Makoto Katsuragi didn't so much sit as collapse into the hard plastic chair. The waiting room of the Shirone Organization was a sterile box of off-white walls and hushed desperation. It was a space designed to amplify anxiety, and it was working. His foot, clad in a scuffed dress shoe, beat a frantic, silent rhythm against the linoleum floor. The clock above the receptionist's vacant desk ticked on, each second a tiny hammer striking his fraying nerves. The numbers swam into a blur: 8:03 a.m. 8:04 a.m. The time didn't matter. What mattered was the flyer he'd found crumpled under a park bench—a lifeline tossed into the churning waters of his unemployment.
"The Shirone Organization: Seeking dedicated individuals. No experience necessary. Generous starting salary."
"Generous" was a criminal understatement. The number printed on that flyer, a staggering $6,000 a month, had felt like a hallucination. It was a golden ticket, a way to climb out of the financial pit he'd dug for himself over the past two years. Makoto, a man with a resume as empty as his savings account, had seized it. He'd put on his best (and only) suit, meticulously knotted his cheap tie, and arrived here, clinging to the hope that this was his chance to turn his life around.
I've got this. I've got this. Nothing to be nervous about. He chanted the words like a mantra, but the frantic drumbeat of his heart drowned them out. Around him, a dozen other applicants sat in the same silent tableau of anxiety. They were all there for the same reason: a chance, a glimmer of hope in a world that had forgotten them. They were the desperate, the overlooked, and the hungry.
The door to the inner office swung open with a soft hiss, and all conversation, all nervous fidgeting, died. A woman entered, her presence a stark contrast to the room's jittery atmosphere. Her name tag read "Eliza," and she moved with a quiet, unsettling confidence. Her dark suit was tailored to perfection, and her composed demeanor seemed to drain the nervous energy right out of the room. She held a silver tray, on which a small mountain of numbered badges rested.
"Good morning," she greeted, her voice a calm, even tone that cut through the silence. "Welcome to the Shirone Organization. Please approach the tray one by one and take a badge at random. Please return to your seats immediately afterward."
A collective murmur rippled through the room. This wasn't a standard interview process. There was no resume collection, no handshake, no small talk. Just a number. Makoto's turn came, and as he stepped forward, he felt the weight of a hundred expectant eyes on his back. His hand trembled slightly as he reached for a badge, his fingers brushing against the cold plastic. He pulled out a large, circular pin with the number 149 emblazoned on it in bold black ink.
As he looked up to offer a strained "thank you," his eyes drifted. Just for a second. Eliza's blouse was crisp and professional, yet cut in a way that offered a glimpse of the curve of her chest. A faint, knowing smirk, a reflex born of old, bad habits, touched the corners of Makoto's lips. It was an instant, a flash of an old self he was trying to shed. He caught himself, but it was too late.
Eliza's brow furrowed slightly in confusion. Her gaze, sharp and perceptive, followed his. She stiffened, a faint, mortified blush creeping up her neck and staining her cheeks a furious red. Her eyes flashed with something unreadable—was it anger? Disgust? She quickly adjusted the collar of her blouse, her composure cracking for a fleeting moment before she looked away, pointedly avoiding his gaze as he returned to his seat. Makoto's face burned with a shame that was even more potent than his previous anxiety. He had just blown his chance, he was sure of it.
With everyone holding a badge, Eliza once again addressed the group, her voice now a little colder than before.
"The boss is currently observing all of you through hidden cameras. The initial screening process has already begun. I will be returning shortly to call the numbers of those who have been selected. Please keep your badges visible at all times."
With a quick, formal bow, she left the room. The door hissed shut behind her. Makoto stared at his badge, the number 149 feeling like a brand of failure. He was baffled by the strange process. Hidden cameras? An initial screening before the interview even began? He shook his head, pushing the perplexing details aside. All that mattered was the promise of a life-changing salary. The thought of that $6,000 monthly paycheck was a powerful drug, an intoxicating idea that refocused him completely.
The Waiting Game
A few minutes later, the door opened and Eliza returned. The hopeful buzz in the room, which had been simmering beneath the surface, now intensified. This was it. The moment of truth.
"Candidate 346," she called out, her voice clear and precise.
