It's Wednesday morning. Makoto stood in front of the full-length mirror in the hallway and tugged at the collar of his white shirt.
His cheap suit smelled like mothballs. It was a size too small, the fabric straining slightly across his chest thanks to months of Mafuyu's cooking and a sedentary lifestyle. The material felt stiff against his skin, a harsh contrast to the soft, worn cotton of the band t-shirts he usually wore.
"Hold still, honey," Mafuyu murmured. She stood in front of him with her brow furrowed in concentration as she adjusted his tie. Her fingers were cool and nimble while she smoothed the silk and corrected the knot.
She wore her apron over a simple house dress with her hair tied back in a loose ponytail. She looked tired, with faint purple smudges under her eyes that hadn't been there a week ago.
"I can do it myself, Mafuyu-nee," Makoto said, though he didn't pull away. He liked the feeling of her hands on him and the quiet intimacy of the moment.
"You'll make it crooked," she chastised softly, patting his chest once she was satisfied. She stepped back and tilted her head to inspect her work. "There! You look professional." She forced a smile, her gaze lingered on Makoto's face, filled with hope but also a deep anxiety she was trying to hide.
"It's just an interview. They were the only company accepting my CV this week." Makoto said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. "It's a small software house in Shinjuku, doing legacy systems maintenance. It isn't glamorous, but it pays."
"I know. I made you a bento too, honey," Mafuyu said, turning to the small table by the door. She picked up a wrapped bundle in a cheerful yellow fabric printed with little cats. "It's just leftover karaage and some tamagoyaki. I know you will like it."
As she handed it to him, her hand brushed his. Her skin felt clammy and too warm.
"Are you okay, Mafuyu-nee?" Makoto asked, frowning. He reached out to touch her forehead, but she pulled back with a strained laugh.
"I'm fine," she insisted. "Just a headache. The weather changes, you know? Don't worry about me. Go worry about impressing them." She pushed him gently toward the door.
Makoto stepped out into the humid morning air. The sky was a flat, oppressive grey that threatened rain but refused to deliver. He looked back at the house. Mafuyu was still standing in the doorway, waving.
Behind her in the shadows of the hallway, he thought he saw the flicker of a grey twin-tail. Yuna was probably awake but refusing to see him off in a suit.
He gripped the handle of his cheap briefcase and marched toward the train station. The weight of the bento box in his bag felt heavy, a reminder of the people counting on him.
===
The office of TechNova Solutions was located in a building that time, and possibly the sanitation department, had forgotten.
It was wedged between a pachinko parlor and a sketchy massage parlor that reminded him uncomfortably of where he had first met Yuna. The elevator shuddered and groaned as it ascended to the fourth floor, the air inside stale and smelling faintly of old cigarettes and floor wax.
When the doors slid open, Makoto was hit by a wall of grey.
The office was an open-plan disaster. Rows of desks were crammed together under flickering fluorescent lights that buzzed like dying insects. There were no windows, just peeling beige walls stained yellow near the ceiling from years of smoke.
Then there was the weird silence mixed with typing sounds. It wasn't the focused quiet of a library. It was the heavy, suffocating silence of a prison. Men in ill-fitting suits hunched over ancient monitors, their fingers tapping listlessly at keyboards.
No one looked up, and no one spoke. They looked less like engineers and more like battery hens drained of all life.
"Makoto Ayasato-san?" A receptionist who looked like she hadn't slept since the last Sunday gestured toward a frosted glass door at the back. "Director Tohka will see you now."
Makoto swallowed the lump in his dry throat, straightened his tie, and walked in.
The Director's office was clouded in a thick haze of cigarette smoke. Behind a massive mahogany desk sat a man who looked like a bullfrog stuffed into a suit. He was balding, sweating, and currently picking his teeth with a toothpick as he read Makoto's resume.
"Sit," the man grunted without looking up.
Makoto sat down. The chair was wobbly and hard, made from the kind of cheap plastic that makes people uncomfortable.
