"No sleep tonight!"
After Tom's performance, Voss clutched the fifteen hundred dollars in his hand, practically buzzing with excitement.
"Tom, Jerry, you two go to bed. I'm staying up all night to finish my novel!" He waved the draft pages triumphantly. "Tomorrow, I'll take this to a publisher and try my luck!"
Tom had just slipped out of his tuxedo and gave Voss a worried look. This guy had been acting strangely since the afternoon—and now he planned to pull an all-nighter? Could his body even handle it?
"Relax, I'm still young!" Voss thumped his chest.
"Back when I was grinding web novels, I once stayed awake for a whole week straight!"
Tom narrowed his eyes: Yeah, sure you did…
Jerry scampered onto the desk, pointed at the dark circles under Voss's eyes, then mimed sleeping.
"I know, I know. But this is a once-in-a-lifetime chance!" Voss sat down and uncapped his pen.
"Reborn in World War II: I Became Captain America's Comrade—the title alone will turn heads!"
Tom and Jerry exchanged looks of helplessness. When Voss locked into work mode, nothing could stop him.
"You two get some rest. I'll be fine." He was already scribbling furiously across the page.
Tom sighed, padded over, and gave his shoulder a supportive pat. Jerry perched on Voss's other shoulder and gently brushed his cheek with a tiny paw.
"Thanks, you guys," Voss said softly. Warmth welled up in his chest.
"When this novel gets published, we'll move somewhere better."
Only then did Tom and Jerry retreat to their nests. Neither went straight to sleep; they kept poking their heads out now and then to check on him.
Voss took a deep breath and began writing in earnest:
"My name is John Smith, an ordinary military enthusiast. If someone told me I'd end up in 1942 America, become a mutant, and fight alongside Captain America, I'd have called them insane.
But now, staring at the young face in the mirror and feeling strange power coursing through me, I have no choice but to accept this absurd reality…"
The pen flew across the paper. Voss was fully immersed in his creation. The protagonist, John Smith, survives a car accident only to awaken in 1942 with a younger body and superhuman regeneration.
"This works," Voss nodded. "The mutant angle explains his powers without going overboard."
Time slipped by unnoticed as his writing grew faster and faster. He sketched scenes of John adjusting to 1940s America, predicting Pearl Harbor, and—by chance—meeting a scrawny Steve Rogers.
"Steve was still that skinny kid, but his eyes held unshakable conviction. I knew then he was destined to become a legend…"
By 2 a.m., Tom crept out of bed to find Voss still writing furiously. A thick stack of manuscript pages already covered the desk. Tom padded into the kitchen, brewed a cup of coffee, and set it gently beside him.
"Thanks, Tom," Voss murmured without looking up, draining the cup in one gulp.
At 4 a.m., Jerry stirred awake. He found Voss hunched over the desk, muttering to himself as he scribbled.
"The protagonist and Steve are tested for the super-soldier program. John isn't chosen for the serum but makes it into the special forces thanks to his mutant ability…"
Jerry didn't fully understand, but he curled up nearby, quietly keeping him company.
When dawn broke, Voss finally dropped his pen. His wrist ached, but his face glowed with satisfaction.
"Fifty thousand words!" he counted the pages with trembling hands. "From transmigration, to meeting Steve, to their first mission—the pacing is perfect!"
Tom and Jerry sat at the table, watching.
"Look at this, my masterpiece!" Voss held up the hefty stack.
"Reborn in World War II: I Became Captain America's Comrade—Volume One!"
Tom clapped his paws together in applause. Jerry gave a tiny thumbs-up.
"It's seven already. I'll wash up, then head straight to a publisher!" Voss stood, only to stumble from dizziness.
Tom caught his arm immediately, concern etched across his face.
"It's fine, just tired," Voss assured him, waving it off. "A quick wash and I'll be good."
In the bathroom, he stared at his bloodshot eyes and deep shadows in the mirror and chuckled bitterly.
"Guess I'm not as invincible as I thought."
After splashing his face with cold water, he felt a bit more awake. He carefully tucked the manuscript into a folder and turned back to his companions.
"You two stay home and rest. I'm going to hit the publishing houses. With any luck, I'll come back with an advance."
Tom and Jerry still looked uneasy, but they could see his determination.
"Don't worry. There are plenty of publishers in New York—someone will recognize this story!" Voss patted his chest. "Wait here for good news!"
With that, he grabbed the folder and headed out.
Tom and Jerry climbed onto the windowsill, watching his figure disappear down the street, weighed down by fatigue but lifted by determination.
"I hope he pulls it off," Tom thought.
"He really is working hard for us," Jerry prayed silently.
Voss strode through the morning streets of Manhattan, clutching his manuscript like treasure. His body screamed for rest, but his heart burned with determination.
"First stop—Random House!" He checked the notebook where he had listed the addresses of New York's major publishers.
"If the big houses won't take it, I'll try the small ones. Someone will see its value."
The golden morning sun poured across the skyline as he reached the towering glass building of Random House. Editors and writers in sharp suits streamed through the revolving doors.
"Holy hell, this place is huge," Voss muttered, craning his neck. "The biggest publishing house in America, alright."
He straightened his jacket and walked confidently toward the entrance—then froze.
His manuscript was still handwritten.
"Damn it!" He slapped his forehead. "What editor's going to read this? I need it typed and printed first."
After searching the block, he found a small print shop called Print King.
"Need something typed?" asked the bespectacled shop owner, a man in his forties.
"Yeah. A manuscript."
"How long?"
"About two hundred pages."
The man whistled. "Handwritten data entry's five dollars a page. And at least three days."
"Three days?!" Voss gaped. "I don't have that kind of time. Is there any faster way?"
"You can type it yourself. Ten bucks an hour for computer rental."
Voss did the math. Even typing fast, two hundred pages would take at least ten hours—still a hundred bucks. About the same as paying someone.
"Forget it. Just give me a sample set. Ten chapters. Twenty pages."
"Twenty pages, one hundred dollars. Ready in an hour."
"Deal!"
An hour later, Voss walked out of the shop clutching ten freshly printed chapters, nerves and excitement swirling in his chest, as he headed back toward Random House.