The low-frequency hum of a high-end PC fan was the only thing cutting through the heavy, stagnant silence of the apartment. Leo Vance, twenty-one years old and a self-proclaimed professional shut-in, leaned back until his ergonomic chair groaned in protest. He was in a full recline, legs kicked out, staring at his dual-monitor setup with a look of profound, soul-deep exhaustion. On the primary screen, a high-definition Blu-ray rip of a popular anime was paused, the colors vibrant and the linework crisp enough to cut glass.
Leo reached up and rubbed the bridge of his nose, his fingers catching on the dark circles that had become a permanent fixture of his face. He rested his chin on one hand, his brow furrowed as he glared at the frozen frame of the male lead.
"Dude... seriously? What was the writer even smoking when they greenlit this guy?" Leo's voice was a raspy mutter, the sound of someone who hadn't spoken to another human in forty-eight hours.
He reached for his mouse and clicked the 'X' on his media player. The window vanished instantly, replaced by a desktop wallpaper of a moody, rain-slicked Seattle skyline—a reminder of home. He was done. He didn't have the stomach for another minute of it.
The show was Saekano: How to Raise a Boring Girlfriend. On paper, it was a masterpiece. Top-tier animation, voice acting that hit every emotional beat with surgical precision, and a soundtrack that could make a stone cry. Visually, it was a ten out of ten. But the story? The story made Leo want to put his fist through the drywall.
Specifically, the protagonist: Aki Tomoya.
To Leo, Aki wasn't just a dense harem lead; he was a calculated, scheming little prick. He spent the entire series leveraging the deep, complicated feelings of the girls around him to fuel his own hobby. He dangled just enough hope in front of them to keep them around, refusing to ever actually step up or make a choice, all so they'd keep pouring their world-class talent into his indie dating game for free.
"If the guy just picked one, I'd respect him," Leo grumbled, shifting in his seat. The fabric of his worn hoodie felt rough against his neck. "Heck, even if he went full scumbag and tried to keep them all, at least he'd be honest about it. But this? This 'I'm too pure to notice you love me' act while he milks them for free labor? That's some next-level toxicity."
Leo sighed, staring up at the popcorn ceiling of his cramped Tokyo apartment. He'd lived in Japan long enough to know that their storytelling tropes leaned heavily into this kind of slow-burn indecision, but as an American, it just felt like watching a slow-motion train wreck where the conductor was actively sabotaging the brakes. He remembered a meme he'd seen once—some old Hollywood director looking confused and saying, "The Japanese have gone mad." Usually, Leo didn't agree, but today? Today, that director was a prophet.
Being a massive anime fan was a double-edged sword. On one hand, living in the heart of the industry meant he was drowning in content. On the other hand, Leo wasn't just a viewer; he was a writer.
He made his living in the trenches of the internet, churning out fanfiction for a hungry audience back in the States and across the globe. But he didn't just write fluff. Leo specialized in "fix-it" fics—taking these exact kinds of infuriating stories and rewriting them so the characters actually acted like human beings with backbones.
He rewatched these shows with the intensity of a forensic investigator, taking notes on every plot hole and every moment of character assassination. But rewatching Saekano for his latest project was starting to feel like a form of self-torture.
"I spend all day fixing everyone else's regrets," Leo whispered to the empty room. "But who's gonna fix mine?"
He stood up, his joints popping like bubble wrap. He needed air. The apartment felt like it was closing in, smelling faintly of stale coffee and the ozone scent of overworked electronics. He walked toward the small sliding glass door that led to his balcony, his bare feet sticking slightly to the linoleum floor.
Stepping outside, he was hit by the evening air. It wasn't exactly fresh—it carried the metallic tang of the nearby train tracks and the faint aroma of grilled meat from a street vendor a few blocks over—but it was better than the recycled air inside.
Below him, the rows of detached houses and narrow streets of Tokyo stretched out in a dizzying grid. To the world, Leo was just another Western exchange student studying at the Tokyo Metropolitan University of the Arts. He was "the American guy" in his classes, talented enough with a paintbrush and a MIDI controller to turn heads, but always kept at arm's length.
Japan was a beautiful country, but it was a fortress. No matter how well he spoke the language or how much he respected the customs, he was still a gaijin—an outsider. Life here wasn't the neon-colored dream people back home in Seattle thought it was. It was expensive, lonely, and the social walls were ten feet thick.
"Twenty-eight hours a week at the convenience store just to pay the 'foreigner tax' on rent," Leo muttered, gripping the cold metal railing of the balcony.
The financial struggle was a constant, low-grade fever. As an international student, the Japanese government capped his legal work hours at twenty-eight a week. That barely covered his ramen and the exorbitant utility bills. To actually survive—and to afford the high-end gear he needed for his art—Leo had to get creative.
He had a system. First, the soul-crushing part-time job at the Lawson down the street. That was his "legal" face.
Second, the fanfiction. He used a VPN to keep his digital footprint firmly planted in the United States. It wasn't about a firewall; it was about the money. By routing his traffic through a Seattle-based IP, he could maintain his U.S. Stripe and Patreon accounts without his bank or the Japanese tax office flagging him for "unauthorized international business" on a student visa. It was a legal gray area he didn't want to explain to an immigration officer. His readers loved his "Westernized" takes on their favorite shows, and the donations from his dedicated fanbase were the only reason he wasn't eating cardboard for dinner.
Third, and most importantly, his art.
Leo was a gifted oil painter, but in Japan, the prestigious galleries and the big-name illustration agencies didn't want a kid from the States taking up space in their "pure" industry. So, he went underground. He took on high-paying illustration commissions for light novels and indie games, but he never used his real name or his face.
He operated under a Japanese pseudonym, hiding behind the screen and a professional-grade translator app to keep his emails sounding "native." He'd learned the hard way that the industry was gate-keepy. If a studio realized "Sato-san" was actually Leo Vance from Washington, the commissions would dry up in a heartbeat. They'd assume he didn't "understand the aesthetic" or they'd try to lowball him because of his visa status.
Hiding his identity had given him a certain edge. Because he didn't care about "networking" in the traditional, overly polite Japanese sense, he had a reputation for being a bit of an eccentric shark. He was the only artist in the scene who demanded a hundred percent of his fee upfront.
No money, no art. Take it or leave it.
Ironically, that blunt, American "time is money" attitude had earned him more respect than his attempts at politeness ever had.
He looked out at the city lights, the neon signs beginning to flicker to life in the distance. He was a ghost in this city—a writer of fix-it fics, a student by day, and a shadow artist by night. He was living a life of secret identities just to survive the grind.
"One day," he said, watching a train blur past in the distance, "I'm gonna stop fixing these stories and start living one that doesn't suck."
Leo turned back toward his room, the blue glow of his monitors calling him back to the grind. He had a chapter to finish and a scumbag protagonist to systematically dismantle.