The ticking of the wall clock echoed through the bedroom of a fairly spacious apartment located on the 10th floor of a building in Tokyo.
Makoto Aizawa, a 17-year-old boy with messy brown hair and drowsy brown eyes, stared blankly at the ceiling while lying on the thin futon he had just bought yesterday.
"This is day three," he mumbled softly, his voice hoarse from just waking up.
"Day three of living alone, and it already feels like a week has passed."
Makoto sat up lazily, stretching his aching body—the futon had turned out to be much harder than he'd expected. His large apartment, complete with a bedroom, living room, kitchen, and bathroom, still felt foreign despite having spent two nights here.
It all began three days ago, when his parents, Hiroshi and Yuki Aizawa, sat down with him in the dining room of their family home in Kyoto, wearing the kind of serious expressions he rarely saw.
"Makoto," his father began in the formal tone he usually reserved for the office, "we've received an important assignment in Singapore. This project will last at least two years."
His mother added with a forced smile, "We know this is sudden, but your father's company really needs his expertise there. And we thought... this could be a good opportunity for you too."
"A good opportunity?" Makoto frowned, not understanding.
"To learn independence," his father continued while adjusting his glasses. "You're already a second-year in high school, and we think it's time you learned to live on your own."
"Mom has already found a nice apartment in Tokyo, close to Koufuku High School."
"But I've never—"
"Don't worry," his mother interrupted quickly, "we'll send money every month. Enough for living expenses, school fees, and other necessities. This will be a valuable experience!"
And just like that, Makoto found himself stranded in Tokyo with a suitcase containing clothes, some favorite manga, and his portable game console—plus practically zero knowledge about independent living.
Makoto's stomach growled loudly, reminding him that it had been almost 15 hours since he'd last eaten. The night before, he'd only consumed a loaf of bread from the supermarket and a glass of tap water.
"Alright," he said to himself while standing up straight, "today I have to learn how to cook. I can't keep living off supermarket bread forever."
He walked to the tiny kitchen, which was no more than two square meters. The two-burner gas stove gleamed brightly—because it had never been used.
His refrigerator hummed quietly, containing only a bottle of mineral water and yogurt that had expired two days ago.
Makoto opened the kitchen cabinet and found... nothing. Completely empty.
"Oh right," he slapped his forehead, "I haven't bought any groceries yet."
After a quick shower and change of clothes, Makoto walked to the nearest supermarket, about 10 minutes from his apartment. He decided to make something simple—rice and an omelet. How hard could it be?
At the supermarket, he stood confused in front of the rice aisle. There were dozens of types of rice with names he didn't understand: Koshihikari, Sasanishiki, Akitakomachi—they sounded like ancient samurai names.
"Excuse me," he worked up the courage to ask a middle-aged woman who was selecting rice beside him, "which rice is good for beginners?"
The woman smiled kindly, "Oh, you're just learning to cook? This Koshihikari is good—not too difficult to cook."
Makoto bowed in gratitude and picked up a 5-kilogram bag of rice. Then he grabbed a carton of eggs, a bottle of cooking oil, soy sauce, and some basic seasonings he'd seen in an online recipe that morning.
Back at his apartment, Makoto felt optimistic. "Rice and omelet. This should be easy!"
He poured rice into a pot—without measuring, without washing, just straight in. Then he added what he thought was enough water.
"High heat to cook it faster," he muttered while turning the stove knob to maximum.
While waiting for the rice, he started making the omelet. Cracking three eggs into a bowl, he felt proud of his skill—even though several eggshell fragments had mixed in.
"Ah, a little eggshell doesn't matter. It probably adds nutrients," he said while stirring the eggs with a fork.
He poured cooking oil into the pan—way too much, until it was almost like a mini swimming pool. When he turned on the heat, the oil immediately sizzled loudly and small splatters began flying everywhere.
"Whoa!" Makoto stepped back while pouring the eggs into the pan.
A very loud sizzling sound erupted, followed by hot oil splatters that made him jump around.
"Hot! Hot! Why are there so many splatters?!"
He tried flipping the egg with a spatula, but in his panic, his omelet broke into small pieces that looked more like burnt scrambled eggs.
Meanwhile, a strange smell began wafting from the stove. Makoto turned and saw white smoke billowing from the rice pot.
"Oh no! The rice!"
He ran to the stove and opened the pot lid. Thick smoke immediately poured out, and he saw that the rice at the bottom had turned black, while the top was still hard and half-raw.
"How did this happen?!" he shouted in frustration while turning off the stove.
