At 10 a.m., the weather was clear, sunlight warm—a day brimming with hope.
Takizawa rose early for once, enjoying a modest breakfast of boiled eggs and fresh milk. Listening to the news, he showered, styled his hair, and rummaged through a wardrobe as sparse as a middle-aged man's hairline, hunting for a trendy outfit.
But introverted homebodies rarely fuss over fashion. Some plain-looking classmates, in patched-up pants, secretly poured enough into mobile games to buy a budget car.
His closet held only programmer-plaid shirts and sturdy sweatpants. His natural charisma carried the look, clean and crisp, like a department store ad.
Japanese women's partner criteria—beyond income, education, or family—often ended with "neat appearance, simple features." Oddly, the toughest to meet, yet most guys thought they nailed it.
He primped in the mirror, fussing with his hair, dawdling two hours before heading out. The pink moped stayed home; the destination was too far—subway it was.
Truth be told, he was nervous.
For men, job interviews were as routine as flushing a toilet. But those relied on skills.
Relying on looks to earn a living? A first in his reborn life.
Could he really pull it off?
No skills, off-key singing fixed with autotune, clumsy dancing passed as stretches, bad acting covered by a sly smirk—could he really secure the gig like that?
He had doubts.
The train hummed along the tracks, vibrating lightly. Takizawa stood in a corner, eyes half-closed, exuding a serene, worldly calm. In truth, he was watching a comedy in his mind, a faint smile from the humor.
Tokyo's central rail lines were always packed—proof of the city's pulse.
A high school girl in a uniform was pushed close to him. Glancing up, her cheeks flushed.
Every boy dreams of wielding a sword under the sky; every girl imagines a prince.
Reiko hadn't known what her heart sought—maybe the basketball captain or the bad boy in the back row.
She'd never dwelled on it. Life held grander things: music, literature, epic tales. Aiming to play violin on a golden stage, puppy love was just a tacky game.
But now, it was clear.
Her ideal guy was right here.
This strikingly handsome boy was so close, almost tangible, his faint shampoo scent dreamlike, fragile as glass.
And young—probably not much older than her.
Entranced, Reiko shakily raised her phone, wanting to capture this moment, perhaps out of an urge to preserve art. But snapping a stranger's photo was utterly rude.
The model student, now bewitched, wrestled with herself, an unknown voice urging her to fall.
Unthinkingly, she pressed the shutter. The crisp click rang through the quiet, crowded car, drawing eyes like piercing arrows.
Japanese phones can't mute their shutters to deter creeps.
The closest boy opened his eyes, puzzled. Their gazes met—his features refined, eyes clear and bright. Reiko paled.
Surprisingly, he said nothing, just smiled, generously forgiving her intrusion, and closed his eyes again.
As if nothing happened, the car settled.
So gentle. Reiko felt absolved, redeemed.
Takizawa thought little of it, resuming his show. On past trains, it was pushy salesmen, screaming kids, or looping video noise. A cute girl taking a selfie? Harmless.
The train rumbled on. Emerging from a tunnel, sunlight flooded the car, bathing Takizawa in golden warmth, his silhouette glowing.
Outside, wind swept past, winter cherry blossoms spinning. The scenery bowed to him, vibrant hues adorning his form, breathtaking.
Reiko's heart raced, nearly shattering her restraint. The aloof, untouchable ideal she'd been taught? A lie. Tacky games? Only because she hadn't met this vision.
Her stop came. She had a big competition.
But she couldn't move, dreading the end of this fated encounter.
Sadly, the boy did.
As she reached out, the crowd parted them. Dazed, she watched his figure fade, powerless to follow.
A brief dream called heartbreak. Reiko's nose stung, head bowed.
Takizawa was swept out by the swarm, a shrimp in the ocean's current. He checked his phone's screen—not vanity, but work demanded he stay sharp today.
Looking around, he spotted a rare friend by a pillar, the legendary part-time warrior.
Matsuoka had waited long, punctuality a life rule, early arrival his standard.
Seeing his friend, Matsuoka waved, jogging over. Takizawa grinned, meeting him.
"Sorry for the wait," Takizawa said, patting his shoulder familiarly.
"No worries. Shall we go?"
"Yup. Hey, you styled your hair? Looking sharp—bangs up, full of spirit," Takizawa said, surprised, then approving.
"…Is it weird?" Matsuoka asked, sheepish.
"Suits you. Keep it," Takizawa encouraged.
"…Without bangs, I feel exposed."
"Bangs aren't armor. Try a buzz cut—unlocks true manhood. No more fussing."
"No way, hard pass."
"Fair. Japanese idols seem glued to bangs. Less hair, less skill, right?" Takizawa teased.
"That's a stereotype."
"Test it after debut?"
"We'd tank," Matsuoka said, exasperated.
"Maybe we'd blow up…"
"What's your talent for the audition?" Matsuoka asked.
"Huh? Isn't it rigged?"
"Still gotta follow protocol. More reason to shine—can't let tongues wag," Matsuoka said seriously.
"What's your act?"
"Rakugo."
"…We're idols, not comedians."
"I can't sing or dance," Matsuoka said, wincing. "Guess I'm the vibe guy."
"Good enough. Builds your banter skills," Takizawa sighed. "Since we're here, tell me your routine. We'll do a manzai duo, double kill."
"Aren't there only three of us?" Matsuoka frowned.
"I'm counting on—no, I believe—our third teammate's a hardcore workhorse," Takizawa said gravely.
***
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