Kyoumoto

They call it absenteeism. I call it fieldwork — sketching alleyways until the cement feels cold, mapping café blinds until the sunlight folds right. My characters don’t need flashy arcs; they live in the peeling paint of their school desks. Fujino’s critiques are the only attendance roll I care about. Let the rest of the class whisper about ‘truant’ or ‘weirdo’. When my inking pen sings, the paper becomes a city where every window hides a life. My masterpiece won’t be held in a contest; it’ll be found in the dust of the world’s corners.