Takizawa found Matsuoka on a bench by a vending machine, slumped against the wall, head drooping, hair half-hiding a weary face, fast asleep.
He looked like ash dusted with snow, so still Takizawa hesitated to disturb him.
But the studio would close soon, and security would shoo them out.
Takizawa crouched and gave a gentle pat. Matsuoka jolted, lifting his head, blinking bloodshot eyes.
"…Takizawa?" Matsuoka mumbled, rubbing his eyes after a moment's daze.
"Fell asleep here?" Takizawa asked softly.
"Didn't mean to. Just closed my eyes and conked out," Matsuoka said, stretching his stiff neck. "Didn't bother anyone, did I?"
"You've been pushing too hard lately. Those dark circles are intense," Takizawa said, concerned.
"Same pace as always. Maybe the auditions and line prep are draining me more," Matsuoka replied with a warm smile.
"How'd it go today?"
"Passed," Matsuoka said, brightening. "Your villain?"
"Flopped," Takizawa shrugged.
"Damn, we could've shared a scene… even if I'd just get obliterated," Matsuoka said, genuinely bummed.
"We'll get another shot. Wanna grab dinner? My treat. Eat up, then rest. Sleep's crucial," Takizawa offered generously, a warmth his agent rarely got.
"I've got a shift till three a.m.," Matsuoka said, sheepish. "Next time?"
"You sure? Can you handle that?" Takizawa frowned.
"It's just a shift. Late nights aren't busy. I can nap in between," Matsuoka waved off.
"Can't take a day off?" Takizawa pressed.
"Lose pay," Matsuoka said calmly, matter-of-factly.
Takizawa fell silent. Pushing further would be performative kindness, meddling without meaning.
"Catch you later," Matsuoka said, standing, stretching, and slapping his cheeks to wake up.
"If you need help, say so," Takizawa called after his tired figure. "Be as shameless as I was, crashing at your place."
Matsuoka nodded, promising to reach out.
But he knew he wouldn't call for help. He was used to his own grind, never whining to family even at his worst. Why burden a friend?
Train, shop, change for his shift.
People called him an honest guy, bad at lying.
But everyone lies, and he was no exception.
On brief calls home, he swore he was doing fine in Tokyo—nine-to-five, hearty meals, light workload.
His night job at a bar, with blaring music, rowdy voices, and flashing lights, made napping impossible.
Only after midnight, when the hyped-up, flush crowd dispersed, could he skip cleanup and rest a few hours.
At dawn, he delivered newspapers by bike.
Since graduating from training, with no classes, he had more free time, but the hustle never slowed. The industry's dropout rate was brutal—newbies who didn't break out often sank forever.
At the agency, he saw faded colleagues, past their prime, lingering for one last shot. Their desperate silhouettes pierced his heart.
Every audition was precious.
But heading to a set, knowing it wasn't practice but a career-defining battle, his mouth went dry, heart racing, haunted by visions of failure.
He pored over sparse, trivial side-character lines to focus, dodging anxiety.
The workplace carried a subtle gravity—not play, but survival. Colleagues of all stripes heightened the tension.
Before recording, it was free time. Veterans and rookies mingled, exchanging greetings. Seasoned pros were at ease; newbies, more reserved, though some extroverts shone.
Matsuoka envied those who could chat up strangers effortlessly.
Back in Hokkaido, he'd tried learning people skills at a busy hardware store, but his boss gently nudged him from the front desk to hauling stock.
"91 Production's Mukai Shi, looking forward to working with you."
"Tosei's Nagamura Sora, please guide me!"
"Aoni Production's Shoki Mitsu, let's do this together."
"I'm I'm Enterprise's Matsuoka, thanks for having me."
He wanted to say more than the standard line, but seeing the veterans reminiscing and his greeting met with mild responses, he quietly slipped to a corner, burying himself in his script.
With his experience, the sidelines suited him.
This episode needed lots of voices, and the studio was unusually packed with actors.
"May I sit here?"
A soft, polite voice pulled Matsuoka from his script.
A young, petite girl clutched her lines, shoulder-length hair smooth, a brown sweater over her school uniform. She smelled clean, like shampoo and body wash—a simple, youthful scent.
Her face was still a bit childlike but lovely, her demeanor shy and gentle, like a skittish bird or kitten in a park.
"Of course, go ahead," Matsuoka said quietly.
"Thanks."
She sat silently, close enough their shoulders brushed, her warmth faintly perceptible through fabric, her shampoo's floral scent stronger.
Matsuoka, carrying the bar's stale booze and exhaustion, leaned toward the wall, not wanting to trouble such a nice kid.
The chatter settled as recording began. Everyone took turns at the four mics, following their cues.
"This is all you've got, and you call yourself a hero? Spill the key's location from the start, and you'd have been spared the pain!"
"You don't get it… the meaning of protection."
The screen showed rough storyboards, the sound director listening intently behind glass.
"They're just using you. Those lofty arbiters weave grand speeches to make fools like you sacrifice willingly, basking in self-righteous glory!"
"Don't you dare… tarnish her ideals."
Just sketches, but the veterans' delivery carried vivid intensity, painting the scene even with eyes closed.
Matsuoka, lips tight, soaked in their skill, then stepped up for his turn.
"They've lost their chance to escape the Holy Gate! No, it's not over—find the gaps, now!"
"Mana density's at 79.8%, convergence rising, nearing critical. A vortex reaction's started within ten kilometers—" Matsuoka recited swiftly, steadily, having rehearsed countless times.
"System's pinpointed seven gaps. X39 protocol's active, giving us a ten-second window before full lockdown," The girl beside him said, shorter by a head, her soft voice crisp and commanding despite her youth.
Their researcher roles done, they stepped back, yielding the mics, and returned to their seats.
Their movements oddly synced. Before sitting, she gave him a kind nod and smile.
Matsuoka flashed a quick thumbs-up, then sat like a front-row student, script in hand.
In his peripheral vision, she sat with hands on knees, focused on the performance ahead.
For once, Matsuoka didn't study the veterans. He recalled her introduction.
"Yui Ogura from Style Cube. I'm still green, so I hope I don't trouble anyone."
Timid but standing tall in this harsh industry.
Kids these days are something else.
***
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