In the cramped room, stuffy heaters lulled the senses, the glaring incandescent bulb stung the eyes, and beyond the glass wall, silent observers in black suits stood watch.
It felt like a cold police interrogation room. A bowl of pickled katsu rice, a line like, "Your old mom back home's crying now." Instant heartbreak, tears falling.
More like a church confessional, where he'd shrink his soul, don a clown's mask, and spar with a priest in a game of wits.
All exposed before demons—greedy spectators, gleeful watchers, chuckling listeners, feeding on delight.
The inquisitor-priest arrived, late.
She wore a fall-winter schoolgirl coat, hem revealing high-denier black stockings, paired with classic brown boots. Twin tails bounced with youthful energy, her cheeks flushed, likely from rushing through chilly winds, slightly breathless.
"Sorry, got held up! Kept you waiting?"
The regular host bowed, her lingering outdoor chill and faint perfume blending with the room's warmth.
The sweet scent of a young girl tickled the nose.
"No big deal," Takizawa replied flatly.
"So cold… still mad?" The middle schooler cautiously pulled a bag of homemade cookies from her backpack, seeking forgiveness.
"I'm just pondering the meaning and value of being here," Takizawa sighed, accepting the cookies without hesitation, popping them into his mouth.
"Why?"
"What round is this?"
"Twelfth," She said, settling in, stowing her bag, shedding her heavy coat to reveal a cozy pink sweater, radiating girl-next-door vibes.
"So, first quarter's done. This is the grand finale."
"Yup."
"Then why me again?" He growled, slamming the table.
"Hino-san was here last time," She said matter-of-factly, hands propping her chin, eyes crescenting cutely when she smiled.
"I'm just a sidekick! In the source, my corpse gets more words than my living scenes—a flawless stepping stone, forever a background guy. Season's end, a turning point—shouldn't a real regular voice actor recap?"
"I won't let you belittle yourself," Hidaka said, face stern. "Alfredo or Takizawa-kun, you're central to this story."
"?"
"With radio time, you've been active for four or five episodes. You took the pay, so no slacking. That's not professional. Your mood could drag the team down—can you handle that responsibility?" She frowned.
A twice-lived office drone, scolded by a teenage girl?
"I'm just analyzing rationally. Someone better suited, more valuable, should take this spot," Takizawa shook his head.
"Based on online votes and past radio ratings, you fit perfectly. Effort pays off—your sincerity moved everyone."
Her tone softened, growing somber.
"Yet, despite such success and support, you're still dismissive. Maybe the real issue is me? Did I offend you, kouhai-kun? I'll change, so please don't be so cold or self-deprecating. It hurts."
"…"
Year-lower senpais, flipping between modes, are workplace wildcards—especially this radiant, limited-edition kouhai-senpai.
In a land of hierarchy and etiquette, seniors are untouchable, juniors grovel.
Sure, he could pull a classic upset, but in reality, she, underage, was the true "lower."
A monstrous hybrid emerged.
She wielded double buffs: "upending the higher" And "ruling the lower."
Gods was blind.
She was late from rushing for the train, yet in two minutes, she'd shed her shell, turned defense to offense, and flipped the script.
No matter.
The strong fear no challenge.
"Today, overcast, drizzly, chilly. At 9:09:19 AM, I ate a convenience store rice ball, sipped cheap bagged milk. In the train, flanked by bald, bespectacled salarymen. Arrived on time, but no sign of that dreamed-of figure. I didn't mind at first. Three minutes passed, ten, eighteen—the rice ball's seaweed stuck to my tooth, yet her seat stayed empty. Unbelievable, but the disciplined Hidaka-san was late."
Takizawa recited like poetry.
"I picked my teeth, leaned by the third-floor window, gazing at a leaden world, wondering what tarnished her perfection. Wind? Mud? Worry turned to doubt—maybe working with me? Forcing smiles for this dull guy, manufacturing topics, keeping harmony—what a chore. I grew anxious. Our seemingly close chats were her gritting through."
"I waited uneasily until you appeared. Sure enough, after polite greetings, you subtly jabbed at my unprofessionalism, my lack of drive. Words piled up, ready to burst—Your Highness, your loyal knight, oaths under the king, soul ever-bound—but something blocked them, swirling in my mind, unsaid."
"Hidaka-san's gentle face wore a false mask, lips moving silently. Finally, she declared, 'Kouhai.' I shivered, realizing a tragic wall stood between us."
His face brimmed with sorrow, too heavy to voice, only sighing.
"I've disappointed you, showing my uselessness. Sorry. I'll leave. When I've made it, we'll meet again in spring's bloom."
"Eh?"
Hidaka froze.
Heh, a sly smirk.
Precocious girl, never seen this counterplay?
Unlike those stumped by you, I'm a higher tier, a different breed. Burn this first taste of power into your heart.
Seconds later, she blinked, eyes darting.
"Oh, we were both worried about each other. Should've just said so."
Softening, ending this skirmish? Wise.
"Then…"
"I didn't realize sunny Takizawa-kun was so sensitive. If I'd known a title could stir such anxiety, I'd have prepped."
She cut him off, chanting slowly, her smile sweet as honey.
"'Kouhai-kun' won't do. As proof of closing the gap…"
She tilted her head.
"Can I call you 'Satoru-kun'?"
Her words unlocked a forbidden gate, unleashing roaring demons, splitting skies, thundering seas. A freezing winter swept all, drowning the man before her.
Even the glass-walled observers, radio producers wielding authority, trembled, glasses nearly slipping.
That ultimate move?
He paused, meeting her cunning gaze, scratching his head half-confused, half-casual.
"Sure."
No biggie.
His miraculous words dispelled the storm, restoring light, reviving the world.
A counter-wave.
"Eh?" The producer.
"Eh?" Hidaka.
"But it's mutual, right? So, I can call you Rina?" He added.
"Eh?!" The producer.
"Eh?!" Hidaka.
Just a name. Some cultures toss them around casually, doubling up single syllables for fun.
Japanese etiquette's a hassle—too formal, and common surnames clash. Past projects were a slog: pages of pleasantries boiling down to "sorry, revise again."
Calling names directly is intimate, they say.
So, be intimate.
His boss cheerily called him "Roy, finish that report before you go."
How intimate is that?
"Uh, well, it's not… impossible, but, eh?!" Hidaka floundered, words masking panic.
Too young. The sting from that swift strike just hit. Learn from pro poker players—emotionless, stone-faced machines.
"Enough childish sparring. Hone your skills," Takizawa said, turning to the producer. "When do we start?"
The producer adjusted his glasses, reclaiming elite poise.
"Truth is, we already did."
"?"
"?!"
"Haha, relax, it's not live. We'll edit out the nonsense."
Anyone else saying that, believable.
Him? Never trust it.
***
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