SUPERNOVA

Chapter 2

Daisuke

"Fuck," I muttered under my breath, glancing up to see the last person I wanted to deal with today—my mother, standing at the garage entrance, looking out of place but completely in control.

She had a habit of showing up to my job unannounced, and while it irritated me, I wasn't surprised anymore. She wore her signature expression—an amused smirk laced with silent judgment—and carried a glass container in her manicured hands like some peace offering cloaked in guilt. She was dressed in a crisp white pantsuit that looked like it came straight off a fashion magazine cover, accented with glimmering jewelry that caught the shop lights. She looked like a high-society suburban socialite. Because that's exactly what she was.

But the lunch? That was never just about feeding me. It was bait.

"Hey, Miss Hana! Lookin' fine as always," Eli, my coworker, called out with a smirk, wiping his hands on his greasy coveralls.

"Hello, Elijah. You're such a charmer," she replied sweetly, giving him a small wave.

She could fake warmth like a seasoned actress. But I knew better. She didn't like Eli. Not because of his jokes or his grit, but because he was Black. My mom didn't believe in 'intermixing,' as she liked to call it. It was disgusting and ironic, given how much she loved flaunting her progressive image to the world.

Eli, still clueless, called her a MILF once—after googling the American slang. I never fully got the obsession with someone's mom being "hot," but that didn't stop him from trying to win her over every time she showed up.

She motioned me over with a subtle tilt of her head, and I reluctantly obeyed. Standing in front of her, my 6'2" frame towered over her petite figure. Still, she held the power in the room like a general disguised as a housewife.

"Hey," I said dryly.

"Hello, Daniel," she responded with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

I frowned at the name. She knew I preferred Daisuke, my real name—not the Americanized version she insisted on. She just liked ignoring the parts of me that didn't fit her image.

"I came to remind you that you have a date with your girlfriend at five. The charity banquet," she added, handing me the food container.

"I can't. I have a friend's graduation to go to," I said, irritated. "And how many times do I have to tell you—she's not my girlfriend."

"I don't want to hear it. You're going," she said dismissively. "You've been dodging her for weeks. Enough is enough."

"But—"

"I'll text you the address. Have a good day, sweetie."

And just like that, she turned on her designer heels and walked out, her message crystal clear: You have no choice.

"See you later, Miss Hana!" Eli called after her, still hopeful.

"Goodbye, Elijah," she replied with that same fake smile.

I exhaled hard, rubbing a hand down my face.

"She always like that?" Eli asked, opening the container without waiting for permission.

"Every damn time."

Inside was one of my childhood favorites: oyakodon, a chicken and egg rice bowl. I hadn't eaten one in years.

"Damn, this smells amazing," Eli said, digging in. I grabbed a fork and took a bite too. The flavors hit me like a memory—sunlight streaming into our old kitchen, my dad's laughter, a warm summer afternoon. Back when things were simple. Back when I didn't feel so... trapped.