At Tokyo Central Hospital, the police and a doctor were having a conversation in a silent and empty hallway.
"Nothing suspicious in the postmortem, I'm afraid it's most likely a suicide case," said the doctor, adjusting his gloves.
"And he was dead way before he was brought here," he added.
The policemen worked as a team, with one of them writing down the confirmation on paper and the other relaying the information to the station.
"Headquarters. Rentaro Sakomoto reporting from T.C.H., there has been confirmation that the Haruki Arai case is confirmed to be a suicide. I repeat, it's confirmed to be a suicide."
A man in the police station, sitting on a plastic cushioned chair in front of a wooden desk, files scattered all across it, replied.
"Copy that."
Meanwhile at the hospital.
"We get it, cases like that are rising these days due to increasing poverty. Thank you for your cooperation," said the final and senior-most policeman at the hospital.
At Haruki Arai's place,
The police were searching his place as per the protocol.
Both of the investigators looked exhausted and bore an unsatisfied expression.
"You found any suicide note?"
"Nah."
"Well, me neither."
After saying that, the officer leaned against a wall beside an open window, his arms folded.
"Two hours of search and all we see around are these manga pages. The house is filled with them."
The other officer nodded and stepped towards a desk and picked up a page.
"What beautiful art, a shame he had to die."
The page had a design of a female character with long, blue hair and a shining crystal floating above her hand.
"May his soul rest peacefully," the officer said respectfully, putting the page back at the desk.
"You believe in that crap? Souls, afterlife, and rebirth shit."
"Maybe I do."
Earlier that day,
The sun was shining bright, but the weather was cold, well, colder for the month of March..Tokyo hummed with life as people headed to work and shops opened for the day. And yet, somewhere outside the chaos, sat a man at his desk.
Haruki Arai is an aspiring mangaka. He resided in a room that hadn't been cleaned for days, or at least it looked like that. He looked weak and frail, his skin was pale, and his eyes looked like they begged the eyelids to shut down.
"C'mon, Haruki, you can't slack off. One more chapter," he mumbled to himself.
But as Haruki was about to start another chapter, a familiar voice echoed outside his door, and then came the knock.
Thud!-Thud!
"Open the damn door, Haruki," someone yelled in a tone that didn't sound friendly.
Haruki sighed, as if he knew what waited for him.
"Coming."
Though his apartment was modest, the path to the door wasn't so straightforward, as the entire one-room apartment was littered with manga pages, ink stains, and pencils all over the floor, which, honestly, wasn't a problem for Haruki, as he hardly stood up from his desk. He gave that place his everything.
After a few calculated steps, Haruki reached his destination, the door.
"What took you so long?" the man outside, clearly exasperated, asked.
"I was wearing my T-shirt, Mister Watashi."
A drop of sweat ran down Haruki's forehead after the words left his mouth.
Watashi sighed.
"When are you going to give my money back?" he asked.
"Well... Um... I actually—"
"Don't waste my time, come straight to the point. When are you giving my money back?"
Haruki turned silent; he had no response, to be precise. His gaze turned to the floor beneath him. And then, in a low-pitch voice, barely audible to even him, he replied.
"I don't have any money this month, either."
"Oh, are you kidding me? How long do you wish to live on like a parasite? Get a real fucking job and quit that stupid dream of yours. Honestly, yes, it was my mistake lending your family money for your surgery to begin with."
Haruki's eyes welled up, his chest heavy. Still, he forced out a reply in a cracked voice.
"Next month—for sure. I'll give you at least part of what I owe."
Watashi, with a grin that suited a villain of a popular series, replied,
"If you don't, I will just take the farms your father has in the countryside."
30 minutes later,
Haruki lay still on a dusty mattress, neither soft nor comfortable. He held a page of his manga in his hand, up high, against the ceiling.
"Pay him up some amount by next month? Who am I kidding? I am barely affording to feed myself here."
He left the page to fly into any corner of the room and turned over sideways.
"But then if I don't..."
The words of Watashi rang in his head like an alarm.
"I will take the farms owned by your father in the countryside."
Haruki, now sweating, sat upright anxiously.
"I can't let him do it. My parents have suffered enough because of me."
But deep within, Haruki knew that he was barely surviving, and teaching neighbours' kids drawing won't magically make him the money to settle his debt.
As Haruki was gasping for air, a memory from the past struck his mind.
"Wow, Haruki, sir, your skills are super good."
A kid stared at Haruki's drawing with his mouth wide open.
"Your illustration of Boku-man is on par with the mangaka, if not better."
Haruki flickered a pen between his fingers.
"Why wouldn't it be? You're looking at the drawing of the future star mangaka."
Even though Haruki's drawing skills were great, he was still struggling to break into the manga industry. Facing rejection wasn't something new to him. Someday, because of a weak story, or once because of limited slots, he had seen it all.
But in front of this kid, who had no idea about how the real world works, Haruki stood as a role model, a hero whom he wanted to follow in the footsteps of.
Meanwhile in the present,
"Future star mangaka, huh?"
Haruki looked at his palm with a faint smile.
Then his gaze went towards his desk, still having multiple manga pages stacked on top of each other.
"Here I come, God. Though, I doubt you even exist."
These were Haruki's final words which carried the weight of despair and dead dreams.