Following the agent's address, the duo reached the media production company. A four-story building with stark red-black minimalist decor, the corridor was lined with plush carpet, soft lights, and posters of past albums and idol groups.
Takizawa, hands in pockets, strolled and whistled.
The hallway's ads were no joke—heavyweights galore. Classic films, national idols, chart-topping hits, plus a list of major corporate partners. Pure prestige.
"Kimura Takuya, Amuro Namie… Hibari Misora, Nakajima Miyuki. Shoplifters, Kikujiro no Natsu, even my mom's favorites, Tokyo Love Story," Matsuoka marveled.
"We're really doing idol work here?"
"Corporate flexing. Who knows how deep their involvement is? I've got 'tight digital economy ties' with a tech mogul, I'm a 'tester' for a century-defining product, one of six billion preserving human civilization, the solar system's only high-intelligence primate," Takizawa shrugged. "Which floor?"
"Third."
"Right, meeting Matsui Shimei, yeah?"
No reception in sight, they climbed the narrow stairs. The floor held offices, three vending machines, a coffee table, chairs, and… an arcade machine?
"I'll call Kashiwai-san," Takizawa said, pulling out his phone.
"I'm hitting the restroom," Matsuoka said, nerves kicking in before the interview.
"What'd you eat? Stomach acting up? Got tissues—take 'em," Takizawa offered generously. Carrying tissues was second nature, a friend to all.
Matsuoka grabbed them and dashed off.
Takizawa sat, dialed the agent, and waited. After ten seconds, it was busy. Probably schmoozing or reporting. No luck for now—wait for the callback.
Bored, he wandered to the unmanned arcade machine, fiddled with the joystick, and found it coin-free. Eyebrows raised, he got curious, set his phone aside, and dug in.
Browsing the library, he picked a classic fighting game, instantly selecting a fiery noble, a punk redhead, and a spiky-haired electric guy.
Cranked difficulty to max, warmed his wrists, and flashed back to grade school.
Back then, arcades were a man's arena—cigarette stubs, raucous laughter. Betting coins, taunting, getting thrashed in 1v1s, real men's battles raging.
Takizawa's fingers flew, eyes wistful, muscle memory awakening.
Heavy punches, kicks, knockdowns. The AI's footwork was shaky—cornered, trapped, frame-perfect combos, slick chains, a clean sweep. No contest.
The clatter of buttons broke the lounge's calm.
A man can have fun alone.
Simple creatures, men.
At the penultimate boss trio, footsteps echoed from the stairs.
A stranger in a white hoodie and denim jacket, crossbody bag slung over, poked his head up. Spotting Takizawa gaming, he paused, then politely said, "I've got an appointment. Could I ask…?"
"Big shot's not here," Takizawa replied, blocking a dark lightning punch. "I'm here for work too. Wanna sit?"
"Oh, sorry to bother," The hoodie guy said, settling lightly on the sofa, setting his bag down. Watching Takizawa's focused back, he added, "You come here often?"
"Nope, first time. Why?"
"You seem… skilled."
"Think I'm good? Ha, just practice," Takizawa chuckled. Beaten black-and-blue back in the day, his scars weren't decorative. A no-nonsense combo floored the boss, heading to the final one.
I meant you're so at ease for a first-timer, playing with such fire, the hoodie guy thought.
What agency's trainee or idol was this? Pretty handsome.
The cosmic evil boss fell again, humiliated by light jabs. Takizawa skipped the credits, looped to the start, and tweaked for hidden characters.
Turning to the idle boy, he offered, "Wanna play? Waiting's dull."
"Nah," The boy declined, having seen Takizawa's brutal takedowns.
"There's co-op modes. Let me check."
No human opponent was a shame, but ever the host, Takizawa scrolled the game list. Fatal Fury, Art of Fighting, Super Smash Bros, Street Fighter, Samurai Shodown, Last Blade—all fighters. Shouldn't a company's rec room have team-building co-op games?
Oh, cutthroat culture? Never mind.
