I was slouched deep in my office chair, staring blankly at the ceiling while pretending to review a report. My thumb moved on its own, opening the chat with Tram before my brain could intervene.
Old messages filled the screen.
Her sleepy morning selfie with messy hair.
The photo of her cat giving the camera a judgmental stare.
The one where she held up the ginger tea I’d left at her door, smiling softly: “Still warm. Thanks, ninja.”
I scrolled further. The last few exchanges after the New Loc incident were painfully polite — short replies, perfect punctuation, the kind of messages that carried quiet disappointment rather than anger.
The distance between us felt heavier than ever.
I closed the app with a quiet sigh. Even when I try to move forward, I still end up dragging myself back into the same old mess.
Just as I thought my mood couldn’t sink any lower, a new email notification popped up.
Subject: Mandatory CSR Activity – “Connecting Generations” Family Day Out
I opened it.
My soul immediately filed for resignation.
The company had decided to organize a two-day, one-night camping trip with children ranging from kindergarten to middle school. Every department was required to send representatives. Attendance was mandatory. No excuses.
I stared at the screen in dead silence for a long moment, then slowly lowered my head onto the desk.
“…I’m going to die.”
I sat there for ten full seconds, contemplating my life choices, before doing the only rational thing left.
I called for backup.
First, I texted Quan.
Loc: Emergency. Company is forcing me to go on a 2-day camping trip with children. Ages 5-14. I need extraction strategies. Or poison. Whatever works faster.
His reply came in less than thirty seconds.
Quan: OMG THIS IS PERFECT!!! Character development arc!!! I’m coming over right now. We can practice storytelling, campfire songs, and emotional bonding exercises!!!
I immediately regretted my decision.
Next, I called Minh.
He picked up on the second ring, sounding like he had just woken up from a coma.
“Yo. What’s the crisis?”
“Company is making me babysit a horde of children for two days in the wilderness. I need survival gear. Psychological warfare tools. Possibly a fake medical certificate.”
There was a pause. Then Minh let out a low, demonic chuckle.
“Kindergarten Apocalypse, huh? Say no more. I’m on my way. Bring snacks. This is gonna be legendary.”
Twenty minutes later, both of them showed up at my desk like a chaotic support team.
Quan arrived first, eyes sparkling with terrifying enthusiasm. He was carrying a backpack full of colorful books, a ukulele, and what looked like a handmade “Trust Fall Certificate.”
“Big bro! This is an amazing opportunity! You can finally confront your inner child trauma! We’ll role-play scenarios. I’ll be the excited kid, you be the responsible adult—”
“Hard pass,” I cut him off immediately.
Minh strolled in right after, still in slippers, carrying a large black duffel bag that smelled suspiciously like expired chemicals and instant ramen.
“Relax, bro,” he said, dropping the bag on my desk with a heavy thud. “I came prepared. Noise-canceling headphones, industrial-strength kid repellent spray, emergency caffeine shots, and a rubber chicken that screams existential dread when squeezed.”
He pulled out the chicken and squeezed it.
“Why are you like this?”
I stared at the two of them — my hyperactive little brother radiating pure sunshine and my unhinged best friend radiating pure chaos — and felt a familiar wave of resignation wash over me.
“This is going to be a bloodbath,” I muttered.
Quan clapped his hands excitedly. “The best kind!”
Minh grinned, taking a bite of a cold bánh mì he pulled from his pocket.
“Relax, Loc. We’ve survived sentient socks, a perfect clone of you, and the Whisker Incident. A bunch of tiny humans can’t be that bad… right?”
I looked at the email still open on my screen, then at my two so-called allies, and let out a long, defeated sigh.
Famous last words.
..
The next morning, I arrived at the company’s gathering point looking like a man being sent to war with nothing but snacks and bad decisions.
Quan and Minh had spent the entire night “preparing” me. The results were absurd even by my standards.
I was wearing a tactical vest stuffed with emergency chocolate bars, noise-canceling earplugs, and three different kinds of “kid repellent spray” that Minh swore were “scientifically formulated.” My backpack had a bright yellow label that Quan had made: “Professional Adult™ – Do Not Panic.” A rubber chicken hung from the side strap, squeaking “Why are you like this?” every time I moved. Inside the bag were laminated escape routes, fake medical certificates, and a handwritten survival manual titled “How To Survive The Tiny Horde – Volume 1.”
As I stood there muttering to myself, reviewing the plan for the tenth time, my colleagues kept giving me strange looks.
“…If a kid asks why the sky is blue, distract with snacks. If they start running, deploy the rubber chicken. If they cry, abort mission and fake a sudden illness…”
One coworker whispered to another, “Is Loc… talking to himself again?”
