Morning.
The vile, grotesque affliction of waking before noon should be outlawed by every civilized government on Earth. But apparently, in this cruel joke of a world, I had responsibilities. Specifically, kindergarten.
Disgusting.
The bathwater was boiling. Just the way I liked it. Steam curled off my skin, trailing into the air like the ghosts of better dreams. I leaned back in the tub, eyes half-lidded, musing over the endless possibilities of escape. Faking a coma? Feasible. Replacing myself with a string construct? Tempting, though Mother would see through it in seconds. Poisoning the school's snack supply?
Hm. Effective, but Mother's tears were an intolerable inconvenience. She wielded guilt like a professional torturer—elegant, precise, emotionally devastating.
I sighed.
Submission it is.
Wrapped in a towel, I stared at the tiny navy uniform hanging on the door. The Donquixote crest gleamed in silver thread—a symbol of domination, legacy, empire. And here it was. Reduced to a kindergarten dress code.
I got dressed with the enthusiasm of a man dressing for his own execution.
Downstairs, the mansion's dining hall buzzed with subdued activity. Staff bustled in coordinated silence while classical music played faintly in the background. The aroma of freshly baked pastries and imported Arabica beans filled the room. Father sat at the head, eyes flicking over financial reports like a falcon surveying prey. Mother, radiant and chipper, sipped her tea and beamed the moment I slouched into my seat.
"Good morning, sunshine!" she chirped.
I speared a strawberry with surgical precision. "Define 'good.'"
Father didn't even look up. "He's your child, Seraphina."
Mother waved a hand as if dismissing a bad odor. "And yet he's inherited your taste in sarcasm."
"I'd argue that sarcasm is far more refined in my case," I said between bites, "but we'll chalk your comment up to maternal delusion."
Mother chuckled. Father's brow twitched.
"Did you sleep well?" she asked, still smiling.
"I slept adequately. Which is more than I can say for my future prospects after another day of alphabet recitation and watching small humans eat glue."
Father finally looked up, scrutinizing me like I was a stock report underperforming in Q4. "Most four-year-olds don't use the word 'prospects.' Or speak like disillusioned politicians."
"Most four-year-olds," I said dryly, "are intellectually bankrupt."
Mother sighed like she'd heard this all before. "Doffy, be nice. Try to make a friend today."
I arched a brow. "I don't make friends. I acquire assets."
Father choked on his coffee. Mother blinked.
The car ride was mercifully short. Our driver, a man who spoke less than some corpses I've met, steered with mechanical efficiency. Mother sat beside me, humming a tune that grated on my soul.
"They're introducing basic quirk theory today," she said with almost childlike excitement. "Isn't that exciting?"
I didn't look at her. "Thrilling. Absolutely life-changing."
The school loomed ahead like some twisted dollhouse of academia. Gilded gates. Manicured lawns. Children shrieking like banshees possessed by sugar demons. If this was the future of society, then I mourned for civilization.
Mother kissed my cheek as I stepped out. "Be nice," she repeated.
I wiped it off. "No promises."
The classroom was, as always, a living, breathing catastrophe.
One girl was wailing over a broken crayon like it was a national tragedy. Another boy was vigorously applying glue to his tongue—presumably in pursuit of immortality. And some unfortunate soul with a quirk that made his fingers glow was repeatedly blinding himself and giggling like a maniac.
Hell has a waiting room. It's here.
I dropped into my seat like a prisoner returned to solitary, folded my arms, and lowered my head to the desk. Sleep was the only escape from this brightly-colored purgatory.
Then—poke.
I ignored it.
Another poke. Harder this time.
I lifted my head and fixed the intruder with a slow, withering glare.
Yaoyorozu Momo.
Hair neatly tied back. Uniform perfect. Eyes clear, bright, and full of the kind of optimism that made my teeth itch.
"We haven't introduced ourselves properly yet," she said with the determined sweetness of someone who's never tasted disappointment.
I blinked slowly. "Was my name unclear the first time?"
She crossed her arms. "I'm Yaoyorozu Momo, heir to the Yaoyorozu family. I'm going to be a hero."
Oh, lovely. One of those.
I sat up straighter and gave her a slow, serpentine smile. "Donquixote Doflamingo. Heir to everything. I'm going to rule the world."
Her nose wrinkled. "That's not funny."
I tilted my head. "Who said I was joking?"
Her eyes narrowed. "You're not serious."
I chuckled. "On the contrary. I'm very serious. I've already picked out the curtains for the presidential palace."
Before she could respond with whatever morality lecture she had loaded in her little brain, the teacher clapped her hands.
"Class! Today we'll be learning about quirks and how they shape society!"
The room collectively gasped in awe. Momo sat up straight, practically vibrating with excitement. I considered whether I could tie a noose out of yarn.
The teacher launched into a long-winded monologue about heroism, responsibility, and some nonsense about 'contributing to society.' I tuned her out and instead focused inward, feeling the threads beneath my skin—fine as silk, strong as steel. I let a few drift around my fingers, dancing between knuckles like coiled serpents.
"Donquixote-kun!"
My head snapped up.
The class was staring. The teacher beamed. "Would you like to tell everyone about your quirk?"
I could have lied. Could've feigned something simple. A tug here, a pull there.
But where's the fun in that?
I rose slowly, extending a hand. Threads shot from my fingers—glinting, invisible, mesmerizing. They wove themselves into a shifting, spiraling lattice above the class, catching the light like spiderwebs dipped in diamonds.
Gasps echoed across the room.
"I control strings," I said, tone casual. "And people."
The silence was beautiful. The teacher's face went pale. Momo stared at me like I'd kicked a puppy.
I let the strings dissipate and returned to my seat with a satisfied sigh.
"You're not supposed to present it like that," Momo hissed.
"I don't present," I murmured. "I perform."
She frowned. "You're trying to scare them."
I met her eyes. "Is it working?"
She opened her mouth—then stopped. Then, surprisingly, she smiled. "You're interesting, Donquixote."
I raised a brow. "Flattery? How unexpected."
"Not flattery," she said, voice even. "Just an observation."
Hm.
Perhaps kindergarten wouldn't be a total waste of time.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of juvenile chaos. I participated just enough to avoid attention and spent the rest testing my strings—range, tension, elasticity. I used one to trip the glue-eater during free play. Momo noticed.
She didn't tell.
Interesting.
As we packed up, she walked beside me. "Do you really want to rule the world?"
I slung my tiny backpack over one shoulder. "Does it matter?"
She tilted her head. "It does if you mean it."
I leaned close, voice low and smooth. "Oh, I mean it."
She didn't flinch. Didn't look away. "Then I'll stop you."
I paused. Smiled. "Try."
Her breath caught—just a flicker—but it was there.
I turned away, walking toward the exit as threads rippled lazily at my fingertips.
Let the games begin.