Tactical Embarrassment

Let me be clear: routine is just another word for voluntary imprisonment. The difference is that I built this cell myself, measured the dimensions precisely, and willingly lock myself in every day. There's a certain comfort in confinement when you're the one holding the keys.

My alarm hadn't gone off yet, but I was already awake. 5:27 AM. Three minutes before the official start of my day. I stared at the ceiling, mentally rehearsing the script I'd written for myself years ago. If this were a movie, they'd use a montage here. Quick cuts of the same actions repeated day after day until they blur into one endless loop. But this isn't a movie, and there's no director yelling "cut" when the monotony becomes too obvious.

When the alarm finally blared at 5:30, I silenced it immediately. Wasted time is just another form of chaos I refuse to tolerate.

"Time to start another thrilling episode of 'Andie Ryuu: Teenage Recluse,'" I muttered to the empty room. "Today's episode: The Same Thing As Yesterday."

I rolled out of bed and changed into workout clothes in the dark. No need for light when you've followed the same routine for seven years. My bedroom was a strange contradiction: functional furniture, meticulously organised desk, and the locked cabinet near my table that housed my prized figurine collection. A single framed photograph stood on my nightstand, the only thing I couldn't bring myself to put away or lock up. Eighteen years old and living like a minimalist monk with a secret hobby. Perfectly normal.

Opening the door to what was once our house's guest bedroom, I flipped on the lights. The home gym I'd built over the years greeted me like an old friend who never asks inconvenient questions. Weight plates stacked by size. Dumbbells arranged in ascending order. A power rack against the far wall. A bench. A pull-up bar. Nothing fancy, nothing wasted. Just tools for a specific purpose: keeping my body occupied while my mind tries to outrun thoughts it can't escape.

I started with mobility work. Joint rotations, dynamic stretches. Then a proper warm-up. No shortcuts.

"Form first, then weight. Never the other way around," I muttered, repeating the lesson that had been drilled into me.

The barbell felt cold against my palms as I loaded plates for my first exercise. Squats. Five sets of five. Exactly as planned. I counted each repetition silently, focusing on the tension in my quads, the positioning of my feet. Breathing controlled. Three seconds down, one second pause, two seconds up.

By the third set, sweat beaded on my forehead, but my breathing remained measured. Physical discipline is the foundation of mental discipline. Another memorised lesson that somehow still made sense.

"Great wisdom there," I said to the empty room. "Though some advice about navigating high school social politics might have been more immediately useful."

My eyes drifted to the framed quote on the wall, the only decoration in this room:

"The more we sweat in peace, the less we bleed in war."

The words had been repeated so often they'd become etched into my memory long before I framed them. I'd been eight when he first took me into our small garden, kneeling down to my height to demonstrate a proper push-up.

"Watch carefully, Andie." His form was perfect. Back straight, core tight, elbows tucked. "It's not about how many you can do. It's about doing each one right."

I remember trying to mimic him, my skinny arms trembling after just three repetitions.

"That's enough for today." He helped me up, his hands steady on my shoulders. "We build the foundation first. Strength comes later."

"When will I be strong like you?" I'd asked.

He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Patience, son. We're building something that lasts."

From the engawa, my mother watched us, arms crossed but smiling. "You two are like peas in a pod," she said, shaking her head fondly. The scent of her jasmine perfume mingled with cedar aftershave as she joined us in the garden.

These sessions became our ritual. Push-ups, sit-ups, and squats every other day. Always with the same careful guidance, the same emphasis on form over quantity.

"When you're older," he promised once, "I'll teach you real strength training. After your eleventh birthday, we'll start with the basics."

But two weeks before I turned eleven, they drove to Narita Airport to pick up my grandmother and aunt, my mother's sister, visiting from Singapore. My grandfather had passed away years before. They never made it. A truck driver fell asleep at the wheel. The police said it was instant. No suffering.

That was the official report, anyway. As if "instant" somehow makes it better. Spoiler alert: it doesn't.

I racked the barbell after my final set of squats, the metal clanging against the supports. Bench press next. Same protocol. Five sets of five.

Seven years of building this gym, piece by piece. I started with a single set of adjustable dumbbells bought with my inheritance money, adding equipment gradually. Pull-up bar at twelve. Bench at thirteen. Power rack at fifteen. Each addition measured, researched, justified.