Another replied, “He’s been like this since yesterday. I think he’s having a breakdown.”
I didn’t care. This was survival.
Then the buses arrived.
And the children spilled out like a dam had broken.
Dozens of them. Tiny hurricanes of noise and energy. Kids from kindergarten to middle school, screaming, laughing, chasing each other, already sticky with juice and full of chaotic potential.
One boy was roaring like a dinosaur while chasing a girl who was waving a stick like a lightsaber. A group of girls was already planning a rebellion against the “boring adults.” A little boy with messy hair looked straight at me, tilted his head, and asked with pure innocence:
“Mister, why do you look like you want the earth to swallow you?”
I stared at the horde — this writhing mass of unlimited stamina and zero impulse control — and felt true, bone-deep dread settle in my stomach.
This wasn’t a family day out.
This was the apocalypse.
And I was standing at ground zero wearing a tactical vest full of snacks and a squeaking rubber chicken.
I whispered one last time, voice barely audible:
“…I should have burned that fucking email.”
The first few hours of the “Connecting Generations” camping trip were surprisingly… normal.
Too normal.
We arrived at the large riverside campsite. The company staff organized ice-breaking games, team-building activities, and “inspirational” talks about dreams and the future. I participated like a man attending his own funeral — smiling stiffly, clapping at the right moments, and internally screaming the entire time.
During the “Human Knot” game, I got tangled with three enthusiastic kids who kept asking me why adults looked so tired all the time. During the trust fall, I nearly had a heart attack when a small girl trusted me to catch her. I caught her. Barely.
Everything was going according to the company’s painfully wholesome schedule.
During lunch break, while the children were scattered across the grass devouring their meals like tiny chaotic vacuum cleaners, I sat alone on a bench a short distance away, poking at my rice without much appetite.
Not far from me, a boy and a girl around ten years old were playing together. They chased each other around a tree, laughing loudly, sharing a bag of shrimp chips and making ridiculous faces at one another. Their joy was loud, innocent, and effortless.
Then, in the blink of an eye, everything flipped.
The girl suddenly stopped, crossed her arms, and puffed her cheeks.
“You’re so annoying!” she yelled.
The boy froze, looking genuinely hurt. “But I was just trying to make you laugh!”
“Well, I don’t want to laugh with you anymore!”
They turned their backs on each other, both sulking with dramatic, childish fury.
I watched them quietly.
For a brief moment, I saw echoes of Tram and me — that same awkward push-and-pull, the sudden silence after a clumsy moment. One small spark, one honest but poorly timed word, and the warmth disappeared.
A few seconds later, the boy mumbled something and hesitantly offered her the last chip. The girl hesitated… then took it. Just like that, they were laughing again, chasing each other as if the fight had never happened.
I looked down at my phone. The chat with Tram was still open from this morning. No new messages.
Kids are lucky, I thought. They can explode, cry, and forgive all within five minutes. Adults just let the silence stretch longer and longer.
I closed the app and let out a quiet breath.
Maybe that was something I still needed to learn.
After lunch break, it was the “Dream Sharing Circle.”
We were all sitting in a big circle. Each person had to share one dream they wanted to achieve. When it was my turn, I tried to keep it safe.
“Uh… I dream of having a stable internet connection and never running out of snacks,” I said.
The kids laughed. The adults gave me polite smiles.
Then a mischievous 9-year-old boy with messy hair raised his hand and asked me directly:
“Mister Loc, if you could do anything without getting tired, what would you do?”
I answered without thinking.
“…Sleep for three days straight and let someone else handle life.”
The boy’s eyes lit up like I had just revealed the secrets of the universe.
That was the spark.
Ten minutes later, the campsite descended into glorious chaos.
The children, suddenly “inspired” by my honest laziness, began their rebellion.
They refused to participate in any more scheduled activities. Instead, they formed “The Sloth Alliance” and started doing exactly what I secretly wanted to do all day: lying around, complaining about everything, and rejecting adult authority with surprising eloquence.
The dinosaur-roaring boy from earlier now lay dramatically on the grass shouting, “Existence is pain!” while eating chips.
The company staff and teachers were completely overwhelmed. They looked at me in panic.
“Loc! You’re the one who inspired them! Do something!”
Before I could run, they physically pushed me toward the center of the rebellion.
I stood there, sweating, facing an army of tiny Loc clones who were now acting exactly like me — lazy, sarcastic, and full of existential dread.
I tried using Quan’s carefully prepared plans.
First, the “Storytime Distraction.” I pulled out one of the storybooks Quan had forced me to bring and started reading in the most enthusiastic voice I could manage.
