Takizawa found Kashiwai under a Shinjuku overpass.
The morning tavern street, after a night of grilling, was being swept clean by greasy-aproned owners, ready to close and nap before reopening at dusk.
Hurried salarymen with briefcases and students with bread in their mouths rushed by. Crows perched between buildings, eyeing the bustling humans below.
In an alley corner, a few drunk office workers slept, one meticulously shoeless, socks aligned, dozing in a flowerbed with grass as a blanket—a serene scene. A bike cop spotted them, gently waking and offering water and hangover pills.
Takizawa expected Kashiwai to be among them, drowning career woes in booze, bloodshot and incoherent.
But up close, the agent was alert, suit crisp, hair slicked with wax in a retro flair, a steaming meat bun and boxed milk nearby.
Just a white-collar guy savoring street-side breakfast.
Kashiwai glanced up, offering an untouched bun.
"If I'm not mistaken, Kashiwai-san, it's work hours, right?" Takizawa took the bun, biting in, adopting a boss's tone.
"I'm tired," The usually brisk agent said softly. "Suit up, style my hair, rush to punch in. Saw a starved kitten on the road, then thought of the project's collapse and apologies ahead. Couldn't face the crowded train. Got off midway, just wanted quiet."
"Then why call me?" Takizawa stood beside him.
"Wanted someone to share the silence."
"Fair enough."
Takizawa sighed, sat street-side, pulled a cigarette, and lit it with a crow-like flick. He inhaled deeply, exhaled a ring, and savored the morning air.
Minutes passed.
"Why so quiet?" Kashiwai, chewing his bun, broke the silence.
"You said to be quiet together," Takizawa said, gazing skyward.
"When a girl says she doesn't need a ride home, you just leave her?"
"You a girl?"
"Honestly, I feel like a fragile damsel just pummeled by reality."
"I get it. Drink hot water."
"?"
They locked eyes.
"Takizawa, know why I became an agent?"
"We talked before—your looks held you back. What, midlife crisis hitting, ready to blaze out? Maybe see a plastic surgeon, aim for heartthrob status, debut as a cyborg idol."
"Ha, real funny."
Kashiwai rolled his eyes, pausing.
"I used to work at a top ad firm."
"Whoa, impressive," Takizawa said, surprised.
In Japan, one name ruled advertising. Major conglomerates—auto giants, tech titans—funneled their ad budgets there.
The firm handled TV spots, print ads, and PR for these behemoths.
Media and stars depended on them.
"Why quit? That's a dream gig—work hard, climb to exec. Not a star, but the guy stars rely on," Takizawa said, regretful.
"Don't be naive. Even as a team lead, I'd wait decades for a shot. That place treats staff like emotionless cogs. Endless all-nighters, air thick with tension. Nobody dares admit they're tired. Leaving your desk, even for quakes or fires, feels criminal."
Kashiwai lit a cigarette.
"Newbies with connections lived like rom-com characters, while I pulled 96-hour overtime months, sleeping four hours, forgetting what life was."
"Life's worth more. Good you left," Takizawa said.
"Not easy. Quit a giant like that, and people assume you're flawed or incompetent. Took two years of extra grind just to resign."
Kashiwai's voice carried sorrow.
"Here, organizations dodge accountability. People still use fax, email colleagues at the next desk for proof. Screw up, and evidence pins you. When things go wrong, everyone panics, points fingers, but nobody solves it. In the end, they wield 'vibes' as a weapon, pick a scapegoat. That poor soul apologizes—deeply if it's bad, maybe even steps onto train tracks."
"No wonder people idolize bold rebels," Takizawa mused. "Free spirits, dying poetically."
"But the cautious strategist won out," Kashiwai said, then shifted. "You know what happened, right?"
"Your call woke me. I checked online on the way," Takizawa said gravely. "Your plan, my hero."
"It's dead. The sequel's done, unsalvageable. The whole series might collapse," Kashiwai sighed.
"Another wallet-draining fan trap bites the dust. The world's cleaner, our paychecks safe. Congrats," Takizawa quipped.
"Your work's wasted too. Those roles might be shelved for years," Kashiwai said, pained.
"Same as game devs next door—projects get axed mid-way or die before launch. Happens yearly," Takizawa said, unshaken.
"You're not even fazed?" Kashiwai frowned. "Matsuoka'd be bummed for weeks."
"Why would I be? No one's buying, not my loss. Got paid for the roles already," Takizawa said breezily.
"Even now, you're so mercenary," Kashiwai groaned. "We're in this together. Idol King 2's getting roasted—you're catching heat too."
"It's a lawful society. No one's splashing gasoline on me, right?" Takizawa's face grew serious.
"Still joking? I peeked at your account—people are tearing you apart," Kashiwai said, shaking his head.
"For real? Let me see." Takizawa raised a brow, pulling out his phone.
"You sure? I'd lay low. Online hate seems harmless but wrecks your mental health. With thousands piling on, you can't argue back," Kashiwai warned.
Takizawa shrugged.
