A/N: Kazuto Kurohara's (Protagonist) illustration in the comment section.
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Kazuto paused typing on his laptop, fingers hovering over the keys as he glanced around his room.
It was small—efficiently compact, if one were being generous—with only the most rudimentary furnishings scattered about like an afterthought. His desk, exiled to a corner, barely had the decency to accommodate his laptop and the perpetually disorganized stack of papers squatting beside it. A few high school textbooks still occupied the bookshelf, untouched and slowly acquiring a dignified layer of dust. The single window offered a view of the city's nightscape, though at this hour it was mostly just a vague suggestion of distant light pollution. The desk lamp—dim, warm, and ageing—provided the only illumination. He preferred it that way. Overhead lighting was for optimists.
His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall.
'12:47, huh...? According to most sleep studies, I'm doing everything wrong.'
Anyway, he'd been grinding away at his fanfic novel for hours.
It's the usual harem nonsense: an original male protagonist surrounded by an ensemble of implausibly attractive women, each saddled with a conveniently marketable personality flaw. It wasn't high art—not even medium art—but it had its audience. Evidently, quality was an optional extra.
The money wasn't terrible. Enough that he could convince himself he wasn't completely wasting his life. This draft in particular had evolved into a modestly profitable side hustle.
If he could just stretch the numbers a bit more, maybe—just maybe—he could finally hand in his resignation with something resembling dignity.
'Ah, yes. The day job.'
He worked in general accounting. Specifically, for a villa and resort management firm. Respectable on paper. The pay, however, was criminally low—technically below minimum wage, if you looked at the numbers. Not exactly the sort of place one dreams of wasting away the next forty years.
But right now, all he really cared about was not being late to work.
'The last thing I needed was another round of passive-aggressive nagging from that witch!'
That witch being Ms. Igarashi—his direct supervisor and, more accurately, a walking HR violation in heels. She had the uncanny ability to make every reminder sound like an indictment and every compliment like a veiled threat. Somehow, she managed to raise her eyebrows without moving a single facial muscle.
Officially, she was the Assistant Manager. Unofficially, she ran the entire department through sheer force of will and an endless supply of snide remarks. Her idea of "constructive feedback" usually involved cc'ing the entire office on a mistake Kazuto made three weeks ago.
'Damn witch! I hope someone throw you into the 14th century!'
With that completely rational wish aired into the world, Kazuto leaned back in his chair and stretched—arms overhead, spine releasing a chorus of unsettling pops—as a weary groan escaped him.
His throat was dry. He glanced around the room, hoping against all logic that a forgotten bottle of water might magically appear.
But no such luck.
He sighed. 'Looks like I'll have to nip out and get some...'
Hydration: the unsung cornerstone of modern survival.
Pulling on his jacket, he grabbed his keys and wallet from the counter before heading for the door. The night air met him with a sharp, refreshing chill as he stepped outside.
It was early June. Technically summer.
Over a year had already passed since graduation.
The irony wasn't lost on him. He wasn't even meant to be in accounting. He'd graduated from a vocational high school with a focus on Graphic Arts—offset printing, digital, screen printing, packaging, layout design. The whole shebang. Sure, there'd been the odd business module thrown in for flavor, brushing up against basic accounting principles, mostly through sales calculations and cost projections. A light flirtation with the world of finance, nothing more. In hindsight, perhaps it leaned more towards marketing.
Not that it mattered—he hadn't been particularly invested in any of it.
The only reason he'd ended up in his current job was because the villa's accounting department had been scraping the barrel. Desperate times and all that. Desperate enough to hire him, apparently. The pay was mediocre on a good day, and the place had developed a bit of a revolving-door reputation. The previous accountant had been one bad week away from walking out—was practically being guilt-tripped into staying—until Kazuto turned up and got fast-tracked into the role.
Lucky him.
Oh, and he lied to get in. Obviously.
Not a massive lie—just a strategic reinterpretation of reality. The company had been desperate enough to buy it, anyway. He did know his way around Excel, and by extension, computers in general. Enough to fake competence until he could patch together the real thing.
He crossed the street, heading past the familiar convenience store he usually dropped by after work. Just as he reached for the door handle, a voice called out from nearby.
