He was clearly just a part-time hourly worker, yet they insisted on grilling him about whether he was an adult—Japan's service industry spirit was truly touching.
Even though Takizawa's every gesture screamed street-smart slacker, his youthful long hair swept back and tied into a small ponytail could instantly transform him into a trendy young guy. Still, the cashier held firm to the boundaries of propriety and handed him a pack of Pocky sticks.
Fine, whatever.
He pinched the stick between two fingers, flicked it lightly with his thumb, dropped into a casual squat on the sidewalk, and gazed off into the distance as he crunched away, the snaps echoing sharply.
...Even if he'd been dragged here against his will, he still had to keep going.
First things first, he'd push through until high school graduation. College? Not even worth dreaming about. Who was he kidding? He could barely remember his multiplication tables.
Unlocking native-level Japanese skills straight into his brain was still a win—practical as hell. Down the line, it'd look great on a resume for any international gig. But for now, he'd stick to his old trade, save up some cash, ease into this place, and figure out the rest later.
That was the perk of being a skilled craftsman: no fantasies of striking it rich, but at least he'd never starve. And this was Japan, after all—a prime market if there ever was one.
Takizawa had enough money left to coast for a month, so there was no real rush. He grabbed a few more snacks and drinks, then headed home.
If there was any thread connecting the two of them, it was probably their shared habit of sketching.
Before this, Takizawa had been an anonymous cog in the massive game industry machine—a diligent tool of a background artist, endlessly humiliated by demanding clients.
After years of grinding it out, he'd been on the verge of jumping ship to lead artist: drafting concepts on the fly, tossing out casual ideas, slacking off through the daylight hours in blissful ease.
Then bam—flung here instead. The bitterness was unspeakable, the tears bottled up inside.
Takizawa cracked open a chilled soda, clamped a chocolate stick between his teeth, rubbed his chin, and scrolled online.
His field was a jungle of masters and maniacs—dangle a lure, and you'd reel in a swarm of Lovecraftian horrors.
Craig Mullins was, of course, the eternal god.
At this point in time, the big names were shifting abroad, the lightsaber guy had just clinched top spot on DeviantArt, and a wave of future legends were ramping up their game—one after another, the Top Dogs starting to howl.
The golden wave was crashing in.
At the thought, Takizawa's fingers shook, snapping the Pocky in half as desire and ambition ignited!
And him? A parallel traveler armed with a decade's worth of future tastes and vision? He'd rise like a storm. Open a studio, and boom—fame and fortune on tap.
This? This was his awakening!
He was mid-fantasy, picturing a flood of female fans begging for tutorials, when he scrolled past a concept sketch for a commercial. One closer look, and the master's sheer power drained the color from his face.
Okay, fine—at best, the back-alley barrage.
The computer held a folder of sketches, no doubt Takizawa's spare-time practice pieces. By his eye, they lacked polish in form and design, but the real value was in the persistence.
From the diary's tone, Takizawa had aimed for mangaka or animator.
Sigh. Such a practical guy, chasing such an impractical dream.
Of the two paths, one was Japan's most oversaturated field, the other its most grueling grind for inbetweeners. Why fixate on the impossible? Though, hell, picking up a brush in the first place was already a leap into the absurd.
He unearthed the drawing tablet; its surface was scarred with deep gouges, crisscrossing into something almost circular.
Staring at those marks stirred a quiet pang.
Time to pass the baton, Takizawa murmured softly.
He fired up the software, pulled up a well-worn practice sheet he'd revisited endlessly, and dove in with revisions.
As evening crept close, he dashed to the nearby print shop, output the refined and finished draft, returned home, and set it ablaze in a stainless steel basin.
I've just given your dream a little makeover. Hope it reaches you.
Maybe it was the lingering sentiment of this youthful shell, but as the paper curled to ash, an inexplicable wave of reluctance and ache washed over him.
He swept up the remnants, then dove back into job hunting online.
The grind was monotonous: skim the listings near the apartment first, then circle back for the ones with solid pay and rep, finally vetting for style fit. After an hour-plus of digging, he'd flagged a decent stack.
Outside, night had fallen, neon rivers glittering in the dark. Takizawa rubbed his stinging eyes, flopped down right there, and fixed on the ceiling, coaxing sleep.
What tomorrow held, what the future might—what did it matter? It all felt so hollow.
But he'd come this far.
No choice but to settle in and make do.
Tomorrow, he'd whip up some portfolio pieces for resumes, and dig into channels for more on Takizawa. The day after, back to school to sort graduation with the teachers.
Drifting off, he tumbled into dreams.
The boy pedaled furiously on his bike, holding his breath, the man behind steadying the rear to keep balance. As they hit the road, he let go—only for the bike to wobble wildly. The boy yelped, tumbling in a minor spill, and the man behind folded his arms, chuckling at his kid's expense.