"So," Tohka said, finally tossing the resume onto the desk. "Tokyo Institute of Technology, huh? Shabby school. Only do freelance work, no corporate experience." He made a sound of disgust and sucked air through his teeth. "Why should I hire a kid who's been playing on his computer in his bedroom for three years?"
"I have a strong portfolio, sir," Makoto said, keeping his voice steady despite his racing heart. "I've built full-stack applications. I'm proficient in Python and Java, and I'm learning Rust. I'm a fast learner."
"Our engineers checked your so-called application. That was just a funky, childish cosplay website. And we don't use Python here. Young people these days don't even research the company they applied for!" Tohka cut him off, waving a hand dismissively.
The smoke from Tohka's cigarette curled around his fingers. "We maintain accounting software written in COBOL for regional banks. It's stable and boring. It requires discipline, not creativity." He sneered the word like it was an insult.
"I can do discipline," Makoto said. "I'm willing to learn COBOL."
"Are you willing to work hard?" Director Tohka leaned forward with narrowed eyes. "This isn't a playground. We start at 8:30 AM. We finish when the work is done, usually around 10 PM, sometimes midnight. We work Saturdays if the client needs it. We don't pay overtime, we pay a dedication allowance, which is included in your base salary."
Makoto did the math in his head. Twelve to fourteen-hour days, six days a week, with no overtime pay. The hourly rate would be lower than what he earned at the convenience store. "That seems like a lot of hours," Makoto ventured carefully.
"It's the industry standard," Tohka barked. "Young people these days want everything handed to them. You want work-life balance? Go work at a flower shop. Here, we are a family. We sacrifice for the company."
The word "Family" twisted in Makoto's gut. He thought of his actual family, their chaotic dinners and movie nights, or the way Yuna yelled at him and the way Mika quietly organized his life.
This was not a family. It was a prison. "I have responsibilities," Makoto said quietly. "I need some stability."
"Stability comes from loyalty!" The Director slammed his hand on the desk. He picked up Makoto's resume again and squinted at the interests section. "And what is this? Cosplay prop design? Community management for online groups?"
He let out a hacking laugh. "You're one of those otaku trash, aren't you? Playing dress-up with dolls, wasting your time with cartoons while real men build the economy."
He looked at Makoto with pure contempt. "You know, I usually throw applications like this in the trash. But my nephew quit last week because he was burned out. Weak. I need a body to fill the seat."
"I'll offer you the intern position of 150,000 yen (~950$) a month. Probationary period of six months with half salary. If you survive, we'll talk about full pay." He leaned back, looking smug. "Well? Do you want to be a man, or do you want to go back to playing with your toys?"
The air in the room felt unbreathable. The smoke, the sweat, and the sheer weight of the man's arrogance pressed down on Makoto's chest.
Makoto looked at the Director, then at the grey, lifeless office outside the glass door. He thought about the ¥42,350 in his bank account, about the upcoming bills.
Then he thought about Yuna sewing furiously at 3 AM to make something beautiful. He thought about Mika proudly showing him a note of their profit. He thought about Mafuyu's gentle smile as she handed him the bento box this morning.
"Go back to playing dress-up with your dolls? They weren't dolls, they were my life, they were my heart!" Makoto thought as he stood up. The plastic chair scraped loudly against the floor. "I think there has been a misunderstanding," Makoto said, his voice surprisingly calm.
The Director blinked. "What?"
"I am looking for a job," Makoto said, meeting the man's gaze. "I am not looking for a prison sentence. And I certainly don't want a family that treats its members like livestock." He reached out and picked up his resume from the desk.
"And for the record," Makoto added, a cold edge entering his voice, "Those toys require more discipline and passion than anything I've seen in this building." He turned and walked to the door.
"You walk out that door, you're blacklisted, kid!" The Director shouted, spittle flying from his mouth. "You'll never work in this district again! You're a loser, Makoto! A fat otaku loser! Our HR will make sure no reputable company calls you after this tantrum!"
Makoto opened the door. The sound of typing in the outer office stopped. Dozens of tired, grey faces looked up at him.
"Good luck rotting in here," Makoto said to the room. Then he walked out, took the elevator down, and stepped onto the street.