Chapter 1

On my fourth birthday, Dad establishes a system to punish me by making me solve math problems.

For every word I spell incorrectly, I'll be punished with 30 math problems.

For every minute I am late getting out of bed, I'll be punished with 40 math problems.

For every syllable I pronounce incorrectly while reading out loud, I'll be punished with 50 math problems.

"You have to do your math problems well and make sure you outperform that woman's child! You must make the Rowland family proud of you!"

Dad works incredibly hard to raise me all on his own, so in return, I must be a good, obedient boy, even when I'm so exhausted by the end of the day that I can no longer hold a pencil.

Then comes our first class trip.

While the other children share snacks and play games, I sit kneeling on the ground, my knees scraped raw and bleeding as I desperately grind away at math problems instead.

"Ms. Carpenter, I've assigned Victor 200 math problems today. Could you please take a photo and send it to me? Make sure the little rascal doesn't slack off!" Dad tells my teacher, Ms. Beth Carpenter.

The other children jeer at me and pelt me with small stones.

"No wonder he doesn't have a mother! Who would ever like a kid who only knows how to do math problems?"

I hang my head low, wondering if I'd still have to do all these math problems if I were that woman's child instead.

Chapter 1

"Victor Rowland, have you finished all 200 math problems I assigned for today?"

Dad's low voice sounded like a demon gnashing its teeth just behind the door.

"Dad, I-I got carsick on the bus during our class trip today, so I only managed to…"

My voice trailed off as I clutched the fabric of my trousers with my clammy hands.

"You're always like that! Nothing but excuses!" Dad roared at me, his frightening eyes fixing me with a fierce, menacing glare as he snatched my schoolbag from me.

"And you got three wrong! How could you get such simple math problems wrong? How do you expect to surpass that woman's child like this?

"You'll be punished with another 20 problems for every mistake you made! Do another 60 before dinner, or don't bother eating at all!"

I hurriedly took my math workbook back, feeling a heavy, stifling sense of grievance well up inside me like a wad of wet cotton stuffed into my chest.

Before the class trip, I had assumed that everyone's parents were like this. I thought that every child had to complete a mountain of math problems every single day. But as it turned out, that wasn't the case at all.

Dad glanced at me, as if he could read my thoughts.

"What's the matter? You're feeling resentful seeing everyone else playing while you're stuck doing math problems, aren't you?

"Hah! Let me tell you, they're all good-for-nothing, useless pieces of garbage! If they aren't doing these math problems now, when will they? Every single problem you solve now puts you one step ahead of them!"

I wanted to tell Dad that my classmates weren't garbage or "good-for-nothings". Sometimes, when I ran into a difficult problem, I'd quietly ask my deskmate, Evie Addams. She'd glance at it, know the answer instantly, and whisper the solution to me.

But Dad never believed me. He always insisted that they were no good.

Another thick stack of math problems was placed before me.

Between the 50 I hadn't finished and the 60 new ones Dad had just assigned, that made 110 problems in total. And Dad said I wouldn't get any dinner if I didn't finish them first.

I scrunched up my face and rubbed my empty, rumbling stomach. I hadn't eaten lunch earlier today, afraid I wouldn't be able to finish my work in time. And now, it looked like I wouldn't be eating dinner, either.

But that was fine. I was already used to it. Teardrops splattered onto my workbook, blurring the ink into a small, smudged patch.

I didn't want to do my math problems anymore.

There was a photograph of two people together, tucked away in a dark corner of Dad's room. In it, Dad was wearing a guileless, goofy grin on his face, but the woman beside him had a large "X" scrawled across her face.

Behind the photo, I found a small slip of paper with a string of numbers written on it. I knew who it belonged to—the "wicked woman" Dad always talked about, the one who had apparently abandoned her husband and son at a young age.

I used to hate her for making Dad so sad, and it hadn't even occurred to me to look for her.

But now, I pulled an old, second-hand phone from beneath the bed, turned on the screen, and dialed the number.

"Hello? May I ask who this is?" the voice at the other end said.

"Mom… I don't want to do all the math problems anymore."

There was a sudden, sharp silence on the other end of the line.

My heart leaped into my throat.

"What's your father's name, little boy?"

"Mitchell Rowland."

A profound silence followed.

"Where do you live?"

Chapter 2

"Victor Rowland! How many math problems have you finished?"