Blazing summer, big and small in matching tees and shorts, hunkered under swaying wind chimes. At "go," they attacked their watermelons with gusto, cheeks ballooned like chipmunks, juice and seeds spraying everywhere, until the aggrieved mom shooed them out to lick cheap popsicles in the shadow of the corner store.
Sports day opener, relays and tug-of-war, Dad in the stands roaring cheers, snapping photos nonstop.
On the walk home, spotting a lone kitten, mewling forlornly—they scooped it up, spent ages convincing Mom to let it stay.
Parked in front of the TV for tokusatsu and cartoons, him as the heroic fighter, Dad the villainous mad scientist under a colander helmet. Inevitably, the hero astride the foe, proclaiming triumph.
Shards of scenes flickered by.
Time sped up, divine-fast. Spring's blaze and summer's heat, autumn gales and winter snows, clover by the riverbank, swings after school, evening crickets in the brush, faded uniforms, the old fan's steady whir...
Bit by bit, they left that street behind. Home shrank to just Mom and the ever-plumping orange tabby.
Then one day, the fat cat was gone. And suddenly, a tall stranger loomed at the entryway, gifts in hand, face awkward with polite smiles.
Dinners shifted from table to floor mats, evening variety shows to late-night anime. The rental had no summer courtyard, no tinkling chimes. The bike? Still unmastered, and no one left with the patience to steady it.
Grown eyes saw the world in grays; cities flickered with color and light, sure, but mostly shop signs and neon hawking wares.
The emerald shade of trees, the playful evening breeze—they faded from reach.
Old manga pages turned, animation discs spun: only here did the world hold still, time suspended.
Onscreen, the hero grinned pure and bright, adventuring unknown realms with his crew. Faintly, beyond the glow, the shadows of a father-son duo play-acting before the set.
So he moved—clutching nostalgia and hope, mimicking the strokes, telling the tales.
Takizawa's eyes snapped open; he wiped his face on instinct, hand coming away slick with tears.
He pushed up, checked the clock: six a.m., dawn just smudging the sky outside.
Dreams dissolved quick—poof, most gone in seconds after waking.
Takizawa drowsily pieced together the jumbled fragments.
Those were Takizawa Satoru's childhood, his story.
He could still taste the dream-self's sorrow and defeat, but awake, it receded, no longer so vivid.
Between them, maybe a thin thread lingered, carrying echoes of the soul. Taut now, but it would snap in time.
Takizawa sat in silence.
"You're a good kid, really."
Boyhood wrapped brilliance and despair, innocence and folly. Some spread wings; others plummeted into the gorge.
He splashed water on his face in the bathroom, paced to the window, leaned on the sill to survey Tokyo's murky dawn. Morning breeze kissed the droplets on his cheeks, cooling sharp.
He lit a chocolate stick with grandfatherly calm.
Pity I'm no kid anymore—can't bring myself to bawl like you did.
It was the first thing he should've said, two days overdue.
He paused, then voiced it in flawless Japanese.
"Pleased to meet you, Takizawa-kun."
I'll keep drawing for you. After all, it's my trade.
Takizawa smiled softly, turned to boil water for instant ramen, gearing up for the day.
Today, he'd unleash the edge honed by those relentless clients back home!
He was the king of tools!
Target: thirty resumes out the door!
By late morning, versed in assembly-line production, Takizawa had churned out several UI mocks. He'd nap the afternoon away, then tackle character designs.
This portfolio prep felt like old times—no frantic revisions from feedback, just the fire of a young job hunter reborn!
And why not? This body was peak youth—pull two all-nighters, crash once, and bounce back full throttle.
Charge!
The phone shattered the air; Takizawa snatched it up.
"Hello?"
"Good day, Takizawa-san. This is Kashiwai Ippei. Since you didn't reply to my email yesterday, I figured a call was better."
"...Yeah, must've missed it. What's up?" Takizawa was thoroughly puzzled.
"There's a welcome party for new hires tonight, around Yoyogi."
"New hires?" Takizawa echoed. "You sure you didn't dial wrong? I'm still in high school."
Haven't even sent out a single resume.
"May I confirm, you're Takizawa Satoru?"
"Yeah."
"Then it's you."
"Wait, what company is this?"
"I'm Enterprise. You were selected with top marks, remember?"
"...Huh? So, what do they do? Outsourcing? R&D? Am I hired for art direction or design?"
Had Takizawa quietly lined up a spot without a peep?
"What? No, we're an agency." Kashiwai Ippei sounded equally baffled.
"Agency? For placements?"
"Voice acting." Kashiwai Ippei stated it like it was obvious.
"Huh?"
"A voice actor agency!!" Kashiwai Ippei finally bellowed.
"What???!!!"
***
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