The morning sun filtered through the shutters like it was trying to apologize for existing. Thomas ignored it.
"Up. Now."
His mother's voice cut through the room like a kunai through sponge foam. Thomas groaned and buried his head deeper under the monster-print blankets.
"You can't miss the first day back," she said, marching in with a tray of breakfast. "You're going to be late."
"Then let me be late," he mumbled into his pillow. "Or expelled. That'd solve everyone's problems."
"Thomas."
He peeked out from under the blanket, squinting at the tray. Rice, fish, pickles. No tentacles or gelatinous horrors this time. His stomach betrayed him with a growl.
"Fine," he muttered, sitting up and snatching the tray.
She ruffled his hair. "Try to look alive. Or at least not like a sleep-deprived goblin."
He didn't respond. He was too busy imagining a sleep-deprived goblin. That'd make a good mask.
---
The Academy was exactly as he remembered it: beige, boxy, and boring. Kids filed in, buzzing with energy and dumber than ever. Some were already showing off their kunai tricks in the courtyard, others talking about jutsu they'd been practicing over break.
Thomas dragged his feet past them, yawning like a man sentenced to slow death.
His friends—if you could call them that—were waiting outside the classroom.
"Tom!" shouted Ryota, a boy with more teeth than sense. "You miss us?"
"Like mold misses humidity," Thomas said.
Naruto popped up from behind Ryota, grinning wide. "Hey! I wore your swamp mask to scare Iruka-sensei during cleaning duty! He screamed like a girl."
"He screams like a girl anyway," Thomas said. "Did the glue hold?"
"Mostly. It peeled off when I sneezed."
Thomas actually smiled. "I'll reinforce it next time."
Inside, Iruka was already calling for order. The classroom quieted, more or less.
Thomas took his usual seat—back row, corner, window view. Prime real estate for zoning out.
Iruka started in with the announcements, missions, and schedule plans for the term. Thomas doodled in the margins of his notes. One creature had wings for ears. Another had human fingers for teeth.
When it came time for drills, Thomas did what he always did: just enough to pass. He threw kunai with the bare minimum of effort, hit the target's edge, and shrugged. In taijutsu sparring, he blocked and dodged but never struck. Chakra control exercises bored him the most.
He focused on the leaf stuck to his forehead, trying not to wrinkle it while sketching with his free hand. Iruka walked past, saw it was still there, and gave a short nod. Good enough. He went back to shading the claws on his latest design.
Iruka approached him midway through the day. "Thomas, I notice you haven't registered for any after-class training electives. You sure you don't want to try elemental affinity testing? Or maybe the clone module?"
Thomas stared at him. "Do any of them involve latex, paint, or monster anatomy?"
"...No."
"Then I'm good."
Iruka sighed. "You have talent. You just need to apply it."
"I'm applying it," Thomas said, holding up a mask-in-progress he'd smuggled into class. "Just not the way you want."
The rest of the day dragged. Lunch came and went—he shared rice balls with Naruto, who traded horror stories about his own cooking. Afternoon drills blurred into background noise. By the time the final bell rang, Thomas had mentally designed three new mask concepts and memorized zero lecture content.
The walk home was quiet. He passed a group of kids practicing shuriken throws in the park. A couple waved. He waved back without slowing.
When he got home, he beelined to the shed behind the house. His workshop. His sanctuary.
He peeled off his Academy jacket and slipped on his apron like a second skin. The world melted away.
An hour later, his hands were black with dye and glue, his mind lost in curves and creases of papier-mâché. A new creature took shape.
---
The day ended like most did—Thomas halfway asleep, slouched over his desk, a sketch of some new beast half-finished under his arm.
Tomorrow they'd probably start on Transformation Jutsu. Useful, apparently. Tactical. Essential.
He didn't care.
Everyone else wanted to master it so they could pretend to be someone else.
He wanted to master it so he could stop pretending entirely.
Not copy.
Become.
Let the rest of the world chase ranks and missions and chakra colors. Let them burn themselves out trying to punch harder, run faster, die younger.
He'd make his monsters. Maybe wear a headband for a year or two, if it kept his parents off his back.
But the plan was simple.
Graduate. Retire. Build.
One day, they'd come to his convention, not his funeral.
And that was the only mission that mattered.