When Takuto Kimura opened his eyes, the first thing he noticed was a strong, pungent smell of milk. He blinked, and instead of the familiar ceiling of his office, he saw rows of colorful cartoon stickers and crooked children's drawings.
"Where am I?" he tried to ask, but all that came out was a soft, pitiful "Ee-ya?"
Takuto: "..."
In horror, he looked down. Chubby, pudgy little fingers. A onesie with a smiling bear print. A suspicious squishy feeling around his backside. And the kicker? His legs didn't touch the floor.
"Diaper?!" he screamed internally. "How is it that I'm the CEO of a publicly traded tech company, and I'm wearing a diaper?! I negotiated a merger while getting an endoscopy once. How did I end up here!?"
As if summoned by his silent agony, a bright, sing-songy voice chimed in.
"Ah, little Takuto is awake?" The caregiver, Yamada-sensei, who looked to be fresh out of college and full of condescending cheer, bustled over. "Nap time is over, time for a snack~"
No, no snack! Takuto's brain screamed. I'm lactose intolerant!
But all he managed to say was, "Bwehhh…"
He pinched his own cheek, desperately. This had to be a dream, or maybe a psychotic break caused by overwork and too many low-carb protein bars. But the pain was real. The scratchy blanket. The cold floor. The deeply unsettling squelch from his diaper…
"This is real?!"
Yamada-sensei crouched down like a bomb squad technician. "Oh no, sweetie, are you hurting? Let's check… Ohhh, you peed~ again~ That's okay, that's what diapers are for!"
No! No, it's not okay! I paid $3 million for a bathroom in my penthouse!
Before he could protest further, she laid him down and began expertly unfastening his diaper. "You'll feel much better after a change!"
This… was his nightmare. This was worse than the investor Q&A sessions.
He tried to channel his inner Warren Buffet and deliver a calm, reasonable statement. "Listen. I need to contact my lawyer. Or the board. Just call the board. Or the Bank of Japan. Anyone."
But all that emerged was a guttural, high-pitched: "Da-da-bwaaa!"
"Wow!" Yamada-sensei beamed. "He's really getting talkative today. Such a smart little fella! Let's put a star sticker on your chart!"
A star sticker. The last time someone gave him a star, it was a Forbes article titled "Tokyo's Youngest Billionaire Maverick." Now he was getting one for using the potty. Or… failing to.
After the traumatic diaper change—complete with unsolicited wet wipes in regions he had never before feared—Takuto was allowed to roam the classroom. He toddled unsteadily toward the activity area, determined to restore some dignity.
"I still have a mind sharper than a hedge fund manager," he told himself. "I'll prove it with something these toddlers can't do—like urban development planning in block form."
Spotting a table of wooden building blocks, he shoved aside a confused toddler and began work. In ten minutes, he had recreated a scale model of downtown Tokyo, complete with Shibuya Crossing and miniature signage using crayon fragments. A small audience of toddlers gathered in awe.
That's right. Fear me, peasants.
Just as he placed the final block—the top of Tokyo Tower—his masterpiece was destroyed by a rampaging boy with mucus dripping off his upper lip like a war banner.
"THIS IS MY SPOT!" the boy bellowed, kicking through the structure like a kaiju on a sugar high.
Takuto was too stunned to respond at first. Then he stood up (well, waddled) and pointed his shaky finger. "You just destroyed 20 billion yen of real estate, you barbarian!"
"Bwaaaa!" is all anyone heard.
Yamada-sensei rushed over. After hearing the story from Mr. Snotzilla—who clearly had no sense of zoning regulations—she said sweetly to Takuto, "Now, now, little Takuto, you need to learn to share~"
Share?! I've cornered six markets this year alone!
He was about to launch into a passionate rebuttal involving supply chains, profit margins, and intellectual property theft, but was instead handed a juice box.
At snack time, the indignities continued.