Unless they're hacking my address with a machete, what's to fear? My spirit's sky-high!
He deftly opened the app, checking his account's latest comments and messages.
His social media was company-mandated, theoretically managed with strict rules and PR teams. But as a small fry, no one cared. At most, they'd nudge him to repost ads or copy-paste promo lines.
So, he'd been messing around on it freely.
A hardcore netizen, he browsed daily, sharing goofy stories, occasionally spamming [So cool!] or [Big shot!] on art posts—pure fluff.
His latest post, from 9 p.m. last night, was a repost of a stunning amateur photo grid. Now, it had 700+ comments—far from normal.
Curious, he dove in.
[Hypocrite, why don't you just die?]
[Your feed's all girls and jokes. Pathetic loser, your life must suck.]
[Hope you get hit by a car and go veggie, lol.]
[Your voice makes me sick! Quit voice acting! Get lost!]
[You've voiced nobodies—fits your skill. Don't dream about this project; go to hell with the devs.]
[You and your crew, do you know how awful you are?!]
[You're just a clown.]
…
Kashiwai had a healing pep talk ready for Takizawa's shredded psyche, but nothing happened. The guy seemed… engrossed?
Seconds later, he chuckled?
He's losing it.
Kashiwai recalled a stressed-out colleague turned erratic.
"Listen, stay strong. Don't take it to heart," Kashiwai said, face grim.
"No one called me ugly. These haters are vicious but still see straight," Takizawa smiled, diving back in, hooked like it was a drama.
"…"
His top ten posts each had 700-800 hate comments. The worst was a pinned agency post, congratulating the Dark Rebirth Fantasy show's finale, record sales, and bright future—1,300+ attacks.
[Died in one episode, yet you act like the lead? You?]
[Hope you explode too.]
[Overacted, fake-charming fourth-rate actor. Can't you stay out of it? Maybe voice pigs in nature docs.]
[Riding coattails? This hit had nothing to do with you, but Idol King 2's flop sure does! Remember that!]
[Your acting's laughable.]
…
"No quality burns here. Is this all they got?" Takizawa muttered, scrolling.
Kashiwai silently sipped his milk.
"Oh, not all hate—some defend me," Takizawa said.
"Maybe fans," Kashiwai smiled. "You're talented, got radio gigs, decent shows, some exposure."
"Nah, seems they follow me for reposting pretty girls and memes, thinking I'm a photo or comedy aggregator. Asking what happened," Takizawa mused.
"…"
After a few minutes, he sighed, disappointed, and started typing.
"You're not firing back, are you?" Kashiwai tensed.
"Nope, I'm handling their knives with mature grace."
Takizawa's unshaken calm and resilience stunned Kashiwai. This guy was nearing the "numb veteran" Stage of corporate life, one step from "bootlicker" Territory.
His vow to respond maturely piqued Kashiwai's curiosity.
"Done, posted," Takizawa whooped, snapping his fingers.
Kashiwai pulled out his phone, checking Takizawa's profile.
Takizawa posted two seconds ago:
[To friends offended by my performance, my sincerest apologies. My skills are rough and need work. I'll study harder and strive to improve. Thank you for your guidance!]
Kashiwai frowned, rereading it, sensing one word: cowardice.
"What's this supposed to do?"
"Nothing, but if I don't post, the agency will make me," Takizawa said casually, pocketing his hands, eyeing a schoolgirl rushing by.
"True," Kashiwai sighed. "My turn to grovel soon."
…
Sakura was livid.
Practically exploding.
Clutching her phone, she fired back at stinging comments, fingers flying. Soon, she switched to her laptop, pounding the keyboard in battle.
But her efforts were futile—new comments buried hers instantly, met with illogical mockery, leaving her speechless.
A well-raised girl who rarely argued, she flushed with frustration.
Seeing Takizawa's latest post, she froze, wiping her teary eyes.
"What's this? Don't give in… you did nothing wrong. Why be kind to those hurting you?"
…
"Nee-san, you seem off. Bad sleep?"
"Huh? No way," Uchida replied.
"…Egg's burnt," Her brother pointed out.
"Oh? Crap, crap!" snapped back, scrambling to fix it.
"Nee-san, don't bother. I'll grab bread at the convenience store," He said, glancing at the clock.
"Alright," Uchida muttered, scraping the charred egg into the trash, washing the pan.
"I'm off," Her brother said, chugging milk and grabbing his bag.
Uchida cleaned the stove, sank onto the couch, and checked her phone. After hesitating, she texted a vague message.
[You okay?]
A quick buzz.
[All good.]
Uchida paused.
[Been experimenting with recipes. Wanna try my new dish? Come by if you're free ⊙?⊙]
A second later.
[Honored!]
Uchida exhaled, alone at home, smiling shyly.
***
Hi everyone, I hope you're all doing well. I just wanted to let you know that right now I'm working on a really good and promising fate fanfic. If you're interested in reading it, feel free to give it a try:
[Fate/Max Level Returner]
Synopsis:
What if you took your max-level account and replayed the entire story from the beginning?
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