A young man with slicked-back hair and a nervous twitch stood up, a flicker of hope and relief on his face. He shot a glance back at the rest of them, a look that said, 'I made it, and you didn't.' Then he followed Eliza out of the room. The door closed, and the room became a little quieter.
Time passed in agonizingly slow increments. A minute felt like an hour. An hour felt like a lifetime. The clock's ticking was a metronome counting down their dwindling chances. More names were called, and with each one, the room grew emptier.
"Candidate 72."
"Candidate 203."
"Candidate 118."
Makoto waited. His fingers nervously traced the number on his badge. He waited. And waited. His initial anxiety gave way to a simmering irritation. Why hasn't my number come up yet? he fumed silently, his fingers now drumming a frustrated, staccato rhythm on his leg. What am I doing wrong?
Eventually, he found himself all alone in the waiting room. The chairs, once filled with nervous bodies, now sat empty, cold, and silent. He was the last one. He half-dozed in the quiet, the tension finally draining from him. A dull, resigned acceptance settled over his mind.
Well, I guess I'll be chosen now since I'm the only one left... they probably just waited for the last person.
He felt a vague, exhausted sense of relief. But Eliza didn't return. Five minutes passed. The silence in the room became oppressive. Then ten minutes. The resigned calm evaporated, replaced by a surge of pure, unadulterated anger. Makoto grit his teeth, the last dregs of his patience evaporating into the thick, stale air.
"What the hell?" he muttered to the empty room, his voice raw with frustration. "She's really taking her time."
Just then, the door burst open. Not with the soft hiss of before, but with a violent slam that made Makoto jump. A man, panting and flustered, stumbled inside. His tie was askew, his hair was a mess, and his face was slick with sweat. He looked like he'd just run a marathon.
"Ah, sorry! Sorry, I'm late!" he gasped, clutching at his chest. "Got stuck in traffic, the whole city was a mess. Is the job still open?" He blinked, his gaze sweeping over the empty chairs before settling on Makoto, who sat alone, a deadpan, blank expression on his face. "Uh… where'd everyone go?"
Makoto just stared forward, unable to form a coherent thought. The final, crushing humiliation was about to begin.
A Bitter End
Moments later, the door opened once more, and Eliza returned. Her eyes scanned the room, her gaze resting on the newcomer for a fraction of a second before moving to Makoto. A profound sense of relief washed over him as he stood up, his legs wobbly with exhaustion and hope. This was finally it. The long, humiliating ordeal was over.
But then, Eliza's gaze, which had lingered on him for only a second, flicked back to the newcomer. Her lips, which had been a thin, tense line, softened into a faint, gentle smile.
"Please follow me," she said to the latecomer, her voice warm and welcoming.
And just like that, they were gone. The door hissed shut, leaving Makoto standing alone, his hand still resting on the arm of the chair. A profound, bone-deep sense of disbelief left him stunned. He sank back into his seat, the plastic suddenly feeling cold and mocking. What… what just happened?
Minutes passed. The clock on the wall moved relentlessly forward. Eliza returned alone, her expression tight and uncomfortable. She looked at him, her gaze hesitant, her composure completely gone.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly, her voice laced with an uncomfortable sadness. "The boss won't be selecting anyone else. I need to lock up now."
Makoto let out a bitter, humorless laugh. A hollow sound that echoed in the empty room. He wasn't surprised anymore. Humiliation had long since numbed him. He'd lost to a man who was late, who couldn't even be bothered to show up on time. It was the ultimate insult.
"Thanks for wasting my time," he muttered, heading for the exit, his shoulders slumped in defeat.
As he walked past her, Eliza fiddled with her fingers, a look of genuine distress on her face. "Wait!" she blurted out, her voice a sharp plea. "Please don't feel bad. It's actually... a good thing."
Makoto paused, turning his head slightly to look at her. His gaze was cold, empty. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Eliza's eyes widened in a sudden panic. She mumbled something about needing to lock up and rushed past him, her head down, her hurried steps echoing in the now-darkened hallway. Makoto didn't care. He stepped outside, the cold, late-morning air doing little to cool the white-hot fire of his frustration. He looked back at the building, at the gleaming Shirone Organization sign, feeling a profound sense of loss and confusion. Makoto Katsuragi didn't know it yet, but failing this job interview might be the only reason he's still alive.