Takizawa jolted awake—not from a knife in a smoky brawl, but from a dream where a sunglasses-wearing, bald badass with a million horsepower magnetic punch smashed him into a wall, spelling his doom.
His enemies? Gravity-wielding titans, talking mutant beasts, time-reversing pilots with killer curves, scientists commanding nature, mecha-suited musclemen, even AIs mastering astral projection.
And him? Armed with outdated darts, a samurai's ritual dagger, and a gag sword only legal to draw for six seconds on a stroll.
Where's the justice?
Half-awake, he stared at the ceiling, then clutched his stomach and shuffled to the bathroom for some morning metabolism.
A fine day began with a magazine, a cigarette, and a squat.
Using a convenience store seasoning packet, he heated last night's cold rice into a steaming bowl of simple ochazuke, paired with spicy bean paste for a zesty kick.
He queued up a recorded late-night variety show, chuckling at its risqué antics, especially when young women let out adorable yelps during pranks.
Morning dramas were heartwarming, noon PSAs brought tears, evening documentaries waxed poetic about artisanal crafts. But past midnight, all bets were off—pure chaos.
One channel aired a tearjerker about a train conductor braving storms for decades, then flipped to a twin-tailed idol in a sailor suit sobbing while handling live bugs.
This country was weird.
Corporate slaves scraping by for bread money had it rough, but the entertainment industry, with its service bent, was brutal.
Voice acting was a small circle, but it still counted.
Life here was high-pressure, fast-paced, and emotional outlets got extreme.
Takizawa vowed to stay true, hold his dignity, and keep his principles in this cold city.
Takizawa, no more twisted shows! You were once a bold rogue with guts for glory, booze, and justice. Don't fall for cheap thrills built on exploiting the weak!
Snapping out of it, he shut off the late-night replay and switched to a harem anime.
Anime girls—gorgeous, charming, crafted to soothe weary souls without hurting anyone—were the true, harmless pillar of strength.
As a voice actor, watching this is just research, right?
Sprawled on the floor, he immersed himself in Japan's post-modern, soft-hued anime art, a descendant of Edo-period ukiyo-e, capturing fleeting beauty.
His brow furrowed, face serious as if pondering the universe's origins. If frozen, the frame could be captioned "ActingStudy.JPG."
At a glance, nothing seemed off. Look closer, and it was impressive. As an industry insider, a shy, budding thought sprouted.
I kinda want to voice a harem anime lead.
After finishing watching the show, he stretched.
Back when he was broke, survival kept him busy. Now, with some cash and free time, he felt aimless.
Takizawa had no close friends, a broken family, and distant relatives—no holiday visits to speak of.
Fresh from dodging homelessness, his contacts were few. He couldn't exactly hit up the balding vice-principal or the school nurse for a card game.
He bragged online, watched meme videos, browsed social platforms, and checked ArtStation, marveling at artists' mind-blowing work.
These guys must be the real time-travelers. Kids drawing this well? Where's the fairness?
He hadn't drawn in ages. Practice makes perfect, and his skills were rusty. To psych himself up, he renamed Photoshop to "Steam," Tricking himself before the world.
Plugging in his tablet, he opened a blank canvas.
…My brushes are gone!
Mourning his lost tools, he picked a hard brush and doodled halfheartedly.
With Life Corridor, he didn't need to hunt for references—they floated beside his vision. He multitasked: images here, a drama there, music elsewhere, even a comedy podcast and a ghost story in the mix.
It was thrilling but draining, like burning through brain fuel.
After an hour or two, he stared at the canvas, dismayed.
Pathetic. Gotta schedule practice, or my epic skills will degrade into amateur scribbles.
Grumbling about peers with otherworldly talent, his phone buzzed.
Not his agent, who sent him sprinting across Tokyo, but Matsuoka, unseen for a while.
"Yo, Matsuoka, what's up?"
"Takizawa, you free today?" Matsuoka asked, background noise suggesting a bustling mall.
"Yeah, pretty chill."
"Wanna join us? Some of us rookies are heading to Iwasawa's place to make gyozas."
"Sounds fun. Count me in. Send the address."
"Sweet, I'm grabbing ingredients now." Matsuoka hung up, cheerful.
Takizawa tossed his stylus, closed the unsaved sketch, and got ready.
Washing dishes, dressing, checking wallet, keys, and utilities, he paused while lacing his Adidas at the door.
Rookie meetup… should I invite someone else?
He scrolled his sparse contacts and dialed a number added just days ago.
After a dozen rings, a hesitant voice answered.
"Hello…?"
"It's me."
"I know, I know. What's up?" Sakura asked.
"You free? Wanna hang out?"
"…"
"…"
"Hello? You there?" Takizawa asked after a silent beat.
"I hear you! Hang out, right? Like, friends chilling together?" Her voice was rushed.
"Uh, yeah, exactly. You got plans?"
"Nope! Homework's done!"
"Cool, I'll send the address. Meet there."
"Got it!"
The call ended.
Takizawa scratched his head, staring at the phone.
So excited to hang out? Must be stuck studying at home. Now she's got a legit excuse to ditch.
***
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