistical questions about target demographics and print costs that I'd only researched in theory. Then, he'd done what I, in my former life, could never have imagined: he called in a professional favour.
Now, we awaited the verdict.
"They're here," Margaret's voice was calm, a steadying anchor. She smoothed my shirt collar, her fingers cool and sure. "Remember, this is a consultation. Not an examination."
The family gathered in the study—a fortress of dark wood and leather. Daniel stood by the fireplace, a broad silhouette against the flames. Damien vibrated on the sofa, unable to contain his excitement for "Andrei's adventure." Daphne, clutching a worn rabbit, leaned against Margaret, sensing the important-adult-energy in the room.
Daniel cleared his throat, holding a typed letter from his friend at Penguin. "Right. The professional opinion." He read the three suggestions, his voice giving no color to the words.
Suggestion One landed like a bucket of ice water. Change the name. Disney is aggressive about their perceived territory. Of course. A glaring, amateur blind spot. My 21st-century mind, swimming in a vast digital sea of content, had forgotten the territorial dragons of the 1970s. Mickey's shadow was long and legally vicious. Mortimer was dead.
Suggestion Two was the crossroads: publish as the prodigy, a marketing circus, or vanish behind a pen name.
Suggestion Three was the compromise: Penguin's shield. A pen name they would manage, obscuring me until I was of age, in exchange for a larger cut of the royalties. Safety, for a price
Silence hung in the room, broken only by the crackle of the fire.
"The third path," Margaret stated, not a suggestion but a conclusion. Her analytical mode was fully engaged. "A public childhood is a stolen one. The 'genius' narrative is a gilded cage. It invites scrutiny, envy, and pressure he shouldn't have to bear for decades."
Daniel nodded, his gaze finding mine. "Your mother is right. The vultures from the papers and the telly… they'd pick the story clean and then pick at you. This pen name is armour. We can always reveal the author later, on our terms, if we ever want to. We cannot un-reveal you."
The logic was impeccable. It was the strategic move, the consolidating move, just like Daniel's business. Protect the core asset. Me.
"So… a secret identity?" Damien breathed, his eyes wide with delight. "Like a spy?"
"Like a sensible businessman," Daniel corrected, but a smile touched his lips.
"What about the mouse?" I asked, my voice small in the large room. The character was the core of the plan.
"We adapt," Margaret said, ever the pragmatist. "The core thesis was 'don't underestimate a small animal.' A mouse is… fraught. A cat, however. A kitten. Small, seemingly harmless, but naturally inquisitive. A clever kitten solving puzzles…"
"Lionel," I said, the name arriving fully formed from some associative depth of my mind. "Lionel the Cat. It's… friendly. But it has a hint of the regal. Of unexpected dignity."
"Lionel," Daniel repeated, testing it. "Lionel the Cat. Yes. It has a better ring. Less… infringing."
The decision solidified around me, warm and secure. They weren't dismissing my work; they were fortifying its position. Then Daniel went further.
"We'll handle all correspondence through the publisher. You'll send your sketches and chapters by post. But legally…" He leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "We'll set up a structure. A small company to hold the rights. Something separate. When Damien is older, if he wants to pursue a venture, we'll do the same. For Daphne, too. It keeps things clean. Protects you, personally, from more than just journalists."
I understood. Taxes. Liability. He was building a financial moat around our future endeavours. The sheer, staggering support of it left me momentarily breathless. In my first life, I'd navigated a world of minimal safety nets. Here, they were building a fortress.
"Your birthday," Margaret said, pulling a calendar towards her. "August. It's a good goal. Ambitious, but possible. A launch to mark your sixth year."
A timeline. A real, professional deadline.
As the meeting broke up, Damien clapped me on the back with surprising force. "Lionel the Cat! Wait till my friends read it! I won't tell them it's you, promise!" He dashed off, already narrating the secret in his head.
Daphne toddled over and pressed her rabbit into my hands. "For Lionel," she whispered solemnly.
I sat there in the quiet study, the weight of the rabbit soft in my grasp. The System interface glowed passively in my periphery, its [Pathway Updated] notification a silent echo of the evening's decisions. But its cold logic was drowned out by the human warmth in the room.
This was the real gift of the second chance. Not the Library, not the Organiser. It was this—a father who thought in terms of structural protection, a mother who thought in terms of strategic defence, siblings who offered uncomplicated joy and stuffed rabbits.
My first life had been a solo grind. This life, I was embedded in a team. A family compact.
I looked at the discarded 'Mortimer' sketches. A minor setback, professionally navigated. Lionel the Cat would do just fine. The game wasn't just on; it had proper players, a solid strategy, and a home team cheering from the best seats in the house.
A quiet, fierce determination settled in my chest. I would make this work. Not just for me, but for the fortress they were building around us all.
The first book would be on shelves by my birthday. It was no longer just an exercise. It was a promise.