The list was familiar, but he wasn't hyped.
Scrolling down, he spotted a rarity.
"Melty Blood?"
The boy, still as a statue, staring at the ceiling, twitched.
They'd stock this but not Mario? Disrespecting plumbers?
Takizawa muttered, diving in. Among fighting games, this one was niche—only diehards loved lunar stuff.
A chibi kimono-clad, magic-eyed girl popped up, dodging attacks, landing basic counters.
"Why no specials?" A sudden question startled Takizawa, making his character jump. The quiet boy had crept up like a ghost, eyes glinting oddly.
"Testing moves," Takizawa said, catching his breath, grinding skills with veteran gamer instincts.
"You don't know how?"
"Nope."
The boy didn't press, instead stroking his chin, deep in thesis-level thought.
A former arcade regular, Takizawa breezed through early stages with fundamentals but struggled later, unfamiliar with finishers, until the AI's flashy ultimate ended him.
Before he could tap his memory for a hyper-speed replay, the boy spoke.
"It's a player online. You got full-comboed," He sighed. "That's not how you use the death gaze."
"…Wanna try?"
"Sure, scoot over." Shedding his shy facade, the boy dusted imaginary lint off his clothes and sat. Takizawa watched, arms crossed.
The boy's hands danced, cursor zipping, selecting a character in seconds.
The fight began. The magic-eyed girl soared, slicing through the night, exploiting gaps, landing close-range chains, knocking back, draining health, chaining a super to cancel recovery, halving the opponent's bar in a breath.
So clean, Takizawa thought, a spark in his eyes.
When the foe countered, the boy predicted, clashed skills, seized the lead, and flowed into a corner combo, ending with a dazzling finisher—all in ten seconds.
Takizawa nodded unconsciously.
The boy stayed cool. Second round, he rushed aggressively, breaking guards, flexing with small moves, pure showmanship.
Third round was meticulous, flawless, a suffocating storm of a full combo, breathtaking.
Three fights, three styles—a masterclass for me?
Takizawa caught on, his pride as a third-grade arcade champ stung.
"Hope you learned something," The boy said, standing with sage-like poise, gazing afar.
"Hold up. Beating AI's boring. Show me real moves, mano-a-mano," Takizawa said, voice low.
"Pass that stage first," The boy waved off.
"Easy."
Takizawa sat, hands flexing, his mind's archive spinning, replaying the match frame-by-frame, dissecting keys, forming a torrent of data.
Fingers flew, selecting a character at lightspeed.
The magic-eyed girl returned, no longer clumsy—sharp, fluid combos, polished specials, an old pro's flair.
The boy froze, stunned.
She carved through foes, breezing past the stage that killed him.
Takizawa quietly shut off his mental cheat, smirking at the boy's agape, self-doubting face.
Should've grabbed coffee to say, "This brew's still warm."
"Not right," The boy muttered, eyes suspicious. "You're no newbie. You're trolling."
"Talk's cheap. Let's fight," Takizawa challenged.
"I don't duel fakers," The boy refused.
"Scared? Afraid of a real master? All your training for nothing?"
"Nope."
"Stranger, low on confidence? A fighting gamer fearing defeat?" Takizawa sighed, arms crossed. "Fine, drown in your ideals."
The boy, hearing the taunt, didn't snap. His expression grew odd—hesitant, curious, expectant.
Then, out of nowhere, he dropped standard Japanese-English.
"How are you?"
"I am fine, and you?" Takizawa replied, reflexively.
"I am the bone of my sword," The boy said.
"Steel is my body…" Takizawa trailed off, realizing mid-sentence.
They locked eyes, silent.
Sparks seemed to crackle in the air.
The boy's eyes lit up, his smile bright, extending a hand.
"First meeting. I'm Shimazaki Nobunaga. Bit rude, but who's your main?"
"Yesterday, King Arthur. Today, raven-haired tsundere mage. Tomorrow, sweet scheming kouhai. After that, random."
"Bros."
Beaming, they shook hands, instant kindred spirits.
***
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