After Kurokawa finished delivering the news that the work had passed the preliminary screening, her tone was hard to label as joy or relief.
It carried something else instead—an anxious, all-or-nothing tension, like she'd already stepped into a place where only one side walked out.
Of course… there was also that gambler's unique kind of excitement.
She understood perfectly: once a work entered the stage of the editorial judging meeting, there was no turning back. From that point on, countless eyes would lock onto her.
It was like being far behind at the poker table. Rather than watching yourself get slowly eaten alive chip by chip, you shoved everything you had into the center in one breath—either you flipped the table and came roaring back…
…or you got kicked off the game like a dog and never sat at the table again.
That thrill was something no ordinary job could ever provide.
Kurokawa paused, then continued, "Akiyama-san, do you have time to come out tomorrow? There are some contest details I need to fill you in on—also, I'll treat you to a meal."
"Huh… is that okay?"
Akiyama could understand discussing the contest, but the meal caught him off guard.
Back in the bubble era, editors treating manga artists to dinner was common. During the most extravagant years, editors and creators flew all over the country, talked story in upscale restaurants, and at the end of the night the editor would even hail a taxi home.
Those golden days were gone now, but editors still treating serialized creators to meals was hardly unusual.
But Akiyama? He wasn't serialized. He was, at best, a submitter who was "pretending to be professional."
For someone at his level, that kind of treatment was seriously out of line.
In an industry built on strict hierarchy, Akiyama had long since grown used to being "the apprentice." Being treated like this wasn't exactly "overwhelmingly honored," but it definitely surprised him.
"It's just one meal," Kurokawa said with a smile. "Nothing inappropriate about that. How about tomorrow at twelve noon?"
If Akiyama was a "fake professional," then she—a zero-serialization editor—was also "pretending to be an editor."
Two nobodies playing dress-up, eating lunch together… honestly, it fit perfectly.
"Okay, Kurokawa-san. I'll be there on time."
At this point, Akiyama didn't refuse.
"Then I'll see you tomorrow."
"Yeah."
Akiyama hung up.
Good. Preliminary screening passed—he'd taken a massive step toward changing his situation.
And he even got to experience a "pro mangaka perk" for a limited time: an editor treating him. Tomorrow at lunch, he wouldn't have to live off discounted convenience-store bento again.
In a good mood, he stretched and returned to his desk.
Last night, he'd found more scattered fragments of "past-life memories" in his dreams. He needed to write them down.
He first recorded the plot in a notebook, then pulled out a few rough draft sheets and quickly sketched key storyboard cuts—because sometimes those panels mattered even more than the written summary.
This was a routine he'd done every single day since reincarnating a month ago. It directly affected what he could produce next. He couldn't afford to treat it lightly.
After finishing today's notes, Akiyama still couldn't rest. He glanced at the manuscript paper in the corner—the work he hadn't finished yesterday.
Even if it was Saturday, it had to be completed.
Work was work. He'd treat it as practice. After all, he still depended on this apartment and his seventy-thousand-yen paycheck.
…
He tidied the room a little, then decided to take out the trash before starting.
Carrying the garbage bag, he stepped out. The apartment building only had two floors—maybe a dozen units total—and he lived on the second.
It seemed to have rained last night. The stone-paved street below was slightly slick.
He went down to the first floor, turned into a narrow alley, looped behind the building, and tossed the trash into the bin.
Just as he was about to turn around, he faintly heard a sound above him.
He looked up—
In the warm sunlight, in the angle where the blue, spotless sky met the apartment rooftop, a silhouette with long black hair appeared and vanished in and out of view.
At the open collar of a blue-and-white sailor uniform, a ribbon fluttered gently in the breeze. Beneath a teal skirt… slender, long legs—bare, with no stockings—glimpsed between shifting folds.
Quite the view.
Akiyama hadn't expected taking out the trash to come with a free "JK rooftop sighting." Was this just a standard perk of living in Japan?
Shame the skirt was so long. From this upward angle, if it were shorter… maybe he'd—
Then a strange sound suddenly reached his ears.
"Ah… ahem. Ah↑~ ah↓~ ah↑~~"
The girl cleared her throat, then began vocalizing loudly.
Akiyama stared, dumbfounded.
What… is she doing?
Imitating a rooster crowing?
As if sensing an odd stare, the girl on the rooftop froze slightly, then turned and looked down.
Only then did Akiyama see her face clearly.
It was Akina Uesugi—the girl who worked in the studio, and who lived in the adjacent unit.
Their eyes met.
Instantly, Akina's cheeks flushed red. After three seconds of blank staring, she spun around—
—and bolted.
But the moment she took off, her foot hit a patch of pooled water.
"Thud!"
When Akiyama reached the rooftop, he found Akina sitting on the ground, holding her knee. She looked up at him with pursed lips, glaring with a mix of grievance and humiliation.
...
Akiyama brought Akina back to his place.
They were "coworkers," and she was that old man's niece—he couldn't just leave her.
Since his breakup, this forty-square-meter room was hosting a second person for the first time.
"It might hurt a little. Bear with it."
On the sofa, Akiyama dabbed a cotton swab soaked in iodine antiseptic onto Akina's scraped right knee—her skirt lifted slightly.
The instant it touched, she squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her teeth, not letting out a sound.
But her small fist curled tight behind her sailor uniform.
Akiyama noticed and silently admired her. For a kid her age, she wasn't the least bit dramatic.
Because of the treatment, her pale, youthful legs—usually hidden under the long skirt—were exposed without reserve for the first time.
Thinking back to what happened on the rooftop, Akiyama felt a little embarrassed. In his mind, Akina was always silent, someone who never raised her voice.
