The afternoon’s two classes flew by, marking the end of Genya Ayumu’s first day at a Japanese high school—after his “complete makeover.” Honestly, a six-period schedule was child’s play for someone who’d survived China’s grueling exam-focused education.

Genya figured science subjects would be fine—they were universal, and he had solid fundamentals. Just following the teacher’s steps would jog his memory. Japanese? Having internalized both Chinese and Japanese, he recognized more kanji than most classmates. Foreign languages? Japan’s college entrance exams let students pick from English, Chinese, French, German, or Korean. Zero stress. If he couldn’t nearly ace the Chinese exam, he’d feel unworthy calling himself Chinese. History, geography, social studies—those were his weak spots. The original Genya’s memories offered little help. In the end, he’d have to rely on himself.

As Genya packed up a few history books, Mizuno Hina rushed toward his seat, bento box in hand, as if terrified he’d vanish. He couldn’t fathom how she weaved through the crowd so swiftly—her bangs completely covered her eyes.

“Thank you, Genya-kun! The bento was delicious!” Hina panted, arriving breathless. Predictable praise. Genya knew Japanese culture well: to spare others’ feelings, white lies were common courtesy.

Hina offered the box with both hands; Genya accepted the same way. The gesture felt ceremonial—as if passing a sacred token, not just an empty container.

“Really that good?”

Genya was only half-convinced. The rice and fillings were stone-cold—nowhere near hot-food delicious. Though neatly arranged with variety, everything sat untouched, barely sparking appetite.

To prove her point, Hina pushed her bangs aside, locking eyes with him. “Yes! Seriously, seriously delicious!”

Unlike Genya—a cultural half-stranger—Hina was authentically Japanese, utterly accustomed to cold meals. Though politeness often masked true feelings, her earnest expression convinced him: his mother’s bento *was* tasty. His body, raised in Japan for seventeen years, should handle it fine. His subconscious resistance? Pure cultural baggage.

“Wait… did *you* make this bento, Genya-kun?”

Genya blinked. “Why would you think that?”

“Because… you seemed curious about the taste. Like you’d never tried it. So… probably not your mom’s?” she ventured.

Genya hadn’t expected his casual question to spiral. “By that logic,” he countered lightly, “I could’ve just bought it.”

Hina flinched. “B-But… store bento are expensive.”

True—mostly for busy salarymen. Rare for students. Her reply quietly confirmed Genya’s guess: her family struggled financially. Hence the bread lunches.

“Yeah. I made it.”

Not to steal his mother’s credit or win favor—but to set the stage. “I’ve been practicing cooking lately. Hearing you say it tasted good… honestly relieved me.”

“Really?”

Hina was stunned. A delinquent obsessed with cooking? Total mismatch. *Maybe the saying’s true: “A high school delinquent who doesn’t dream of being a chef isn’t a real delinquent.”*

“How’s your cooking, Mizuno-san?”

“I used to make my own bento… but recently, it’s been hard. So I’ve been eating bread.”

*Exactly what he’d hoped for.*

“Lately I’ve wanted to try Chinese cuisine—but needed a taste-tester. Since you can’t make bento these days… how about I bring you lunch for a few days? Solves your problem, gives me feedback. What do you think, Mizuno-san?”

*"Did I hear right? Genya-kun—a guy—is offering to bring me bento? Does he… like me? Was his confession not a joke but planned? No! Impossible. Someone like me… who’d ever like me? Not at home. Not at school. Never."*

No wonder Hina overthought it. Despite Japan’s modern economy, gender roles lingered. Homemakers still dominated married women’s statistics. To most, bento was a woman’s duty for a man. A guy volunteering? Unheard of.

Genya, raised with China’s egalitarian values, never blinked at gender norms. He simply saw a new friend in need—and wanted to help without bruising her pride. Hina’s quiet suffering, the bullying he likely enabled… this was quiet amends. And peace for himself.

“In that case… thank you, Genya-kun,” Hina murmured after a pause. The lure of “Chinese cuisine” had won.

“No trouble at all. I’ll need your honest feedback!”

With the bento plan settled, Genya double-checked his bag. As a delinquent, he proudly belonged to the Going-Home Club—and today, it felt like a blessing.

“Then… I’ll head out, Mizuno-san?”

“Mm.” Still flustered, she gave a faint nod.

Just as Genya stood to leave—another girl blocked his path.