His small apartment was now filled with smoke, the smoke detector was blaring loudly—BEEP BEEP BEEP—and Makoto panicked, running around looking for a way to turn it off.
"Sorry! Sorry!" he yelled at the ceiling while fanning the smoke with his hands. "I'm not burning down the apartment!"
After 10 minutes that felt like an hour, the smoke finally cleared and the alarm stopped. Makoto sat weakly on the floor, staring at his "masterpiece": burnt, shapeless scrambled eggs and rice that was half-burnt, half-raw.
"Maybe I should just order delivery," he muttered weakly.
Two days after his first culinary disaster, Makoto faced a new problem: dirty clothes that had piled up knee-high in the corner of his room.
Back home, his mother had always handled all the laundry. Makoto didn't even know where the washing machine was located in his own house.
"How long can someone wear the same clothes?" he muttered while sniffing the shirt he'd worn for three straight days. "Ugh, this is starting to smell like a goat pen."
He glanced at the pile of dirty clothes with a look of despair. There were school uniforms, t-shirts, pants, socks, and... underwear whose condition was better left undiscussed.
His tiny apartment did have a washing machine—or at least something that looked like a washing machine. It was small and compact, unlike the large washing machine at his home in Kyoto. It had various buttons and displays that made it look like a spaceship cockpit.
"Okay, Makoto," he encouraged himself, "this is just a washing machine. How complicated can it be?"
He gathered all the dirty clothes and stuffed them into the washing machine drum. Everything mixed together—white t-shirts, blue jeans, black socks, gray school uniforms. In his innocent mind, clothes were clothes—why separate them?
Then he got confused with the buttons on the control panel. There were labels reading "標準" (standard), "お急ぎ" (quick), "デリケート" (delicate), and many more he didn't understand.
"I'll just use standard," he said while pressing that button.
Now for the detergent. Makoto opened the bottle of liquid detergent he'd bought yesterday and poured it... directly onto the clothes. A lot. Way too much. In his logic, more detergent = cleaner clothes.
"The clothes are going to smell so good," he smiled satisfactorily while pouring almost a quarter of the bottle into the machine.
He pressed the start button, and the washing machine began spinning with a sound that seemed unusually loud. Makoto didn't think much of this and went to the main room to play games while waiting.
About 20 minutes later, he heard a strange sound from the bathroom. Not the usual washing machine sound, but more like... rumbling?
"Why does it sound weird?" he frowned while pausing his game.
He walked to the bathroom and nearly fainted at the sight before him. The bathroom floor was covered with white foam that had reached ankle height. Foam kept pouring out from the gaps around the washing machine door like an erupting volcano.
"WHAAAAAAT?!" Makoto screamed while jumping backward. "Why is it like a foam party?!"
The foam kept increasing and began spilling into the main room of the apartment. Makoto panicked, running back and forth, not knowing what to do.
"How do I stop this?!" he yelled while trying to press all the buttons on the washing machine. But the machine kept spinning, and foam kept appearing like a living creature trying to take over the apartment.
In his panic, he tried gathering the foam with his hands, but that only spread it everywhere. Foam stuck to his hair, his face, and he now looked like a teenage version of Santa Claus.
"Maybe I should turn off the electricity?" he muttered while running to the electrical panel. When he cut the power, the washing machine did stop, but the apartment lights went out too.
In the darkness, with the floor slippery from foam, Makoto tried walking to the light switch. He slipped and fell into the pile of foam.
"Aargh!" he yelled while trying to get up, but slipped again. Now he was completely covered in foam from head to toe.
After struggling for almost an hour, he finally managed to clean up most of the foam with rags and a bucket. His apartment was now messy, wet everywhere, and still reeked strongly of detergent.
When he finally opened the washing machine to check his clothes, he almost cried. His favorite white t-shirt was now light blue—stained by dye from his jeans. His gray school uniform had turned a strange bluish-gray color. And his white socks now had blue stripes like a zebra.
"Why is living alone so difficult?" he lamented while staring at his color-changed clothes. "It looks so easy on TV dramas!"
That night Makoto slept in slightly damp clothes that smelled strongly of detergent, promising himself he'd read the washing machine manual tomorrow—if he could find it.
Sunday morning, Makoto woke up to the sound of loud, rhythmic knocking at his door.
"Who could that be so early in the morning?" he muttered while rubbing his eyes. His hair was messy as if struck by lightning, and he was still wearing the detergent-scented shirt.
He opened the door and found two girls who were quite striking to behold—one with long blonde hair and the other with long black hair.
"Uh..."