The prodigy of the fourth generation, Ayanokouji Kiyotaka, has successfully eluded the confines of the White Room. His next move? Not the clichéd takeover of Japan. Instead, he will master the art of sewing, rising to unparalleled heights in this cr...
The alarm clock's relentless assault on my eardrums is about as subtle as a brick to the face.
Sunbeams, like mischievous ninjas, sneak through the curtain gaps and poke me in the eyeballs, rousing me from my slumber with the enthusiasm of a tax audit.
For a nanosecond, I contemplate the existential merits of burrowing deeper under the covers and becoming one with the bed. But school, that ever-present inferno, takes me back to reality.
I trudge towards the bathroom, my feet protesting each step, screaming for me to turn back, and jump back in bed. But sadly, i kept moving.
Staring back at me in the mirror is Ayanokouji Kiyotaka. My hair, the color of lukewarm coffee gone cold, is a tangled mess.
My eyes, like molten gold coins in a dim tavern, stare back with a kind of bored apathy that would make anyone die of boredom.
Just your average 16-year-old, the kind you'd stumble over in a crowded mall and not even notice.
Shower time.
I step into the steaming water, letting it wash away the remnants of sleep. Bracing myself for the impossible task of making friends in school, I emerge, a warrior ready to face the day.
A quick towel-dry and a casual finger-comb later, my hair is transformed into two curtains framing my eyes, and I'm finally done.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Quite the morning routine, I know.
The hygiene part is nothing extraordinary, but then comes the truly unique feature of my current residence: Hina dolls.
Everywhere you look, they're perched like porcelain sentinels – on shelves, on altars, even tucked away in boxes brimming with crafting materials.
Their intricate kimonos shimmer in the morning light, their faces painted with expressions of serene elegance. Under the patient tutelage of Gojo-san, my adoptive father and master dollmaker, I've even attempted to craft my own.
Keyword: tried.
They're, well, average.
Just then, Gojo-san emerges from his room, stretching his arms like a sun-kissed cat.
He's oblivious to my presence at first, his face bathed in the warm glow of the morning sun.
"Good morning, Gojo-san," I greet with a slight nod.
"Oh, good morning, Kiyotaka," he beams, his smile as warm as the rising sun.
"Come, let's whip up some breakfast!"
i nod and follow him into the kitchen, where two perfectly steamed rice bowls await on the table. Soup duty, it seems, falls to me.
So I gather my ingredients – miso, tofu, maybe some wakame seaweed for that extra umami punch – and get to work.
