Chapter 4 - Hikata's Commercial Debut
Morning in Tokyo began like a long exhale. The world was waking slowly, drowsy under the pale spill of sunlight that crept between the towers. At Hukitaske Pharmacy, the hum of the refrigerator mixed with the faint tick of the wall clock. Everything was calm — the kind of calm that comes before comedy or chaos.
Akio adjusted his glasses and looked down at the prescription in front of him, his brow furrowed in that way that said, "If I focus hard enough, maybe the numbers will stop dancing." Across the room, Rumane was watering the little succulents by the window. Misaki sat perched on the counter like a crow on a phone wire, sipping iced coffee. Yasahute was half-asleep behind a pile of herbal records. And Hikata—well, Hikata was suspiciously quiet.
Too quiet.
The peace shattered like glass when Misaki slammed a crumpled newspaper onto the counter with enough force to make the succulents tremble.
"YOU MADE A COMMERCIAL!?"
Akio jumped. "What?"
Misaki's eyes were wild, like she'd just discovered someone had replaced her coffee with decaf. "Don't play dumb. Look!"
She spun the paper around, and there — in glorious full-color ink — was Hikata.
Grinning. Beaming. Posing like a discount superhero in a blindingly white lab coat, a bottle of pills in one hand and a sparkle effect exploding behind him. Cartoon pills with eyes and capes danced around his head. The headline screamed:
'POWER PILLS & HUG HEARTS! — THE NEW FACE OF HUKITASKE PHARMACY?'
Rumane froze. Yasahute choked on his tea. Misaki pointed at the page like it was an unsolved crime.
And right on cue, the door creaked open. Hikata stepped in, whistling, holding an apple and looking far too pleased with himself.
"Morning, team!" he said, biting into the apple.
Akio raised a trembling hand. "Explain."
Hikata looked between them, blinked once, and shrugged. "Oh, that? Yeah, that's my creative outreach initiative."
"Your what?"
"It's called branding, Akio. You wouldn't understand."
Misaki's voice hit a pitch that could wake the dead. "You filmed a commercial without telling anyone!?"
"Not a commercial, exactly. More like... a vision statement. I found a freelance director online who owed me a favor, and—well—things escalated. We used green screen, foam swords, and some of Rumane's old lab equipment for props."
Rumane: "...You what."
"Relax! No chemicals were harmed in the making of this masterpiece."
He pulled out his phone and proudly queued up the video.
The group leaned in as the screen filled with color. The music began: overly heroic, the kind of trumpet fanfare that belonged in a Saturday morning cartoon. The scene opened on a cartoon Tokyo under siege by giant bacteria monsters. People screamed, buildings toppled — and then, from the heavens, descended Hikata.
His voice boomed over the chaos:
"WHEN GERMS STRIKE—HUKITASKE PHARMACY STRIKES BACK!"
He karate-chopped a virus the size of a truck, lasers beaming from his eyes. Sparkles burst everywhere. Then came the tagline:
"HUKITASKE PHARMACY — WHERE YOUR PAIN GETS K.O.'D!"
The video ended with a wink and an explosion of glitter.
The silence afterward could have swallowed a universe.
Then Yasahute, cheeks red, broke first. He laughed so hard he tipped over a syrup bottle. Misaki threw her hands up. "I can't believe this!"
Akio buried his face in his hands. "Hikata, you've doomed us all."
"Doomed? More like trending!" Hikata grinned. "I sent it to the local broadcaster for the fun of it, and guess what? They're airing it during tonight's regional segment."
Rumane groaned. "Why are you like this?"
"Charisma, baby. Pure charisma."
That evening, when the commercial actually aired, the entire city block might as well have heard Akio's soul leave his body.
He watched, frozen, as the screen glowed with the unholy fusion of anime and medical professionalism gone rogue. Yasahute laughed until he wheezed. Misaki recorded his reaction. Rumane went to make tea in silence, muttering ancient curses under her breath.
The next morning, the phone rang nonstop.
"Do your pills really sparkle?"
"Can I meet the guy with laser eyes?"
"My kid wants to know if your medicine gives you super strength!"
One elderly caller whispered, "Is Hikata-san there? Could you ask him to bless my vitamins?"
Akio massaged his temples. "We're going to need a second phone line."
But amidst the circus, something unexpected bloomed.
New customers began trickling in — curious, smiling, entertained. A father and his sons came to take photos. A group of college kids arrived giggling, asking for "Power Pills" (they left with vitamin C). And one shy student, cheeks pink, admitted she saw the ad online and "just wanted to see if the real place was as warm as it looked."
Akio, bewildered, watched Hikata kneel beside a child and explain what immune boosters were using toy metaphors. The child clapped like it was magic.
Misaki leaned on the counter, smirking. "Ridiculous. But kind of brilliant."
Akio nodded slowly. "It's like... laughter disguised as marketing."
The commercial didn't fix everything, but it changed something. The pharmacy felt lighter, brighter — as if someone had opened a window and let joy in.
