The next morning I woke up at six-thirty and, after stepping out of my room, headed to the bathroom to splash water on my face.
My dad had been awake for hours already, sitting on the couch, eyes locked on the screen. He was watching the news, the same ritual he followed every morning before leaving for work.
"Morning," I mumbled, voice still thick with sleep as I shuffled toward the bathroom.
He whipped around and muted the TV with the remote.
"Hey, Christian, we need to talk," he said, standing up from the couch, his face dead serious. "There were some weird transactions on your account last night."
The worry lines carving into his face made him look older than forty-seven, and I knew right away this was no small thing.
"Weird transactions?" I repeated, freezing in the hallway.
"Your account's been frozen and flagged by the bank. Someone tried to make a purchase for thirty-five hundred euros and another for nine-fifty."
I went still, my half-asleep brain scrambling to process it while my stomach sank at the thought of all that money gone.
Then it hit me—the night I had spent with China and Mathew, the stuff I had bought: the laptop, the phone.
It wasn't a hacker. It was me.
Before I could say anything, Dad added with a half-smile that cut through the tension like a knife: "And whoever it was thought it wouldn't get flagged. What an idiot, right?"
"Dad," I said, a rush of relief and embarrassment crashing over me, "that was me. I spent the money. I needed some things for Japan, and once I got the laptop I kinda went overboard."
He raised an eyebrow and folded his arms across his chest. "You're sure all four thousand three hundred and fifty euros were you, and not somebody else?"
"Yeah, yeah. Don't worry," I said, nodding quickly to reassure him.
Dad let out a long breath, shoulders loosening, though his eyes stayed sharp. "All right. I'll fix it when I'm at the branch later."
"Right now your daily limit's a thousand euros—anything over that sets off the alarm and you get a call from fraud," he warned.
"When I get to the bank, I'll see if I can get it raised," Dad went on, relaxing. "But next time, let me know first."
"Thanks, Dad," I said, feeling the knot in my chest slowly untie after that dawn ambush.
"Anyway," he added, pausing halfway back to the couch and glancing over at me, "you're nuts for blowing that kind of cash. Just remember—even if you won twenty thousand, it's not bottomless."
He was right. I needed to be smarter about spending.
We wrapped up the conversation and I finally made it to the bathroom, closing the door behind me.
But that morning wasn't just any morning.
It was a big day for me, because for the first time in my life I was going to train with someone—not alone in my bedroom like when I was little, and not just with earbuds in at the park.
Mathew was the only person who had seen my physical transformation from the very beginning; I had met all my other friends only after it had started.
He knew exactly how much I had changed by working out and trying to get in shape, and now he had come asking for my help.
Last week he had been turned down by a girl he had been into for months.
Her name was Sofia—a girl he saw every day on the bus ride home from school, black wavy hair.
Mathew had never worked up the nerve to talk to her because he never felt ready.
One day, while we were on the bus—we took the same one, though I got off way before him—I threatened to go talk to her myself if he didn't do it on his own.
But that didn't convince him, probably because he knew I would never actually go through with it.
So China and I told him to message her on Instagram, since he didn't have the guts to talk to her in person.
It worked, and Mathew never stopped thanking us for pushing him—at least it got his mind off his endless Valorant games for a while.
Especially China, who coached him on exactly what to say to make the best impression, even though he had never had a girlfriend himself. We all wondered how the hell he was so good at it.
Unfortunately, Sofia only saw him as a reliable friend, someone to vent to about her drama with toxic exes.
The rejection came in a text: «I only see you as a friend. I'm sorry.»
Contrary to what you might expect, Mathew responded with raw determination.
He hopped into voice chat on Discord while I was watching the weekly episode of Grand Blue—the anime that always had me in stitches.
His avatar, a picture of the samurai Musashi Miyamoto, popped up on my screen, and his voice blasted through my headphones: "Iori, I wanna change my body."
Mathew had always been super skinny and short, quick on his feet in sports—though the only time he ever did any was in school PE.
Now he wanted to pack on muscle, carve out a body that matched the strength he felt surging inside after getting his heart stomped on.
I had already heard about the rejection—it had happened less than an hour earlier—and I didn't want him doing this out of spite or some fantasy of proving her wrong.
"Mathew," I said, trying to figure out the best way to handle it.
I paused the episode and got serious, even though I had been cracking up at Grand Blue's dumb jokes seconds before.
"Are you trying to get in shape for yourself, or to impress other people? Sofia, maybe?" I asked, leaning back in my chair.
He went quiet for a few seconds, then said softly, "I don't know. My head's all over the place—I can't tell if it's for me or for her."
"Okay," I said, picking my words carefully. "Before we start training, I need an answer from you. Just make sure it's honest."
"Even if you say it's for other people, I'll still help you," I added, wanting him to know I wasn't looking for a quick lie—I wanted the real truth before we began.
"Alright," he said, and from that point he actually started thinking about it.
Six days passed, and finally, during an evening call, he had his answer.
"Iori," he said on Discord, voice steady now, no wavering. "I wanna train to better myself. Sofia was the wake-up call, but she's not the reason. I want to be the best version of me."
"That's what I needed to hear. Nice one—you clearly put a lot of thought into it," I told him, genuinely proud.
In that moment I knew he meant it, deep down. So we set it up: we would train the next day at the little park below my place, at nine.
Now I was waiting for him at the bus stop, Drake's Passionfruit playing in my earbuds.
The morning air was already warm and clear, a gentle breeze carrying the smell of fresh-baked bread from the bakery on the corner.
Mathew had a twenty-minute bus ride to the park where I worked out—he lived up on the hill, while I was down in the valley where Trento sits.
We weren't planning to train together every day; he would lose way too much time on the bus.