If there's a metaphor in building a private gym while systematically avoiding meaningful human connection, I don't want to hear it. My therapist tried that angle once. I didn't go back.

By the time I finished my routine, the sun was rising. Sixty minutes exactly. Not one minute more or less. Discipline in all things, even when no one's watching. Especially when no one's watching.

I wiped down the equipment and headed to the shower. Hot water for exactly five minutes, then cold for one. Another habit I'd developed over the years. The contrast centred me, focused my thoughts. Also, according to internet fitness gurus, it supposedly enhances recovery and mental toughness. The internet has never lied about anything, so it must be true.

Wrapped in a towel, I stood in the kitchen, preparing breakfast with the same precision I applied to everything else. Three eggs, scrambled. A precise portion of rice. Steamed vegetables. Protein, carbohydrates, fibre. Nothing excessive, nothing lacking. The meal of someone who views food as fuel rather than pleasure. Hashtag fitness goals. Hashtag sad reality.

I ate methodically, washing each dish as soon as I finished using it. The house was silent except for the occasional drip from the faucet I needed to fix eventually. Living alone meant everything stayed exactly where I put it. Everything remained predictable, controlled.

The perfect environment for a control freak with abandonment issues. Not that I'd ever admit that to anyone. Self-awareness doesn't require confession.

After breakfast, I walked through the house, straightening items that were already straight, checking locks that were already secured. A routine inspection that served no practical purpose but calmed my mind nonetheless. If you're looking for metaphors, there's another one. Feel free to psychoanalyse at your leisure.

I paused at the study door. The only room I kept exactly as it was. A time capsule from seven years ago.

My hand hesitated on the doorknob before turning it slowly.

Everything remained as they'd left it. Engineering textbooks lined up by subject on the left bookshelf. Translation reference materials organised alphabetically on the right. Their desks faced each other from opposite walls. His meticulously organised, hers creatively cluttered.

I didn't enter, just stood at the threshold. The room smelled faintly of wood polish. I cleaned it weekly but never rearranged anything. On his desk sat the last family photograph we took, just weeks before the accident. Me at ten, standing between them at some park, missing my front tooth and smiling without reservation.

I didn't remember what it felt like to smile like that anymore. That kid died with his parents, leaving behind this hollow echo that goes through the motions.

"I'm starting at Paradise Heights tomorrow," I said to the empty room. "New school. Same people, mostly. I'm sure it will be exactly as thrilling as it sounds."

The photograph didn't answer. It never did. If I were writing this as fiction, I'd insert a moment where I think I hear a voice or feel a presence. But this isn't fiction, and the dead stay silent, no matter how much the living wish otherwise.

I closed the door carefully and returned to my room. It was time for my other ritual. The one even Kazuki and the gaming crew don't know about. If they did, I'd never hear the end of it.

The closet in my bedroom appeared ordinary from the outside. Inside, it held clothes on one side and a locked cabinet on the other. The key stayed on my person at all times, tucked into a small pocket sewn into all my pants. Yes, all of them. When you're hiding something, consistency is key.

I unlocked the cabinet and carefully pulled out the first shelf.

They stood in perfect formation, each on its own small base, each positioned at precisely the same angle. My collection of figurines. Not the mass-produced kind found in toy shops, but limited edition, artist-detailed collectibles featuring intricate lacework that few would appreciate. If the jocks knew about this, I'd never live it down. If the Populares found out, they'd have material for years of subtle mockery.

I took out my Battle Valkyrie figurine and held it under my desk lamp. The delicate latticework on her armour caught the light, revealing patterns within patterns. Impossibly fine details that required a steady hand and uncanny patience to create.

My callused fingers, rough from years of lifting weights, traced the air just above the surface, never touching, just appreciating. The irony isn't lost on me. The strength I've built used only for the gentlest of purposes. It's like buying a tank to transport delicate crystal. Overkill, but oddly fitting.

I retrieved a magnifying glass from the drawer and examined the weave pattern on the figure's cape, marvelling at how human hands could create something so precise yet so organic.

There's order in these patterns. Logic in the chaos. Each thread follows rules, creates boundaries, establishes structure. The complexity only exists because of the underlying simplicity. Like mathematics made physical.