My heart jolted, and I hurriedly hung up the phone. For a moment, I couldn't help thinking how foolish I was, hoping that my mom, who had abandoned me at birth, would reach out and save me.

By the time I finished every single math problem, my stomach was cramping from hunger and throbbing with sharp, rhythmic pain.

Dad checked each problem one by one.

Whenever this happened, I would feel so anxious that I couldn't catch my breath. It felt just like I was drowning.

Suddenly, Dad broke into a bright, hearty smile.

"Well done! You got them all right! That's my boy, Victor. I knew you'd turn out to be the most promising one."

Dad smiled at me, and I smiled back. These were the rare moments when I felt truly happy.

"Since it's your sixth birthday tomorrow, how about I take you to a fancy restaurant for a big feast?" he asked.

"Okay!" I exclaimed at once. My eyes lit up, and my heart bubbled over with joy.

The other children at school were always showing off their birthday cakes. As for me, I hadn't even seen one before, and the thought alone made my mouth water.

That night, even though Dad had punished me with another 60 problems and left me so hungry that bile rose in my throat and burned in my chest, I still fell asleep with a smile on my face.

The next day, it finally felt like it really was my birthday the moment Dad placed six candles on a large birthday cake before me.

"Alright. Now close your eyes and make a wish."

I found myself in a daze. If only Dad could always be this gentle with me…

I closed my eyes and made my wishes in secret.

"First, I wish that Dad stays healthy and is happy every single day.

"Second, I wish that Dad won't punish me by making me do extra math problems anymore from now on."

As I opened my eyes, I saw Dad's expression turn icy in an instant.

"What did you wish for? Tell me."

My heart jolted. Trembling, I said, "But Dad, the books say that wishes won't come true if you say them out loud—"

"Are you talking back to me? Getting a bit too big for your boots, aren't you? That's an extra 100 math problems! Do them now! And eat while you work!"

Whispers rippled through the crowd around us, and my face burned with shame. Yet, not daring to defy him, I whispered, "I wished for you to be healthy and happy every single day."

Dad froze for a moment, his voice softening slightly.

"Blow out the candles."

I gathered all the breath I could muster, hoping to extinguish them in one go. But after having gone a day and a half without food, I couldn't even manage a proper breath. I only managed to blow out three candles.

"Why are you always like this?" Dad hollered at me, his hoarse voice seemingly loud enough to tear the roof off the restaurant. His eyes burned with a mix of rage and madness as he suddenly swept the cake off the table.

"You blow out candles like a sissy! What could you possibly ever accomplish in your life? That's going to be another 500 math problems for you. Start doing them now, and don't you dare leave until you've finished every single one!"

I couldn't hold back my tears anymore. I hated myself even more every time I saw him like this.

I knew that Dad was suffering from deep-seated psychological anguish, and I had to do better instead of making him worry all the time. But I was nothing but a failure who couldn't even get the simplest things right.

I was sure that Dad would be much happier if I were gone.

I pulled the math workbook, which Dad insisted I carry with me at every single moment, out of my bag and began to solve the math problems again.

A small crowd began to gather, whispering among themselves as they watched us. A kind-hearted elderly woman suddenly stepped forward and said, "Sir, it's the boy's birthday today. Surely there's no need to punish him over something so trivial? How long is it going to take him to finish over 500 problems?"

"Exactly! Kids today have it hard enough as it is. Look, the poor boy is shaking from hunger. Let him have something to eat!"

Dad suddenly erupted and screamed hysterically at them, "This is my son! What business is it of yours how I choose to raise him?

"What's 500 problems, anyway? If he can't handle a little hardship like this, how will he ever amount to anything?

"If you want to raise your own kids to be good-for-nothings, feel free to go home and do that! But don't you dare interfere with my son! He's destined to bring honor to our family name!"

"You're… You're hopeless!" the lady exclaimed before scurrying off, completely shocked by Dad's outburst.

Dad then shot me a cold, sharp glance.

"There you go, crying again like a little girl! Do another 100 problems! You're not leaving until you finish them all!"

Dad then headed toward the restroom.

I knew that he would go off to hide and smoke a few cigarettes whenever he scolded or punished me. I supposed he was just angry that I was such a disappointment to him.

The space around me soon cleared out, and whispers arose around me once again.

"Is this boy's father trying to run away without settling the bill?"

"This is hilarious. Maybe it's all just an act. He probably just came in here to enjoy the air conditioning in a high-end restaurant."