And yet she'd made those sounds…
It was like a mute suddenly speaking. Shocking.
After disinfecting, he took out a bandage and began wrapping her knee carefully.
As he worked, Akina slowly lifted her head and studied him.
She was curious.
Especially seeing how practiced and efficient he was—how gentle and focused his hands were, not hurting her at all—something seemed to shimmer faintly in her pinkish-brown eyes.
"All done."
Akiyama released the bandage.
"Thank you," Akina whispered.
It was the first time she'd ever spoken to him, and she still didn't dare look him straight in the eyes.
Remembering the rooftop scene, her cheeks burned again.
He… didn't hear it, right?
"So what was that 'ah-ah-ah' thing on the rooftop?" Akiyama asked bluntly.
Akina's body snapped rigid.
Biting her lip, she turned stiffly toward him.
Only then did Akiyama realize she resembled the singer Akina Nakamori from his past life—same petite, delicate build, the same cool, fragile aura. Even doing nothing, just sitting there, she gave off that breakable beauty vibe.
The room stayed frozen for about three seconds.
"If you don't want to say it, fine," Akiyama said. "Go home."
Seeing her return to her usual "quiet girl" mode, he didn't feel like pushing.
He was curious, sure—but she was Uesugi's niece. If he annoyed her and she ran to her uncle to exaggerate things, he'd be in for another long, satisfying round of abuse.
He packed up the iodine and bandages, then turned toward his work desk.
Next, he had to finish today's work. Good chance to sharpen his background-drawing fundamentals.
Akiyama lowered his head, placed the working manuscript on the desk—
Then turned around and froze.
That long black-haired figure had somehow appeared right beside his work table.
Hey. I already bandaged you up!
So you're not going home—you're staying here to supervise for your uncle?!
He was about to shoo her out when her lips trembled slightly.
"Did you draw these?"
"Hm?"
Akina picked up a sketch from the desk.
It was one of Akiyama's memory-fragment storyboard drawings from this morning—a scene inspired by Attack on Titan, the moment the Colossal Titan first appeared over the wall.
It was just a rough sketch, but the composition had overwhelming tension. Even in pencil, the Titan's oppressive presence hit hard.
Underneath, Akiyama had added a pencil note so he wouldn't forget the line:
「その日,人類は思い出した.奴らに支配されていた恐怖を,鳥籠の中に囚われていた屈辱を…」
(That day, humanity remembered… the terror of being ruled by them, and the humiliation of living like prisoners in a cage…)
"So amazing…"
Akina murmured, staring at the sketch. To Akiyama's surprise, she praised him with disarming honesty.
She set it down and noticed there were many more sketches like it on the desk—and the quality was consistently high.
Clearly, none of these were Uesugi's.
There was only one possible creator.
When she looked at Akiyama again, the light in her eyes burned brighter than before.
"Alright, alright. Go home. I'm starting work."
Akiyama was completely immune to her compliments. Praise didn't pay him. If it didn't come with cash, it was meaningless.
Worse, if she told Uesugi about this, it could ruin his plans.
He stood up and placed both hands on her shoulders, pressing lightly against the sailor uniform as he prepared to escort this uninvited guest out—
"Voice."
Akina suddenly spoke.
"Huh?" Akiyama blinked.
"I was practicing voice projection on the rooftop," Akina said.
Akiyama stopped. So it was vocal practice—he really thought she was doing rooster calls.
"Why are you practicing that?"
Akina hesitated. After a moment, she still answered.
"For an audition. A voice-actor training school."
"…Why audition for that?"
"I want to become a voice actor."
Akina said it seriously.
Akiyama's mind went blank.
A voice actor?
This quiet girl—who'd never once spoken loudly—wanted to become a voice actor?
Wait—aren't you supposed to be drawing manga?!
"This is my dream," Akina said.
Then what is the manga work?
A side fling??
"Akiyama-kun."
"Kun?" Akiyama looked genuinely alarmed. They'd only just started talking today—though, technically, they'd been "coworkers" for over a year.
Akina paused, then took a deep breath.
Holding a hand to her chest, she looked straight into Akiyama's eyes.
"I'll work hard to become a professional voice actor. And on the day your manga gets an anime adaptation…"
"I'll voice your anime."
V-voice… for me?
Akiyama's brain hard-crashed for a second.
Is that something you say to an "intern assistant"?
An anime adaptation… that was miles away. His first priority was to become a real professional mangaka. And adaptation wasn't easy—it was luck and timing. Even creators who debut with explosive popularity can wait three to five years and still not get one.
So rather than "scoffing," Akiyama's honest reaction was—
Confusion.
He didn't understand. Not even a little.
And more than that, he couldn't understand why Akina was here in the studio at all if she didn't want to be a mangaka.
If she wasn't here to learn manga, then what had this past year been? Just killing time after school?
Akiyama was baffled, but Akina—having said her piece with absolute seriousness—showed no intention of explaining further.
Whether from embarrassment or a mischievous sense of victory, she quickly looked away, refused to meet his eyes again, and left.
…
Three minutes after she was gone, Akiyama, leaning against the wall, suddenly slapped his forehead.
Crap—was that a test?!
"On the day you get an anime adaptation"—was she probing whether he intended to break away from Uesugi and go solo?
And the worst part was, Akiyama hadn't denied anything.
Damn it. Uncle and niece—what a vicious little scheme. If that was the case, next week at the studio he was definitely getting another lecture.
But when he remembered how serious she'd looked while saying it…
…it didn't feel like an act.
Akiyama steadied his breathing and tossed the messy thoughts out of his head.
None of that mattered right now.
What mattered was finishing his work—and pushing the Grand Prize forward.
With that, he stopped thinking about the rooftop incident, picked up his pen, and began the day's work.