I carefully returned the Valkyrie and extracted my current favourite. The standard edition Battle Sorceress. Her armour featured a honeycomb pattern interwoven with cherry blossoms, an impossible combination of geometric precision and natural fluidity. The special edition version, the one I'd pre-ordered months ago, was rumoured to have even more detailed lacework, with patterns extending to parts normally hidden beneath the armour.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

My phone chimed with a notification, breaking my contemplation. A delivery alert. A package waiting at the local post office. I knew immediately what it was.

I carefully returned the figurines to their positions, locked the cabinet, and changed into street clothes. I'd been waiting for this package for weeks. The excitement I felt was embarrassing, really. Most eighteen-year-olds get excited about parties or dates. I get excited about miniature lacework on collector's items. But hey, at least my hobby isn't likely to result in pregnancy or alcohol poisoning.

The post office was a fifteen-minute walk from my house. I liked walking. It gave my mind time to settle, to process. Paradise Heights Junior College started tomorrow, and I'd be seeing everyone again after the break. Same classmates I'd known for years, same social dynamics, same careful distance I maintained from almost everyone.

The package was exactly the size I expected. I signed for it and tucked it carefully under my arm for the walk home.

Back in my room, I used a precision knife to carefully cut the tape, making sure not to damage the box. Inside, nested in protective foam, was my newest acquisition. The Midnight Archer figurine from the same series as the Battle Sorceress. Not as intricate as some of my collection, but featuring a unique lacework pattern on the archer's cloak that complemented my existing pieces.

I inspected it carefully for damage, then placed it on my desk. From a drawer, I extracted a leather-bound notebook and opened it to the next blank page. Using a fine-tipped pen, I sketched the lacework pattern, noting the interlocking elements and recurring motifs. Each figurine's entry included technical details. Scale, manufacturer, artist, materials, and my observations on the craftsmanship.

Nobody knew about this collection. Not Kazuki or the other gaming friends. Certainly not anyone at school. It was private, something just for me. Something I didn't have to explain or justify. Something I didn't have to see reflected in someone else's eyes as weird or embarrassing.

It's easier this way. No questions, no judgments, no need to defend what matters to me. Just another wall in the fortress I've been building since I was eleven.

After carefully installing the Midnight Archer in the cabinet, I turned my attention to tomorrow's preparations. My uniform hung pressed and ready on the back of my door. I'd ironed it yesterday with military precision. Sharp creases, perfect alignment. If I'm going to play the part of the disaffected loner, I might as well do it in a well-pressed uniform. Contradictions are what make us human, after all.

I checked my backpack, confirming I had the necessary supplies. Notebooks, pens, calculator, schedule. Everything in its place. If my academic life were as methodically organised as my backpack, I'd be impossible to beat. Though I don't really try, which infuriates Daiki and his studious cronies when I occasionally outscore them anyway. Being naturally good at something with minimal effort is apparently more offensive than being good through hard work. Go figure.

Opening my laptop, I checked for any last-minute announcements about Paradise Heights. The school's website offered nothing new, just the same promotional material about "educational innovation" and "pioneering futures." I'd find out tomorrow which class I was in, who my teacher would be, and whether I'd managed to avoid certain social entanglements. Unlikely, given my luck, but hope springs eternal.

I glanced out the window toward the house across the street. The Kimochi residence looked the same as always. Neat garden, blue door, curtains drawn. For a moment, I allowed myself to remember how things used to be.

The Kimochis had been part of my life for as long as I could remember. Miyuki and I were in the same kindergarten class, with Mochi joining us the following year. Their house was right across from ours, close enough that our parents could watch us play in either garden.

Miyuki was always the serious one, even at five years old. She'd organise our games with a somber efficiency that made other kids follow her lead naturally. Mochi was her opposite, bubbling with chaotic energy and a laugh that was impossible not to join.

"We're the Three Musketeers," Miyuki had declared one day after our teacher read us a simplified version of the story. "All for one and one for all."

"But there were four musketeers," I'd pointed out, because even then I was that kid.

"Then we'll find a fourth when we need one," she'd replied with the absolute confidence of a six-year-old who believed she could rearrange reality through sheer force of will.

When my parents worked late, which was often, Naomi-san would invite me for dinner. "No sense in you eating alone," she'd say, setting an extra place at their table as if I'd always belonged there.

Then came the accident.