Just as I was about to speak up in Dad's defense, a man dressed in black approached me and asked, "May I please have a strand of your hair, young sir?"

Chapter 3

Before I could even react, a sharp pain shot across my scalp.

The man then carefully placed some of my hair into a transparent bag, snapped a photo of me, and vanished.

I was too slow-witted to figure out what this strange man was up to.

Was he a bad person? I didn't know, but it was too late to figure that out.

That day, I spent a long, long time writing in my math workbook. The numbers and symbols twisted into a jumbled mess before my eyes, growing blurrier the longer I stared.

Dizzy with hunger, I took advantage of Dad's absence to crawl on the floor, picking up the cake crumbs and stuffing them into my mouth. The cake was covered in dust and dirt, but to someone who hadn't eaten in two days, it was a feast fit for a king.

The restaurant was closing, yet I still had 100 problems left to solve. Dad yanked me by the arm and dragged me outside.

"Get down on the ground and finish your work. You're not coming home until you're done."

People passed by on the street, casting glances at me every now and then. Their gazes stung like needles, but there was nothing I could do about it.

My knees were scraped raw, bleeding, and sticking to my trousers. The pain was excruciating, but I didn't even dare to cry. I just clutched my pencil and wrote as furiously as I could.

And so, just like that, my sixth birthday came to an abrupt, bleak end, buried under a mountain of math problems. Even in my dreams, there was still nothing but an endless stream of mathematical formulas and symbols.

As for that phone call I'd made and the strange man who plucked my hair, they were pushed to the back of my mind, and I forgot all about them.

…

"Happy birthday, Larry!"

I sat in the corner, watching with envy as Larry Carson was surrounded by our classmates, looking just like a little prince.

I wanted to be friends with everyone too, but I had to bring my math workbooks with me even when I went to the restroom during breaks. If I didn't do that, there was no way I could finish all the problems Dad had assigned as punishment.

"Victor, yesterday was your birthday too, right? Happy birthday!"

Evie nudged me, and I was caught completely off guard, feeling both surprised and flattered.

"Thank you!" I exclaimed.

She helped me with my problems and even gave me a birthday gift. I wanted to ask her if we were friends since she was being nice to me, but I was afraid I was just deluding myself. I was scared that asking would only make me a laughingstock.

Evie handed me a blue gift bag containing a single greeting card and a few candies. It was enough to fill me with boundless joy.

But the very next second, Dad burst into the classroom like a madman, pointing at me and unleashing a torrent of abuse.

"Victor Rowland! What the hell do you think you're doing? Why the hell are you out here flirting with a girl instead of solving your math problems?

"I came to see the homeroom teacher about something, and I thought I'd check to see if you were slacking off. But I never imagined you'd be such a damn troublemaker!"

Every pair of eyes in the class snapped toward me. Evie turned deathly pale and immediately recoiled from me as if I were something filthy to be avoided at all costs.

My blood ran cold as I froze in my seat, unable to move a muscle.

"Forget about school. You're coming home with me to finish all your work! How dare you let me catch you trying to seduce a girl the moment I walked in? Who knows what other inappropriate things you've been up to behind my back?"

Dad wasn't content with just hurling all the verbal abuse at me. He even cast a contemptuous glance around the classroom and growled, "Let me warn you all that my son is going to be a great scientist one day, and absolutely none of you are allowed to lead him astray with your lack of ambition!"

On the way home, Dad tore the gift bag to shreds. The greeting card was reduced to scraps, and the candies were crushed into powder.

"You're doing a thousand problems tonight as punishment! Get on your knees on the balcony and finish them! And don't you dare get up until you're done!"

I worked through the problems in a daze until my legs went completely numb and I lost all sensation, eventually collapsing on the balcony.

After that day, a group of parents filed a joint complaint against me, and I was transferred to the worst class in the grade.

My new classmates treated me like a plague, but Dad couldn't have cared less.

"Hmph! Geniuses are all forged through hardship. So what if you're in the worst environment ever? Miss, don't bother seating him next to anyone else. Just put him next to the trash can. That way, he won't distract anyone from their studies!"

I huddled in a dark corner with the stench of the trash can clinging to me.

My new classmates threw garbage at me and called me "Trash Boy". I worked frantically on my math problems, but my hands shook more and more, leading to an increasing number of errors—and a growing pile of extra math problems I was forced to complete as punishment.