The kids stared at me for five seconds.
Then one of them deadpanned, “That story is lame. Can we just lie down instead?”
Plan failed.
Next, Minh’s “Emergency Repellent Spray.” I sprayed it everywhere.
The kids immediately started pretending it was magic mist that gave them super laziness powers. They lay down even more dramatically.
I was losing ground fast.
And then the worst happened.
As the children became more and more like me, I started becoming… more like them.
I suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to join their pillow fort. I caught myself whining about how “team-building activities are a social construct designed to torture introverts.” I even started arguing with a 7-year-old about whether pineapple belongs on pizza.
Minh and Quan were probably sitting at home right now, eating snacks and laughing at the group chat updates.
Meanwhile, I was stuck in the middle of a rebellion I had accidentally started, slowly turning into the very thing I feared most:
A giant, sarcastic, extremely honest child.
The infection spread like wildfire.
One honest answer about wanting to sleep for three days straight was all it took. Within an hour, the carefully planned “Connecting Generations” itinerary had completely collapsed.
The children had formed “The Sloth Kingdom.” They built a massive pillow fort using every blanket, cushion, and sleeping bag they could find. A group of kids lay sprawled dramatically across the grass, refusing to participate in any more scheduled activities.
“Running is oppression,” one 8-year-old declared while eating chips.
“Team building is a social construct,” another added with surprising conviction.
And somehow — against my will — I had been crowned their king.
At first, I hated it with every fiber of my being.
I sat on that stupid throne made of stacked pillows and stolen blankets, wearing a ridiculous crown of leaves and twigs, while a horde of sugar-high children bowed to me like I was some kind of deity of laziness.
“This is hell,” I muttered as a 6-year-old solemnly presented me with a half-melted chocolate bar as tribute. “Absolute hell.”
But then… something inside me broke.
Or maybe awakened.
After the third kid asked for permission to skip the trust-fall activity, I leaned back on my throne, crossed my legs, and spoke with newfound authority:
“Listen up, my loyal subjects of the Sloth Kingdom.”
The children immediately quieted down, eyes wide with excitement.
“From this moment forth, all scheduled fun is hereby banned. Anyone caught smiling too enthusiastically will be sentenced to ten minutes of mandatory philosophical discussion about how existence is suffering.”
The kids cheered like I had just declared national pizza day.
I got bolder.
“New law: Competitive napping is now the official sport of the realm. The winner gets to skip all future team-building activities for life.”
“Law number 47: All adults must speak in whispers after 2 PM. Law number 68: Complaining is a protected human right. Law number 92: If a teacher approaches, you are legally required to pretend you’re asleep. This is called tactical napping.”
I even started handing out ridiculous titles.
“You — you shall be Sir Chips the Unmovable. And you… Duchess of Doing Absolutely Nothing.”
By this point, I was fully leaning into it. I had a chocolate bar scepter and everything. A small, terrible part of me was enjoying being the supreme ruler of chaos.
Then Mr. Khang, my department head, stormed over like a man whose retirement plan had just exploded.
“NGUYEN VAN LOC!” he bellowed, face purple with rage. “What the hell is this?! This is a company event, not your personal anarchist summer camp! You have thirty seconds to disband this nonsense before I fire you on the spot!”
The entire campsite fell silent. Even the wind seemed to stop.
All eyes turned to me.
Before I could respond, a small 9-year-old boy with messy hair and sharp eyes stepped forward like a tiny lawyer.
He looked up at Mr. Khang with a perfectly deadpan expression and said:
“Mr. Boss, please don’t talk to our king like that. He’s not committing any crime, neither are we. King Loc has achieved true enlightenment. He understands that the highest form of productivity is strategic rest. We are following his wise example.“
His speech was everything that I needed.
I slowly rose from my pillow throne, leaf crown slightly crooked, chocolate stains on my shirt, looking every bit the reluctant king who had finally accepted his destiny.
“Well said, well said. Now, leave the rest to me, my wise man.”
Then, I looked Mr. Khang straight in the eyes and spoke with calm, deadpan majesty:
“With all due respect, sir… forcing children and adults to perform mandatory joy is emotional terrorism. The Sloth Kingdom stands for the sacred right to rest, to complain, and to reject toxic productivity.”
I raised my chocolate scepter high.
“Therefore, as His Majesty King Sloth the First, Defender of Naps and Supreme Ruler of Doing Absolutely Nothing… I officially declare this campsite a sovereign nation of strategic laziness.”
The children erupted into the loudest, most chaotic cheer of the day.
My boss stood frozen, mouth agape, completely defeated by a man wearing a leaf crown and holding a melted chocolate bar like it was Excalibur.