"Kurohara-kun?"
'Huh?'
He froze mid-step and turned towards the voice. His confused expression softened almost immediately. "Ah. Miho-san."
It was his coworker—Miho Akemi, who worked in the HR department. Pushing thirty but still effortlessly put-together, with a sleek bob and an annoyingly natural sense of style. Even off the clock, she looked like she was en route to some minimalist fashion shoot. She wasn't married—something their colleagues were gossiping about often—but if it bothered her, she didn't show it.
"That's me," she said with a laugh.
"What're you doing out here at this hour?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
She gave a casual shrug. "Craving a snack. You?"
"Just grabbing a drink," he said, laughing lightly. "Figured I should stretch my legs. Been sat too long—spinal alignment is a distant memory at this point."
Miho chuckled as she stepped a little closer. "You're still so young, Kurohara-kun… What are you now, eighteen?"
He briefly considered pointing out the age gap, but thought better of it. Bantering with HR was always a gamble. One wrong sentence and suddenly your holiday requests went missing.
He shrugged. "Turned nineteen last month."
"I see... Try to find something fun along the way," she said, her tone mock-wise. "Or you'll end up like one of those pensioners moaning that life passed them by."
"Trust me, I'm already halfway there."
She laughed again. "Well then, off you go—get your drink. I'm heading in for my crisps."
"Sure thing."
He gave her a lazy wave and stepped into the shop.
The brightness inside hit him like a slap—sterile fluorescents that made everything look either too clean or somehow radioactive. The shelves were lined with the usual offerings: snacks, drinks, microwavable regret, and the kind of junk food that induced guilt after you ate it.
Kazuto grabbed a cold bottle from the fridge and made his way to the till. He caught Miho out of the corner of his eye in the snack aisle, casually tossing crisps into her basket. He didn't bother acknowledging her again. No need for extra conversation. They'd fulfilled their workplace social quota for the week.
Back outside, the evening air greeted him with that same crisp chill. It felt good against his skin—better than the awkward humidity that had started creeping in lately.
He cracked the bottle open, took a long drink, and kept walking.
His thoughts drifted—unfortunately.
He'd started writing when he was about fifteen or sixteen—still in his school uniform, still pretending to have a roadmap for life. Even then, he'd known what he wanted to do: make a career out of it. Maybe not right away. But eventually. Give it five, ten years. Build something real. Make it last.
Turned out that was easier said than done when you were juggling school, exams, part-time jobs, and a rapidly deteriorating social battery. Time was the main villain. Ideas came in second. And in third place—the rather inconvenient reality that his taste in fiction rarely lined up with what people actually liked to read from his works.
He liked fantasy. Dark fantasy, specifically. Gritty, miserable, cathartic. Stuff like Shadow Slave, Lord of the Mysteries, or the lesser-known Grimgar of Fantasy and Ash. The kind of stories where people cried, bled, broke—and occasionally, healed. But what sold for him?
Romance.
Somehow, he had a knack for writing high school girls with pretty eyes, and for whatever reason, that drew readers like moths to a bonfire of unresolved issues.
His face scrunched slightly at the fact. 'Man, it's hard to do everything to go along your way, huh?'
He took another sip, letting the cold drink dull the heat rising behind his eyes. The street was quiet, only the soft hum of distant traffic and the occasional clink of bicycle chains passing by. For a moment, it felt like the world had slowed down, as if giving him space to wallow just a little longer.
But that quiet little moment of introspection didn't last long.
"—?!"
A blinding flash of light burst in front of him, searing white and far too close.
'What the hell—another Hiroshima incident?!'
Panic came first. Rational thought took its sweet time catching up.
Fortunately, this wasn't that.
When he opened his eyes again, the lighting had changed—softer now, diffused. None of the harsh fluorescence from the convenience store.
No, this was the kind of golden glow you got from school windows in the late afternoon.
'…Wait. School?'
'Am I in a classroom?'
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A/N: Rate it from 1 to 10, with the reasoning as well, if possible. That'll help me covering what's lacking from the story.
7+ Advanced Chapters: https://www.patreon.com/c/YvisEV
Words Count: 1,543