I remember very little from those first days after. Just fragments. The police at our door. The social worker explaining things I couldn't comprehend. My grandmother and aunt, who had been on their way to visit us when the accident happened, their faces streaked with tears as they learned their daughter and son-in-law would never arrive at the airport to greet them. They'd been close with my mother before they moved back to Singapore after my grandfather passed away. Now they were planning a funeral instead of a family reunion.

But I remember the Kimochis with perfect clarity.

Naomi-san handling many of the practical arrangements while my family tried to process their grief. My maternal grandmother and aunt wondered if I might be better off returning to Singapore with them. My paternal grandparents thought perhaps Kyoto would provide a fresh start, away from the constant reminders. They were all trying to think of what would be best for me, their discussions filled with concern rather than conflict.

Naomi-san was the one who pulled me aside one evening, while the adults were talking in low voices in the living room.

"What do you want, Andie-kun?" she asked me quietly.

"I want to stay here," I whispered. "This is my home."

She nodded once, understanding in her eyes, then stood and walked into the room where my family was discussing my future. I don't know exactly what she said, but by that evening, a compromise had been reached. I would stay in the house, with regular check-ins from a family court-appointed supervisor. Naomi-san would be my emergency contact and provide adult supervision as needed. My paternal grandparents would visit monthly. My Singaporean relatives would come during school holidays.

On the day of the funeral, Miyuki and Mochi sat silently beside me during the service, one on each side, their small hands in mine. They didn't offer empty platitudes or ask how I felt. They just stayed.

In the weeks that followed, they became my lifeline. Miyuki helped with homework I couldn't focus on. Mochi made me laugh when I thought I'd forgotten how. Naomi-san taught me to cook simple meals, standing patiently beside me as I struggled to measure ingredients through tears.

"Our door is always open," she told me. "Day or night."

On the nights I couldn't sleep, when the silence of my empty house became too much, I'd slip across the street. The sisters would set up a futon in their living room, and we'd talk until exhaustion finally pulled me under.

Two years later, it was my turn to be there for them.

Mr. Kimochi's death was unexpected. A heart attack while on a business trip. But what followed was even more shocking. Phone calls Naomi-san took in hushed tones. Visits from strangers. Overheard fragments about "his other family" and "financial obligations."

The truth trickled out slowly: their father had maintained a second family for years. Another woman. Another daughter. A secret life revealed only after his death.

I brought food to their house, just as they had done for me. I sat with the sisters through long nights, repaying their earlier kindness as they struggled to reconcile the father they knew with the man who had lived a double life.

A few weeks after the funeral, we sat beneath a cherry tree in the neighbourhood park. The sisters had been unusually quiet, still processing their grief and confusion. I'd brought snacks, an awkward attempt to cheer them up.

"We'll always be together, right?" I asked suddenly, breaking the silence. "No matter what happens."

Miyuki looked up, her expression solemn. "When we grow up," she said with surprising seriousness for a twelve-year-old, "you'll marry one of us."

"Why not both?" Mochi suggested, and for the first time since their father's funeral, all three of us laughed.

We linked pinky fingers in a childish promise. "I'll always protect you both," I said.

I meant it, with all the conviction my twelve-year-old heart could muster. The universe, apparently, found this adorable declaration hilarious and decided to test it almost immediately.

But something happened during our second year of junior high. Something I still didn't understand. The sisters started avoiding me at school. Walking home without waiting for me. Not answering when I knocked on their door.

A memory surfaced, from about four years ago, when I'd finally worked up the courage to confront Naomi-san about her daughters' sudden withdrawal. We'd been standing in her kitchen, the afternoon light casting golden rectangles on the floor. I'd always loved that kitchen; it had felt more like home than my own empty house after my parents died.

"Naomi-san," I'd asked, my voice cracking embarrassingly, "did I do something wrong? Why won't they talk to me anymore?"

The pain in her eyes had been unmistakable as she set down the dish she'd been drying. For a moment, she'd looked like she might actually tell me something important, something that would make sense of the painful distance that had grown between us. Then she'd simply sighed and touched my cheek with maternal tenderness.

"Oh, Andie-kun," she'd said, using my first name like she'd done since I was small. "You didn't do anything wrong. Sometimes... sometimes things happen that change people. It has nothing to do with you, I promise."

"But what happened?" I'd pressed, desperate for answers.

