On the last night of winter break, Takuto Kimura found himself buried under a mountain of homework, his face a portrait of pure existential dread. The pile before him was a towering monolith of despair that made him feel as though he'd just discovered his life's work had been written in invisible ink—ineffectively, and with a lot of mistakes. His eyes were filled with more despair than when he had stumbled upon a bankruptcy report in his previous life—a moment that had left him so broken he considered investing in a magic bean stock instead of starting a new company. No, this... this was worse.
It wasn't just that his homework was overdue. It was that his homework was actively mocking him, taunting him like a disloyal pet that had been fed for years and now decided to bite back. How did things come to this? Takuto wondered as he surveyed the grim landscape before him. The year-end report had predicted "success," but this—this was failure.
Remaining tasks:
Three math notebooks (one of which had been chewed into a state that could only be described as "semi-digestible," thanks to his younger brother Kenta, who had clearly been under some severe nutritional stress that had turned notebooks into snacks).
The Essay "My Winter Break" — only had the title written (and an adorable stick figure of surrender next to it). It was as if even the pen had given up halfway through.
The Eco-friendly Robot Project — with just one leg remaining. The other leg was currently in Kenta's stomach, where it was probably busy negotiating for a better living situation.
The sound of laughter from the neighbor's kids drifted in through the window, their victorious voices echoing with mockery: "We finished ours already~" The smugness of their tone was so thick you could practically taste the condescension.
Takuto clenched his fists. The dark forest rule of the capital market, he thought. The weak can't even finish their homework. And right now, I am the weakest link. With a snap, he broke his fifth pencil in frustration. That's it. I'm at the mercy of Kenta's demands now. This is survival.
In a moment of desperation, Takuto pulled out his secret weapon: his precious teddy bear cookies. They had been carefully hoarded throughout the break, and now he was ready to make them work for him. He stacked them into a mountain, the small, sugary peaks resembling a tiny monument to capitalism. He placed them in front of Kenta, who had just finished his "I'm Not Going to Do My Homework" tantrum.
"Okay, Kenta," Takuto said with a devilish glint in his eyes. "Write one page of homework, and you get one cookie."
Kenta looked at the cookies, eyes wide with greed. "Deal!" he said, and set to work on his own brand of "homework," which would end up being a series of meaningless scribbles and doodles. But, as Takuto quickly discovered, the outcome was nothing like he had hoped.
Outcome check:
Chinese Homework (Spring Outing): Kenta's version had quickly turned into an impromptu "Meat Bun Consumption Report," which made absolutely no sense. Was this his interpretation of an outing? A review of local snacks? Takuto didn't know. He didn't care anymore.
Math Problem (8 + 5 = ?): Kenta had written "8 + 5 = 135." When Takuto asked him how he arrived at that conclusion, Kenta simply explained, "8 and 5 hugging each other turns into 135!" As logical as it was, Takuto felt a pang of disappointment. This was his younger brother's interpretation of basic arithmetic.
Calligraphy Book: Filled with drawings of dinosaurs battling each other with their tails. Takuto was confused, and the teacher would be too. The comment read: "These are pictographs." Yes, clearly, Kenta was redefining the term "pictographs" in the most primitive way possible.
Desperate, Takuto tried to salvage the situation by asking Kenta to rewrite everything. But his younger brother, who was always one step ahead in the art of manipulation, burst into tears and ran to their mom, crying, "Takuto made me his slave!"
Mom, who had somehow sensed that cookies were being involved, immediately confiscated the cookies. Takuto sighed. The cookies were gone. The hope was gone. His life savings—gone. His notebook was now drenched in tears and wrinkled from Kenta's tantrum. He could practically hear his mother muttering about the "capitalism seedling" that had taken root in her son's heart. This was not the kind of growth she had hoped for.
At 2:00 a.m., with the deadline looming like a predator, Takuto activated Plan B.
Equipment:
Phone (for taking photos)
Cousin's perfect homework (rescued from the trash in a brilliant move that would come to define his strategic genius)
Photoshop (Mom's Meitu app, which he knew could perform small miracles in a pinch)
Procedure:
Snap a photo of cousin's flawless homework.
Use the erase pen function to delete the name.
Re-type it with the name: "Takuto Kimura."
What could go wrong?
The Accident Site:
Takuto's hands shook as he worked, his stress levels rising with each click of the phone. He had one shot at this. The phone camera slipped slightly in his grip, and when he typed "Takuto," it came out as "Doghito" instead. He stared at the screen, horrified. No! No one would buy this!
In a panic, he forgot to change the date on the homework, so it showed the completion date as 1999. Why? Why was he suddenly stuck in the past? Couldn't be helped. I'm too tired.
But the true disaster happened when he tried to "beautify" the math problems using the Photoshop app. In his tired state, he accidentally turned all the numbers into—cat faces. Yes, you read that right. Cat faces. Math problems, with adorable, fuzzy cat faces on top of every number.
When the printer spat out the results, Takuto stared in disbelief at the image in front of him. It was a disaster, but it was his disaster. The paper showed him smiling with dog ears. "Takuto Doghito's Winter Break Homework~Woof!" was written underneath in glittery font.
There were just three hours left until the deadline. Desperation gnawed at him as he turned to his craft project, which was still completely unfinished.
Materials Left:
Two used diapers (with the clean side facing outward, thank goodness)
Four yogurt straws
One missing hairpin from Mom
Creative Inspiration:
"Postmodern deconstructionist work — The Oppressed Human Cub Under Homework Pressure"
Takuto's tired mind reeled with ideas. This could be my magnum opus! He arranged the diapers into a shape that could be described as "kneeling and begging for mercy." The straws were expertly bent into an SOS signal. The hairpin, an obvious masterpiece, was placed in the center as a medal that he christened the "Survival Desire Gold Medal."
When Kenta saw the finished project, he immediately said: "I want to eat this art piece!"
"That's your brother's homework," Mom said sternly. "Though, frankly, it does look like trash."
At the classroom door the next day, Takuto felt his heart sink as the teacher's frown deepened. She checked his homework with the seriousness of a war general inspecting an army of misfit soldiers.
"Takuto Kimura..." she began, before pausing to glance over his work. The notebook contained an elaborate merger and acquisition plan instead of math problems. Each page of math homework featured stock price charts, and his robot project emitted a faint, unsettling smell of urine.
The most fatal blow came when the principal, who had been reviewing the photoshop-fueled disaster, raised the paper in front of the class and asked: "This student, is your goal in life… to be a dog?"
The entire class burst into laughter, and only one person was outside the window taking a picture—his tutor, Matsumoto, with the caption: "The Fall of the Financial Toddler."
Takuto slumped in his seat, feeling like a dog with its tail between its legs. His homework had failed. His life had failed. But at least the art project had been "postmodern."