For one glorious, ridiculous moment, I felt unstoppable.
Mr. Khang threw his hands up in defeat and stormed off, muttering something about “early retirement” and “I didn’t sign up for this circus.”
I thought the war was over.
I was very, very wrong.
The power vacuum lasted exactly four seconds.
A boy suddenly shouted, “King Loc needs a Supreme Lazy General! It should be me!”
A girl immediately shot back, “No way! Girls are better at being lazy! We deserve the title!”
Within ten seconds, the entire pillow fort turned into a battlefield of tiny politicians fighting for royal positions:
• “I want to be Prince of Procrastination!”
• “I should be Duke of Doing Nothing All Day!”
• “I’m the rightful Queen of Strategic Napping!”
Pillows flew. Blankets were used as flags. Someone declared a “Cushion Civil War.” A dramatic girl lay on the ground and fake-cried, “If I can’t be Princess of Eternal Rest, then the kingdom means nothing!”
In the middle of the chaos, I spotted the same boy and girl from lunch. Even while on “opposite sides” of the pillow war, they kept subtly helping each other — passing snacks, shielding one another from flying cushions, and exchanging quick glances. Their little rivalry was still there, but underneath it was an undeniable, childish loyalty.
I found myself staring for a second too long.
Even kids can fight and still stand by each other… Meanwhile, I can’t even keep a normal conversation with Tram without screwing it up.
I quickly snapped back to reality, trying to use my “King Sloth” authority to stop the madness.
“Everyone calm down!” I declared in my most regal, deadpan voice. “As Supreme Ruler of Strategic Laziness, I decree that all titles are abolished. Just… nap. Everyone naps. That’s the law.”
The children paused.
Then the chaos exploded even harder.
“You can’t take away our titles!”
“That’s tyranny!”
“We demand a democratic vote for who gets to be the laziest!”
Pillows rained down like artillery. A group of boys tried to build a rival throne. The girls responded by creating the “Queen’s Eternal Nap Citadel.” Someone started chanting “Lazy Revolution!”
I stood there in my crooked leaf crown, completely powerless, watching my short-lived kingdom tear itself apart over who could be the most unproductive.
In the distance, I could see Minh and Quan (who had somehow snuck into the campsite) sitting comfortably under a tree, eating snacks and laughing their asses off while filming the entire disaster.
I sighed deeply, adjusting my ridiculous crown.
“Long live the Sloth Kingdom…” I muttered.
A flying pillow hit me directly in the face.
Even as king, I was still getting bullied.
Just when the Pillow Civil War was about to reach its bloody climax, the company staff rolled out their final, desperate weapon.
Dessert.
Dozens of colorful boxes of cakes, cookies, chocolates, and ice cream suddenly appeared like divine intervention. The scent of sugar hit the battlefield like a tactical nuke.
The children froze.
For one brief, sacred second, the entire Sloth Kingdom held its breath.
Then, like a biblical swarm, they abandoned everything.
Thrones were deserted.
Pillows were left mid-throw.
The Supreme Lazy General dropped his banner and sprinted toward the snack table with a blood-curdling war cry of “CHOCOLAAAAATE!!!”
My once-loyal subjects turned into a chaotic tidal wave of tiny sugar addicts, trampling over their own revolutionary ideals in pursuit of free candy.
I stood alone on my now-empty pillow throne, leaf crown slightly tilted, chocolate scepter slowly melting in my hand, watching my glorious empire collapse in real time.
“…And thus,” I muttered dramatically, “the Sloth Kingdom fell not to war, not to betrayal, but to fucking Oreos.”
Quan and Minh finally walked over, both failing miserably at hiding their laughter.
“Your Majesty,” Quan said, barely holding it together, “you ruled wisely for a whole nineteen minutes. A legendary reign.”
Minh patted my shoulder with fake solemnity. “They loved you. They really did. Right up until the moment free snacks showed up. Classic.”
I looked at the battlefield — pillows scattered like fallen soldiers, blankets abandoned, children now sticky and hyperactive, completely forgetting they had just declared independence from adult oppression.
My short-lived kingdom had ended in the most undignified way possible.
I took off my pathetic leaf crown, tossed it onto the pile of pillows, and let out a long, tired sigh.
“Well,” I said, deadpan, “at least I went out on top. For seventeen glorious minutes, I was the laziest king this campsite had ever seen.”
Somewhere in the distance, a little girl shouted while holding two cookies:
“Long live King Loc!”
I couldn’t help but smile faintly.
Even if my reign lasted less than half an hour…
It was still the most productive thing I’d done all year.
