"Who are you really? You are absolutely, absolutely not my mom and dad." Oura jumped up from the sofa and declared firmly.
"Sweetheart, what nonsense are you talking about? Of course we're your mom and dad. Does Oura have a fever?" His mother reached out to check his forehead as she spoke.
Oura dodged her hand and said resolutely, "If I got a hundred on a test, my parents would only think I'd copied someone else's paper or changed the score. They would never celebrate. And they definitely wouldn't take me to kindergarten." Holding up the perfect-score test paper, he spoke loudly. Then he suddenly paused and tore it to pieces. "A hundred? How could I possibly get a score like that? I don't recognize a single question on it. What the hell is going on here?"
As Oura rejected the illusion, the room's layout rapidly changed into the ramen shop downstairs, and his parents became the shop's owner and his wife. Yet Oura noticed nothing amiss.
"Oura, here's your ramen." The owner, dressed in a long robe, brought the ramen to his table and said warmly, "How about becoming my apprentice, Oura? You could help me take my ramen business worldwide someday."
"Okay!" Oura cried happily and eagerly began eating.
After finishing the ramen, Oura knitted his brows tightly. The ramen had certainly tasted good, but there had been pork in it. Should I tell the owner? Was this a business strategy, or had someone tricked him? If someone had tricked him, would he go off and pull an Allahu Akbar? If it was his own strategy, would asking questions get me Allahu Akbar'd?
The scene changed again. This time, Oura was on a soccer field, about to shoot. Everyone in the stands had their eyes fixed on him.