Takizawa grabbed a hefty copy of Origins of Civilization: Modern History 3 and flipped through it page by page, scanning each one carefully to ensure his mental archives wouldn't glitch or blur later.
Three seconds per page. The book was thick, easily five minutes to get through. A far cry from quantum-speed time-warping reading.
Honestly, it was dull. Even with a camera-like memory, you still had to snap each shot.
He'd been "photographing" with his eyes for three days, slogging from the Big Bang to the Renaissance.
He could've multitasked, replaying childhood TV classics while studying, but his brain couldn't handle it. Ten episodes in, he'd go pale, weak, aching, legs trembling, stomach growling.
This skill burned through nutrients. Could he sneak some meat buns into the exam?
Takizawa rubbed his eyes and stood to stretch, after a bit of strecth, he lit a cigarette, and gazed out the window for a break.
The vice-principal and principal had been fired up, ready to mold him into a scholar. But memorizing books was a solo task, so they sent him home with textbooks, planning spot quizzes the next day.
After a breather, he cracked his neck and sat back down.
With his legs now less wobbly—time for an episode of Doraemon. Next book, maybe geography.
I am an emotionless knowledge vessel.
As the show's theme song faded in his mind, a knock interrupted. He paused, stood, and checked the peephole.
"Who's there?"
"Room 207, right? I'm the landlord," A stocky man with a buzz cut said while sliding a notice through the mail slot. "Next month, just water and electric. No rent."
"That's a thing?" Takizawa blinked picking up the paper skeptically and opening the door.
"This building's slated for demolition—part of a nearby commercial street project," The landlord said, his steady face breaking into a gleeful grin at the word "demolition." "Get ready to move next month. Gotta be out by the month after."
"…Congrats on the windfall, man," Takizawa unable to muster a smile.
"You bet! I'm eyeing a 60-day world tour. Don't worry, kid, you'll make it big too!" The landlord tossed him a cigarette and headed upstairs to gloat.
Takizawa shut the door and staring at the notice with his heart sinking. He'd finally gotten used to this bed, and now the rug was pulled out. Finding a decent place in Tokyo was no joke.
When he back at the desk, everything felt flat.
Sudden demolition. The landlord, already rolling in cash, lost his last shred of hustle. Takizawa's life, meanwhile, got harder.
He'd been pinching pennies from Takizawa Satoru's savings and skipping large bentos.
The principal's project wouldn't pay out for three months—if he even passed.
The agency hadn't called for any voice work or industry meet-and-greets.
In online, he couldn't land freelance gigs because he don't have name and time to build a portfolio, and his sparse work lacked punch.
Takizawa set down Origins of Civilization, a symbol of mental wealth, and checked his wallet. A few measly bills—material poverty.
Reality is stung.
Maybe the convenience store downstairs needed a grunt.
Takizawa washed his face, combed his hair, and steadied his mood. Donning the classic blue-and-white checkered shirt of tech bros, he queued up My Future Isn't a Dream in his head and stepped out.
…
Matsuoka squirted dish soap onto a sponge, scrubbing oil off ceramic plates under hot water. He worked fast and clean, finishing one plate and diving into the next.
The humming range hood, sizzling stove heat, and bustling chefs and servers filled the chaotic kitchen.
Another stack of half-eaten plates hit his sink. He wiped sweat with the towel around his neck and kept going.
The shop's prime location meant booming business and decent part-time pay.
Post-lunch rush, the workload eased. Matsuoka stood straight, rubbed his back, and took short breaks. Someone offered a smoke outside, but he shook his head, declining politely.
He pulled over a chair, sat, and checked his phone's messages.
A simple guy, he'd been too busy since arriving in Tokyo to enjoy the city.
But with recording work on the horizon, he faced his hectic life with calmer spirits.
His agent said to wait for a call.
The industry was kind to newbies, forgiving early fumbles. Now, he felt like a dish ready to leave the kitchen, awaiting the critic's verdict with hope and nerves.
He'd swing by the agency later. Iwasawa Toshiki always nagged him to show his face and network.
Truthfully, he preferred straightforward work—tackling tasks, embodying roles, performing well. Schmoozing strangers or sealing deals over drinks wasn't his strength.
Matsuoka knew this flaw.
Without the sudden urge to become a voice actor, he'd likely have picked something quiet, like auto repair.
A hobby to dive into, friends to geek out with, satisfaction from modest work, helping others, spreading joy—that was his ideal life.
Matsuoka cleaned the sink, fishing out food scraps to prevent clogs and wiping down greasy counters.
Done, he headed to the staff room to change. He'd return for the dinner rush and clean tables and floors after closing.
"Hard work today," He said, switching to casual clothes, greeting the chef and manager.
"Heading home to rest?" The manager asked.
"Gotta hit the agency."
"Got it. Keep at it!" The manager, clueless about the agency, offered polite encouragement.
"Thanks, I'll do my best," Matsuoka said earnestly.
"Changing room's up ahead. Pick something that fits," The manager said to a young guy behind him. "I'll go over the basics later."
"I'll uphold the spirit of service, welcoming customers with top-notch energy!" The young guy radiated passion.
They passed each other.
Matsuoka stepped outside, then glanced back, puzzled.
Huh?
***
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