When Genya Ayumu heard Miyamoto Masami would bring him a souvenir from China, a flicker of excitement stirred—but he quickly sobered. Accepting a gift before achieving anything? Far too presumptuous.

“Let’s talk about the souvenir later. There’s still a whole month.”

Ayumu didn’t outright refuse—it *was* a lie to say he didn’t want it. Just bad timing. If Masami still remembered after thirty days, he could reluctantly accept.

Masami offered no further comment on his excuse, exactly as he’d expected. They’d only met today; excessive politeness would feel hollow.

After bidding Masami farewell, Ayumu headed to the mall where his mother, Genya Eina, worked. If she was still there, they’d walk home together. If not, he’d grab groceries for a special dinner.

Luck was on his side. Delayed by an unexpected customer, Eina was perfectly “caught” by Ayumu.

“Mom, still not off work?”

He slipped out only after the customer left.

“Xiao Bu? Why are you here?”

Seeing Eina’s wide-eyed surprise, Ayumu felt a mischievous thrill—the joy of a prank perfectly pulled off.

“I came specially to walk home with you!”

Once mischief took root, it bloomed wildly. Dignity as a “transmigrator”? Decades of life experience? Forgotten. All he wanted was to tease this lovely, admirable mother.

True to form, Eina’s shock melted into touched emotion—then tears welled in her eyes. Ayumu froze. *Joke gone too far.*

“Mom, I was kidding! I just finished my part-time shift and came to buy groceries.”

He meant to comfort her—but it backfired. Eina’s eyes grew damper. Confused, Ayumu waited until she whispered:

“It’s my fault… for being so useless… making Xiao Bu take a part-time job.”

*Ah.* So much of Ayumu’s past delinquency stemmed from Eina’s indulgence. He’d transformed from a money-extorting delinquent into a self-sufficient model youth. As both mother and former victim, shouldn’t she feel relief? Yet her first instinct was self-blame.

Ayumu felt a trace of frustration—but far more, admiration and sympathy. Mentally, he was her peer. Could *he* forgive a child who stole from him with violence? He’d likely cut ties. Yet Eina held no grudge—only guilt over his part-time work.

He admired her strength, yet couldn’t fully grasp it. He ached for her: a mother who gave everything, never understood by the son she raised.

“Mom, *I* wanted this job—to buy a computer. You’ve done more than enough. Let me handle small things myself.”

This time, his words stilled her tears. Eina wiped her eyes, then stared intently at him—as if memorizing every line of his face, every syllable.

“Xiao Bu… you’ve changed since discharge. So much it feels unreal. Sometimes I wonder… are you still Xiao Bu? Or… a complete stranger?”

Her murmured doubt clenched Ayumu’s heart. His mind raced: confess the truth? Seek forgiveness? Leave alone? Their time was short, yet he’d poured real emotion into this bond. The thought of losing her tasted bitter.

“Maybe… I’ve just grown up,” he offered softly.

As if hearing his unspoken plea, Eina nodded to herself—attributing it all to “growth.” Relief washed over Ayumu. No need for confessions.

“After my injury… when I nearly died… I thought mostly of you, Mom. I finally saw my mistakes. I vowed: if I left the hospital, I’d repay you.”

He seized the opening, weaving sincerity into every word. And from her softened gaze—he thought she believed him.

“Enough talk! To celebrate my new job—dinner feast tonight!”

Spotting her lingering doubt, Ayumu switched tactics bluntly: “Mom! I earned 3000 yen today. Hot pot to celebrate?”

“Xiao Bu—you made 3000 yen? How many hours? What job?”

Perfect distraction. (He’d deliberately underreported by 1000 yen. 3000 yen for two hours? High—but plausible.)

“A Chinese restaurant. 6 to 8 PM daily. The Chinese boss is kind—he pays 3000 yen for two hours.”

He couldn’t admit *Chinese tutor*—that’d be suicide. Claiming interest in Chinese cuisine? Normal. Claiming self-taught fluency to *teach*? A lie even strangers would spot. But this excuse? Solid. He’d recently shown Eina his cooking curiosity, and the hours fit a restaurant’s rush.

“Xiao Bu’s hourly wage beats mine! We *must* celebrate!”

Eina’s genuine joy warmed him. Sharing good news with someone who cares… In his past life, Zhang Chufan’s mother died young. Promotions, all-nighters, triumphs, exhaustion—all swallowed alone. *Maybe Zhang Chufan didn’t die from overwork,* Ayumu mused. *Maybe from loneliness.*

“Does Xiao Bu want hot pot? Then *I’ll* cook! Tonight—you’ll taste the Genya family’s secret sukiyaki!”

“Mm! Thank you, Mom!”