The plan was one week together so I could teach him all the exercises and fix his form—like a makeshift personal trainer.
The electric bus pulled up quietly, doors opening with a soft pneumatic hiss.
Mathew stepped off first, clutching a one-liter thermal bottle. He had on beige shorts, an oversized light-blue tee, and his usual silver chain.
"Hey, Mathew. How you doing?" I said the second he got off, holding out my hand.
He slapped it hard. "Good, you? Today we get serious."
We stepped into the park and I walked him through every exercise I knew, so he could pick his favorites and put together his own routine.
I started with the basics to get a read on his level, and he was way better than I had expected.
Right from the start I could see he had a gift for pull-ups—pure natural talent.
I kept thinking, "Man, I wish I could crank them out that easily," as I watched him glide up and down the bar, my envy growing with every rep.
I had only been back training for a month and a half and could barely squeeze out four pull-ups, while he was already hitting ten on his very first session.
At least I still had the edge on push-ups: I could knock out sixty clean ones, and he only managed five.
For a complete beginner, five was actually impressive—when I first tried, I couldn't even do a single knee push-up, the easier version.
We went longer than my usual workouts, but I at least got all the fundamentals across. From here it was just about cleaning up his form.
Unlike me, Mathew was approaching calisthenics with real commitment: he had already bought protein powder and creatine, supplements I didn't bother with.
Unfortunately, while I was demonstrating muscle-ups—an exercise that was still nowhere near my reach—one of my earbuds popped out from a sharp movement.
I heard a sharp crack and watched it tumble across the rubber mats: the plastic housing had split clean in two, wires poking out.
"Shit," I muttered, scooping it up.
I picked it off the ground and managed to snap the plastic pieces back together.
But when I put it back in my ear, nothing—no sound.
I should've known better. I had paid five euros for them on a site that looked shady from the moment I landed on it.
I had only gone there because they were dirt cheap and I didn't need anything fancy—just something to play music while I trained.
I started thinking I would have to buy new ones, but then I remembered my grandpa—he could fix anything.
After saying goodbye to Mathew, instead of heading home to study Japanese—at least one hour every morning, sometimes two—I hopped on a bus to Trento Sud, to my grandparents' place.
It wasn't a big deal; I studied Japanese on my phone with Anki, the app Nijiro had recommended, so I could review flashcards on the ride.
Even with daily training, Kanji still kicked my ass. At least I had nailed hiragana and katakana, the two Japanese syllabaries.
I was using the same mindset I had with calisthenics: small, steady progress every day, no need to go all out.
Consistency was what mattered, and I knew the payoff would come.
Once I got off the bus, it was just a five-minute walk to their house.
I found Grandpa in his tavern—the room where he spent most of his time drinking with buddies and tinkering with broken stuff.
I had gotten lucky; he was hardly ever home, always out doing odd jobs for friends—painting a wall, putting together furniture.
At seventy-one, retired and restless, he couldn't stand sitting around, but he still felt strong and wanted to stay busy.
He was parked on the corner bench against the wall, slicing chunks of Grana cheese at the table, eyes glued to a wrestling match on TV—his favorite.
"Hey, Grandpa," I said, walking over.
"Hey Christian, how you doing?" he asked, standing up while popping a piece of cheese in his mouth.
"Good. Got something I want you to look at," I said, fishing the broken earbud out of my pocket. "Any chance you can fix it?"
Grandpa took it and headed over to the little kitchen area in the tavern.
His glasses were sitting on the counter; he grabbed them to see better. "Let's have a look."
He worked on it patiently, desoldering the wires with a hot tip and gluing the plastic shell back together with a bit of resin.
After about twenty minutes he handed it over. "Here. I don't know how long it'll hold up—I figure you'll need new ones before long."
"Thanks, Grandpa," I said, genuinely grateful, then headed upstairs to say hello to Grandma before going home.
With the earbud situation finally handled, I could turn to the last purchases for the Japan trip.
The only thing I still couldn't buy was the plane ticket: I had to wait for confirmation on the Certificate of Eligibility and the visa before booking.
In the end I pushed everything to the next day—I had already gone way over my daily limit.
The following morning I started shopping again, and this time the ceiling was higher: Dad had gotten it raised from one thousand to three thousand euros.
Anything over two thousand would still need extra verification from my parents, though.
The increase had been possible because of Twitch. I had opened a VAT number months earlier—since I was earning more than two thousand euros net a year, I had to declare the income to the state.
That made me officially self-employed, which let Dad push the limit up more easily.
First I ordered a Tessan universal adapter for fifty euros—the top model, with every possible plug type, so I wouldn't have any headaches.
I had learned that lesson the hard way: on my last trip to Japan I had brought my phone charger, but it didn't fit the outlets.
I had no idea what to do, so I went down to reception to ask. Luckily Jessica—the receptionist I had gotten friendly with—lent me a Japanese one.
When I mentioned I was going to Kyoto, she just decided to let me keep it: part birthday gift, part congratulations for winning the worlds, part so I wouldn't die of a dead battery on the trip.
Those few days taught me one essential truth: a universal adapter is non-negotiable for anyone traveling abroad.
For my second and final purchase I picked a new powerbank.
The one I had used in Japan wasn't even mine—it was Dad's, a 10,000 mAh model he had bought in 2019, when that was still considered decent capacity.
Over the years the bar had risen higher and higher, and 10,000 mAh was now below average.
After comparing options I went with a 27,000 mAh unit—from everything I had read, that was the maximum allowed on flights.
All that remained was the plane ticket, but the last bureaucratic pieces still had to be finished—Nijiro and my family were wrapping those up.
In the meantime, with every passing day, the anticipation kept building. I couldn't wait to finally get to Japan.