Her hand had dropped away, and something like shame had flickered across her face. "I can't... It's not my place to say. Please understand, they're going through something difficult."

"But I could help! We've always helped each other!"

"Not with this," she'd said firmly, then more gently: "Give them time, Andie-kun. And... don't give up on them entirely. They'll find their way back when they're ready."

But they never did. The distance remained, hardened into something that seemed permanent. Our paths still crossed daily. Living across the street from each other made that inevitable. But the connection was gone.

I learned to live with it. To accept that whatever had happened was something I couldn't fix. To build walls of my own, since theirs seemed unbreachable.

It's easier this way. That became my mantra. It's easier to keep everyone at arm's length than to risk being shut out again. Easier to be alone by choice than by someone else's decision.

The afternoon sun slanted through my bedroom window, pulling me back to the present. I closed the school website and checked the time. Evening approaching. One part of my day remained.

I set up my gaming station. Monitor positioned at the correct height, keyboard and mouse at the optimal distance, headset ready but not yet on. The physical space was as ordered as everything else in my life. If I ever decide to seek therapy again, I'm sure there's plenty of material here for a dissertation on control issues.

Logging into Champions of Eternity, I transformed from Andie Ryuu to ShadowTank21. Here, I knew exactly who I was, what was expected of me. The game had clear rules, defined objectives. Actions had predictable consequences. Unlike real life, where you can do everything right and still lose everything that matters.

I joined a random party looking for a tank for a dungeon run. "Experience?" someone asked in the chat.

"Level 87 Bastion Tank. Full raid gear. Know all mechanics," I typed back.

"Perfect. We're starting in 5."

In the game, I was decisive, authoritative. I called positions, managed aggro, timed defensive cooldowns with mathematical precision. The group followed my lead without question. When someone made a mistake, I adjusted without comment. When we completed the dungeon, they thanked me for the smooth run.

"Great tanking."
"You made that look easy."
"Add me for future runs?"

I accepted their friend requests knowing I'd probably never run with them again. That wasn't the point. The point was the temporary connection, the controlled environment where I knew exactly what was expected and could deliver it perfectly. If only real life came with such clear objective markers and achievement notifications.

A notification popped up in the social chat. Kazuki asking if anyone was excited about school tomorrow. Several responses came in quickly:

"Can't wait to see everyone!"
"Hope we're in the same class again!"
"First day at Paradise Heights, let's gooooo!"

I didn't respond. Online Andie and real-life Andie remained separate entities, even with people who knew both versions. Besides, what would I say? "Can't wait for another year of carefully calibrated social distance and pretending I don't notice half the class watching me like I'm some kind of enigma"?

After a couple of hours, I logged off and shut down my system. I checked my alarm again, though I knew it was set correctly. Laid out my uniform one more time, though it was already perfect. Packed my bag again, though nothing had changed since the last check.

Standing before the mirror, I practiced my expression for tomorrow. Neutral, slightly detached. The face I'd wear for the next two years of Paradise Heights Junior College. The mask that's become so familiar I sometimes forget it's not my real face.

It wasn't that I disliked my classmates. Many of them were perfectly fine people. Kazuki and his gaming crew were genuinely good company. Miyako and Airi shared my gaming interests, even if they kept it secret from their gyaru friends. The class reps were earnest and well-meaning. The sporty girls were always friendly.

But I'd learned that maintaining distance was safer. Help when asked, then step back. Give people what they need efficiently, then let them move on. No expectations, no disappointments.

It's a simple system. Almost mathematical in its elegance. Input, output, no variables, no surprises. A perfect algorithm for avoiding emotional entanglement.

Before bed, I stood at my window one last time. Across the street, lights glowed in the Kimochi house. Through a gap in the curtains, I caught a glimpse of movement. Miyuki walking past a window, then Mochi following moments later.

Something tightened in my chest. A feeling I refused to name. Despite the walls I'd built, despite the careful distance I maintained, some small part of me still wondered what might have been. Still cared.

Still hoped, foolishly, that Naomi-san had been right. That someday they might find their way back.

I let the curtain fall and turned away. Tomorrow was just another day, regardless of the new school name, the new uniform, the supposed fresh start.

Fresh starts are never actually fresh. They're just continuations with better marketing. Another chapter in a story that's already been written, just waiting for someone to turn the page.

I set my alarm for 5:30 AM and turned out the light.