And for the first time in weeks, Akio laughed without guilt.
The Broken Pill Dispenser
Wednesday afternoons were always chaos — the after-lunch rush, the symphony of receipts and murmured orders. That's when it happened.
The automated pill dispenser — Akio's pride and joy, the machine he had lovingly maintained like a mechanical child — let out a sputter. Then a grind. Then a long, pitiful whine.
The sound that followed was like a dying walrus.
"No, no, no," Akio muttered, pressing buttons like he was performing CPR. "Not today, not you."
The display flashed ERROR CODE 117-B in cruel red letters. Then — poof! — a puff of powdered medicine exploded from the hatch, coating the counter and half of Misaki's hair in white dust.
She froze, blinking through the haze. "Akio... did it just sneeze on me?"
Patients stared. Akio could feel their eyes. His pulse quickened — panic clawing at his ribs.
Then Rumane's voice sliced through the tension. "Manual prep. Now."
No panic. Just command.
Misaki darted to the back for backup forms. Yasahute, calm as a monk, started handing out hot barley tea to the waiting patients. Hikata grabbed masks. Rumane cleared space at the counter.
Akio took a long breath and rolled up his sleeves. Mortar. Pestle. Precision.
They worked by hand — grinding, mixing, labeling — the way pharmacists once did before automation. The room filled with rhythmic motion and quiet focus. Time blurred.
Hours later, the final prescription slid across the counter. The last patient bowed deeply before stepping into the rainy night.
The team slumped to the floor, surrounded by powder and empty cups.
"That," Hikata panted, "was better than leg day."
Riki entered right then, holding a bag of sports drinks like a saint. "You all look like you survived a small war." He passed them out. "To teamwork."
They drank. No speeches. Just soft smiles in the flickering fluorescent light.
Strangers and Regulars
Hukitaske Pharmacy began to take on its own heartbeat.
Every day, faces returned. The elderly man who never remembered his wallet but always remembered everyone's names. The office lady who bought the same sleep aid every Thursday, never speaking more than a thank you — until one day she left a note:
"Your kindness is the only thing keeping me steady."
There was even a high schooler who once came in asking about... chickens. None of them knew what he meant, but Misaki sold him calming tea and sent him off smiling.
Some days were slow and golden. Others were wild, full of laughter and spilled antiseptic.
Akio began to notice the rhythm — the subtle choreography of lives crossing paths. A pharmacy wasn't just medicine. It was a refuge. A small stage where strangers remembered they weren't alone.
And within that rhythm, Hikata's commercial — absurd and over-the-top — had become an inside joke among the regulars. They quoted lines. Kids drew fan art. Someone even brought in a toy cape for him to wear during "Power Hour Fridays."
Akio shook his head, smiling. "You've become a local mascot."
"Correction," Hikata said, striking a pose. "A pharmaceutical icon."
"More like a cautionary tale."
"Details."
A Letter from the Ex-Wife
It came quietly, wrapped in soft beige paper. The handwriting was elegant, careful. No return address.
Akio didn't open it right away. He tucked it into his coat pocket and carried it through the day — as if it might vanish if opened too soon.
He helped an old lady find her arthritis cream. Guided a child through his first allergy prescription. Smiled when Misaki scolded Hikata for using the blood pressure monitor as a "stress test."
When evening finally fell and the lanterns dimmed, Akio sat alone at the counter and unfolded the letter.
The ink was faint. The words, measured.
She had moved on. She was remarried now. Happy, she said. She'd seen the news clip, the festival photos, the little story about the "stormlight night" that someone had written online.
"I'm glad you made it, Akio," the letter read. "Our daughter would have loved to see this."
The words hit softly — like rain on glass. Not sharp, not cruel. Just true.
He sat there a long time, staring at the floor tiles. Then he let the letter fall to his lap.
For once, he didn't fight the ache. He let it exist.
Outside, the storm rolled in again — gentle this time. The kind that doesn't destroy, only cleans.
Rumane peeked in, saw the letter, and didn't speak. She just turned on the kettle and left a cup of tea by his hand.
Some moments arrive like thunder. Others like soft dawn.
And in the quiet glow of the pharmacy, Akio realized that both could heal — in their own strange ways.
That night, before closing, Hikata switched off the lights and turned to Akio. "You know, boss," he said softly, "that commercial wasn't just for fun. I wanted people to see you. To see us. To remember that medicine isn't just bottles and boxes — it's people. Hearts. Hope."
Akio looked at him, startled. For once, Hikata wasn't joking.
"...You're still banned from marketing," Akio said finally, smiling.
"Fair." Hikata grinned, tipping an imaginary hat. "But it worked, didn't it?"
Akio looked around — at the neatly stacked shelves, the faint laughter from the back room, the rain-damp air thick with the scent of antiseptic and belonging.
"Yes," he said. "It did."
[Next: Chapter 5 — An Old Photo, A Silent Cry]