It's no secret: humans are masters of hypocrisy, skilled at masking their true selves.
In elementary school, when a sixth-grade council leader surveyed the cafeteria food, Takizawa, a mere third-grader, ignored the burnt tomato-and-egg dish and, with a straight face, gave a thumbs-up, calling it divine.
Humans are also fickle, always craving what's out of reach. In middle school, during the sports festival, a smitten Takizawa stood at the finish line, loyal as a devoted dog, captivated by his crush's grace and beauty in the sprint. But soon, his eyes wandered to the long, pale legs in the next lane, so distracting he missed his chance to help his crush or offer her water.
Give a man a bed, he wants bread. Give him bread, he wants a party.
Now, with a shiny degree and some disposable cash, Takizawa, naturally, wanted to…
"So, you're saying you want to hit a nightclub, have the mama-san introduce you to a cute schoolgirl in a short skirt and white socks for drinks and board games?" Kashiwai Ippei's voice purred through the phone, low and magnetic.
"I just want a break. Don't make it sound so wild," Takizawa groaned, pausing. "Wait, those places actually exist?"
"Of course, and they're safe."
"Rookies care about safety. I care about legitimacy," Takizawa scoffed.
"Enough chatter. Your schedule's set—get to work," Kashiwai said coldly.
"This job's hours are way too erratic."
"You're too shallow. Work comes in easy and hard flavors. This gig? Just talk big, get paid, and boost your fame," Kashiwai coaxed. "What's not to love?"
"The day has come," Takizawa said gravely. "I'm about to be a stand-in for a comedy legend."
"…It's a radio guest spot," Kashiwai clarified.
"What's that mean?"
"Dark Rebirth Fantasy is hot right now. Radio shows, commentary tracks, and merch have to keep up, or how's the boss buying that villa? You're the first episode's guest."
"But I'm a half-episode dead guy," Takizawa said, stunned.
"Your character's got buzz," Kashiwai chuckled. "It's a chance to promote you, the voice behind him. Be witty, approachable, elegant, engaging, adaptable…"
"Sounds like a blind date."
"Exactly! Treat the audience like your lover—cherish them, especially the female fans," Kashiwai urged. "They spend big."
"Kashiwai-san, your vision's too narrow. I treat clients like my bread and butter. You can dump a moody girlfriend, but you obey your parents. Your priorities need work," Takizawa said, shaking his head.
"Then be both mom and girlfriend. Whatever—get pumped," Kashiwai said. "The address is in your email. Go now."
"Ugh, another crowded train," Takizawa whined.
"Take a taxi. I'm paying," Kashiwai said smoothly.
"Finally! Driver, let's roll."
"?"
Radio, to Takizawa, carried a faded, nostalgic charm.
As a kid, he had a small radio that shocked him when voices first crackled through. From then on, he'd tinker with it before bed—news, chit-chat, or mysteries about forest creatures.
Car radios, relics of a bygone era, were once loved by night-driving truckers. On lonely hauls under starry skies, cigarette in mouth, foot on the gas, a distant host's soft voice and music filled the cab, offering unique companionship.
But with TVs, the internet, and smartphones, radio faded. Why listen to a host read letters about family drama when you could game online, watch variety shows, or stream music? Drivers now bragged on social apps or hustled for fares.
Unknowingly, we've watched some things age and die.
Japan's radio industry took hits from the digital wave but stayed vibrant.
Voice actors hosting radio wasn't rare—it suited their skills, offered income, and boosted exposure.
For fans, it was a chance to connect with the person behind their favorite characters, wrapped in a 2D veil, less gritty than reality.
But Takizawa felt uneasy.
He was a free spirit—charming in casual chats but stiff when posing for photos or, similarly, on air. In a studio, with staff staring through glass and thousands listening, he'd clam up, fearing an ill-timed remark.
So, he decided to play the "normal guy," like a poker pro controlling every word and gesture.
Going viral with wild antics wasn't his goal. As a behind-the-scenes worker, he'd stay behind the scenes.
Lost in thought, he arrived at the studio.
He'd forgotten to ask who was hosting—probably the lead actor, maybe that veteran with the mustache?
Great acting, warm demeanor—seemed reliable.
"There's some setup left. Head to the studio, review the script, and chat with your co-host," The producer said, greeting him. The man screamed "Kashiwai Ippei clone"—gold-rimmed glasses, mid-tier watch, exuding corporate polish.
Clutching a script with sponsor ads and segment details, Takizawa entered the studio, ready to greet the veteran, but froze.
Across the mic'd table, a slender figure with a ponytail scribbled at a desk.
A white sailor outfit with a red tie, a checkered knee-length skirt, white socks, and petite brown shoes. Past soft strands of hair, a youthful, delicate profile.
It was the prime of youth, vibrant and pure, softening the studio's modern edges with a classroom's lazy innocence.
The girl frowned, struggling with a problem, pen tapping her cheek.
Takizawa peeked over—her notebook was a battlefield of math equations.
Love and life betray you, but math doesn't—unless you just can't do it.
Noticing him, she looked up, her bright eyes blinking. A smile bloomed, cute enough to charm anyone, her eyes curving into crescents.
Their height difference was nearly two heads.
They locked eyes, one up, one down.
"Takizawa-san, hello," She said, standing and bowing, hands clasped.
"Yo, been a while, Hidaka-chan—no, Hidaka-senpai," Takizawa said, respecting the younger but senior colleague.
***
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