My fingers became misshapen from gripping the pencil so tightly. No sooner had one blister burst than another would form in its place.

I could never finish my work, and I was often left hungry. I felt so dizzy that I could barely stand.

Then, one day, during P.E. class, everything went black, and I collapsed, falling straight to the ground.

Chapter 4

When I opened my eyes again, I was met with a blinding, stark white hospital ceiling.

"Victor! You're finally awake! I was worried sick about you!" Dad's voice immediately rang out next to my bed. "Hey, stop moving around. You've still got an IV line in your right hand."

I shook my groggy head, feeling as though I hadn't quite woken up from my dream.

Dad and I were alone in the glaringly white hospital room. There was no schoolwork and no endless stream of math problems to solve.

My body ached with a pervasive, stinging pain, yet a secret joy bubbled up inside me. So, being sick and hospitalized meant I wouldn't have to do any math problems anymore!

"Alright, Victor. We can't fall behind just because we're in the hospital. Fainting like that is basically skipping school. That'll be an extra two thousand math problems for you."

Dad suddenly pulled an over-the-bed table into place, and in an instant, all my fantasies were shattered.

A thick stack of math workbooks was piled so high it nearly topped my head, and it weighed down on me, making it hard to breathe.

The IV line was inserted into my right hand. A nurse stopped me when I tried to pick up a pencil, but Dad waved his hand dismissively and said, "If you can't use your right hand, use your left! Don't think for a second that being in the hospital gets you out of doing your work.

"Nurse, just ignore him. Kids like him like to put on an act. He needs to be taught a proper lesson!"

I tried writing with my left hand for the first time in my life. However, the words and numbers came out crooked and squiggly, looking like poor, severed earthworms on the paper.

Seeing this, Dad snatched the workbook and slammed it onto the table, shrieking, "Didn't I tell you that every poorly written number earns you 15 extra problems? So what if it's your left hand? Can't you just overcome it and do better?

"Must you always be this lazy? I work my ass off to give you the best life I can offer, and this is how you repay me?"

A loud, droning hum filled my ears, threatening to overwhelm my very will. Suddenly, pressure began to build up in my lower abdomen, and my face burned with heat. However, my leg was injured, and I couldn't get out of bed to walk.

"Dad… can you please take me to the toilet?"

"The toilet? You've barely done any work, and you want to go to the toilet? Over my dead body!" Dad roared at me. "Complete 500 problems first! I'll only let you leave if you get no more than two wrong!"

A sense of despair washed over me. I tried to plead for mercy, but Dad cut me off with a sharp, stern rebuke.

There were still 300 problems left, but I had reached my absolute limit.

Surrounded by nurses and patients, my remaining sense of shame finally outweighed my fear of Dad. With a voice choked by tears, I begged, "Dad, please… I don't want to stay here…"

"Well, will you look at that? The little brat actually has a sense of shame," Dad mocked me with a scoff. "If you'd just listened to me, completed your work on time, and stopped pretending to faint or be sick, you wouldn't be in such a pathetic state. This is all just to teach you a lesson!"

Dad kept on rambling.

Suddenly, a warm, damp sensation spread across my lower body. A foul, pungent odor began to emanate from the hospital bed, and whispers erupted all around, accompanied by the pointing fingers of the passing nurses.

"What kind of parent lets this happen? Letting a child ruin a hospital bed like that—how uncivilized!"

"Six years old and still wetting his pants? Maybe there's something wrong with his head. Honestly, they'd be better off just having another kid!"

Instead of defending me, Dad turned and glared at me, his face twisted in mockery.

"Why are you such a disgrace, Victor Rowland? Don't you feel any shame, hearing what everyone's saying about you? Do you have any self-respect left at all?

"Don't expect me to clean this up! If you can't even control your own bodily functions, then you deserve to lie in a stinking, filthy bed!

"And don't you dare stop! Keep writing! You're doing another thousand problems as punishment for failing to control your bladder!"

I was trapped in the foul-smelling, sodden bedding, just as I was trapped in my own life. I stared at the sharp tip of the pencil in my hand and suddenly felt an urge to drive it deep into my wrist.

At least I wouldn't have to do any more math problems that way.

The next second, a stranger's voice cut through the air. It was a woman.

"That's enough, Mitchell Rowland. Come with me, Victor. I'm taking you home."