The morning sun beamed through the windows as Kota strutted into class with his signature grin and mismatched socks. He was humming the Attack on Titan opening theme under his breath while doing a slow-motion walk into the classroom like he was entering a wrestling ring.
But then... he saw him.
Yuma.
The Class President.
Wearing his perfectly ironed uniform, hair slicked back like a shampoo commercial model, standing with his arms crossed and nose up like a judge in a cooking show. The worst part? He kept glancing at Kota with that smug, disapproving, "you-disgrace-my-perfect-class" look.
Kota narrowed his eyes. "Oh. It's gonna be one of those days."
---
Strike One: Chalk Dust Chaos
Kota sat down quietly.
Too quietly.
He glanced over at his desk neighbor, Don, and whispered, "Watch this."
"What are you planning?" Don asked nervously.
Kota opened his bag and took out... a balloon.
He filled it with chalk dust he "borrowed" from the teacher's supply yesterday, then snuck up to the whiteboard while everyone was distracted. He carefully taped it right above Yuma's seat. The moment Yuma sat down—
POOF!
White dust exploded all over Yuma's face like he just lost a round in a cooking challenge.
"AGHHH—WHAT THE—!? WHO DID THIS?!" Yuma screamed, coughing and flailing like a possessed snowman.
Kota leaned back in his chair, innocently licking a lollipop. "Maybe the spirits of chalk past wanted to bless your cleanliness."
The class erupted in laughter.
"DISCIPLINARY OFFICE! NOW!" Yuma shouted at Kota.
"I didn't do anything! Maybe it was the wind. Or God," Kota said, holding his chest dramatically. "Do you not believe in divine chalk intervention?"
---
Strike Two: The Sticky Throne
Next day.
Yuma had clearly had enough.
"Kota, sweep the hallway. Now," Yuma ordered in front of everyone.
"Why me?" Kota asked.
"Because I said so."
"Oooh," Kota cooed. "We got ourselves a dictator."
So Kota swept. Quietly. Suspiciously. Then, before class resumed, he ran back in and placed glue on the class president's chair. Extra-strength wood glue. The kind that builds furniture for eternity.
As everyone sat down—
Yuma didn't get back up.
"What's happening?" he asked, wiggling furiously. "My pants are—why can't I move?!"
Kota stood up. "Oh no! He's ascended! The chair has accepted him as one of its own! We must never separate them now!"
Yuma's ears turned red as laughter echoed in the room. He growled like an anime villain about to activate his final form.
---
Strike Three: The Phantom Intercom
By the third day, it was war.
Kota snuck into the AV room before class and recorded a fake message in a robotic voice.
Halfway through the math lecture, the intercom buzzed.
"Class President Yuma, you have been selected as the winner of... 'The Annual Cranky Face Competition.' Please report to the principal's office for your prize: a frown emoji trophy."
The whole class stared. Yuma turned tomato red.
"That's not even a thing!"
Kota raised his hand, looking shocked. "President! You never told us about your hobbies!"
Yuma snapped. "KOTA!!! I SWEAR TO—!!"
He threw a piece of chalk like a boomerang.
BAM! It hit the whiteboard and exploded like a movie effect.
"Kota. Disciplinary office. NOW."
"But sir..." Kota said as he stood up, hand on heart, "...you're the one who's acting out. You assaulted a board. And the board has rights."
Even the teacher giggled.
---
Outside the Disciplinary Office...
"Why are you like this?" Yuma groaned.
"I ask myself that every morning," Kota replied with a smirk.
"You humiliated me three days in a row!"
"Only three?" Kota blinked. "I thought I was doing better."
"You're unbelievable."
"And you're unstoppably constipated-looking."
Yuma twitched.
Kota leaned in and whispered with a smirk, "You know, President... for someone who runs a class, you sure are easy to mess with."
Yuma stormed off, fuming.
Kota sighed dramatically, walking away like a cowboy in a Western.
Don, waiting outside, chuckled. "So... was it worth it?"
Kota smirked. "Oh yeah. Mission accomplished. Operation: Make Yuma Explode was a huge success."
---
Meanwhile... Somewhere Far Away...
A dim room.
A cracked phone screen flashes with notifications.
A call connects. Muffled static. Then a deep breath.
Man: "Thank God you picked up the phone."
Woman: "****... Is that you?"
Man: "...What is it?"
Woman (sharply): "What do you mean, what is it?! Where is my child?!"
Man: "Oh... So that's it."
Woman: "Yes, that's it! I've been searching for years! How could you just vanish?! Where is he?!"
Man (calmly): "...I gave him to someone."
Woman: "Are you—are you NUTS?! That's your OWN blood! How dare y—"
Click.
He hung up.
The man sat back on his couch in silence.
The room was filthy—empty ramen cups, open bags of chips, dozens of beer bottles littered across the floor. His shirt had stains. His belly pushed against it. His beard was unshaved for weeks.
He picked up his glass of half-warm beer, took a slow sip, then turned to his laptop.
He typed in a familiar search... and stared at the screen.
A photo popped up. A cheerful man with a kid, laughing under the sunlight.
He snorted.
"Pfft. How the hell are you happy?" he muttered. "You got my problem. I threw you my trash..."
He took another gulp of beer.
His eyes narrowed.
Then his voice shifted, shaking with bitterness.
"...And yet you look happier than me."
He hurled the glass.
CRASH!
Shards scattered across the floor.
Breathing heavy.
Shaking.
Then silence.
Just the faint hum
of his monitor, still showing the photo of Max and Kota.
Chapter End.