Takuto sat cross-legged on a tiny chair, surrounded by a gang of rowdy toddlers, being spoon-fed applesauce. Every time he refused a spoonful, Yamada-sensei made airplane noises until he finally gave in. And she dabbed his face with a bunny-shaped napkin every five seconds.
When he tried to crawl away, a little girl grabbed his hand.
"Takuto-chan, let's play house! You be the baby!"
He opened his mouth to protest—he was already the baby, damn it!—but was promptly shoved into a cardboard box and told to cry realistically.
"Wow, he's really good at this!" the girl giggled. "So real!"
Because IT IS REAL!
He sat in that box, stewing in existential despair. Somewhere out there, his company's quarterly report was due. His assistant, Junko, must be panicking. What would the shareholders think? Was his disappearance on the news? Would they think he embezzled and fled to Tahiti?
"I'm literally stuck in a box," he thought bitterly. "This is both figurative and literal commentary on corporate life."
But the day's horrors weren't done.
Recess.
A deceptively cute word. In truth, recess was a gladiatorial arena where tricycles became weapons, sand was a strategic projectile, and monkey bars were the stuff of nightmares.
Takuto, still clinging to delusions of power, tried to organize the kids into a startup.
"Listen," he declared, using alphabet blocks to sketch out a crude business plan. "We can monetize the sandbox. Supply-demand curve. Premium bucket access. Maybe sell fake gems. I need one crayon and five Play-Doh cans for seed funding."
The toddlers stared at him.
Then one girl named Momo whispered, "He's weird. Let's bury him in the sandbox!"
What followed was ten minutes of being aggressively entombed under sand by children who took disturbing pleasure in patting it down.
Yamada-sensei eventually rescued him, but not before a boy peed near the excavation site. That boy, for reasons unknown, would later be elected "Class President" in a unanimous vote.
Democracy is a lie, Takuto thought.
Later that day, during "Quiet Reading Time" (which was neither quiet nor involved much reading), Takuto tried to escape. He had a plan: sneak out through the pet door used for the class bunny.
The moment he managed to wedge his head through it, however, he got stuck—legs flailing inside the classroom, head and torso out in the hallway like a strange preschool-themed art installation. He heard a gasp.
"Takuto?!" came a voice.
A familiar voice.
It was Junko, his long-suffering executive assistant.
She stared at him. He stared at her. Neither moved.
Then she burst out laughing.
"You look adorable," she said between snorts. "Nice bear onesie, boss."
"I will fire you so hard," he tried to say.
But what she heard was, "Bwee-wee-daa!"
Yamada-sensei popped out next to him. "Oh, are you his sister?"
"Sister?" Junko blinked. "I'm… sort of his handler."
"Well, Takuto's made so much progress today! He even said 'da-da' and shared his blocks!"
Junko pulled out her phone, already recording. "Oh, this is going in the annual company slideshow."
The moment Takuto was unstuck and dragged back in, he wept softly into a plush Pikachu. This… was his life now. No stock options. No espresso machines. Just naps, milk, and the tyranny of the sticker chart.
One Month Later
Inexplicably, Takuto remained in toddler form. No amount of lawyers, therapists, or exorcists could explain it.
He had tried everything to escape. Climbing out windows. Sending Morse code with juice spills. Once, he even smuggled a letter out via finger painting—but it was hung on the class wall with a gold star and the caption "Modern Abstract."
Eventually, he gave in.
He became top of the sticker chart. He ruled over snack trades like a shadowy back-alley broker. He even figured out how to program basic code using Etch-A-Sketch and bribed the older kids with animal crackers to form a mini-IT team.
They called it "TotTech."
One day, Junko visited again and leaned over the crib where he now slept peacefully between strategy meetings.
"You know, boss," she whispered, "You're actually less terrifying as a baby."
Takuto slowly turned his head, eyes full of warning.
She handed him a pacifier with a smirk. "Don't worry. When you're back to normal, I'll pretend none of this happened."
Then she showed him a baby-blue onesie with the embroidered words:
"Best CEO—Chief Executive Offspring."
He screamed.
It came out as a giggle.