….
[Japan]
….
Then the intercom buzzed again. "Good, that was... really clean."
Kento blinked, lips slightly parted, then exhaled softly, not from relief - more from habit.
He gently lowered his script.
From the sound booth, the producer and sound director exchanged a look, then a brief nod.
"Take five, Kento-san we are almost wrapped for the day."
Kento bowed his head lightly. "Thank you."
He stepped out of the booth, sliding off his headphones, and set them down like something sacred.
As he walked toward the small break corner, his steps slowed near the frosted glass window where Tokyo's skyline shimmered in the distance.
It's been eleven months.
Since that bizarre encounter in Malaysia.
…Regal, an absolute stranger at the time, dragged him out of the ruins of finance and dropped him into the whirlwind of entertainment like it was nothing.
A memory flickered.
Regal standing in the muggy heat of Kuala Lumpur(:Malaysia), grinning with sunglasses on, saying something insane like:
"You sound like a man who knows how to carry silence, ever tried voice acting?"
It hadn't made sense then, it barely made sense now.
Hollywood had been a blur - studios, microphones, dialect coaches, confused producers asking why a Japanese man was reading an English dub with all the stiffness of a tax form.
Still, he did it.
He let Regal push him, he dubbed a single line in a language he didn't even understand.
Regal made him try.
And now?
Now he was back home, in Tokyo.
And somehow... doing this.
It wasn't glamorous and definitely wasn't easy.
He wasn't voicing the leads in big seasonal shows, nor appearing on the front pages of seiyuu magazines.
But he was working.
He was voicing characters that appeared in more than one episode, a recurring role and even a named face with a personality.
Sometimes, at random hours, he would be walking past an electronics store and hear a voice on a flat-screen mounted in the window, and realize, with a small start, it was him.
That part always caught him off guard.
But as he stepped out of the room, a few voices behind him broke the silence.
Nanami didn't expect any compliments, he never did.
"Sir, that was… beautifully said."
"Smooth, creamy, and possessing a certain 'testosterone' appeal. I wish we had found you earlier."
"Is he always like this?" someone asked in a hushed tone. "No ego… just that presence."
Nanami paused only long enough to nod politely over his shoulder, the faintest lift of his hand in acknowledgement.
Just a humble, practiced silence, as if compliments were a distant wind brushing past him, never something to be held.
He sipped from a vending machine can of cold coffee, still sweating from the booth.
He knew he wasn't at the finish line, not even close.
But… maybe he was at the starting line now, for real this time.
He chuckled softly, resting the can against his cheek.
"Thank you, Regal." He muttered in English - clumsy, awkward, but heartfelt.
"...You crazy bastard."
His voice wasn't breaking anymore.
It was building.
….
Then he was gone.
Out on the street, he hailed a taxi, slipping into the back seat with the kind of ease only someone used to quiet errands could manage.
The driver asked for the address, Nanami handed him a crumpled slip of paper he had taken from his coat pocket.
It wasn't a studio.
It wasn't even in a place where anything looked remotely professional.
The taxi wound its way through a narrow, older part of town, one of those neighborhoods where inspiration breathes heavy and cheap coffee keeps artists alive.
The buildings here were low, some sagging, others with laundry lines running like vines across their balconies. It was a known area.
A kind of half-sanctuary, half-exile for aspiring manga artists who hadn't 'made it' yet, or worse - those who might never.
Nanami thanked the driver, paid the fare, and stepped out.
He looked down at the address again, the numbers barely matched the peeling paint of the building in front of him.
A single gutter hung limp from the roof, dripping occasionally onto a sagging stack of cardboard near the stairs.
This place… looked worse than any of the others.
Much worse.
Nanami tilted his head and stared at it for a beat longer than necessary.
"…What else is that madman going to make me do in this life?" He muttered to himself, sighing, shoulders already accepting his fate.
He stepped up, rang the doorbell.
No answer.
He waited, then rang again.
Still nothing.
Finally, after several seconds of distant shuffling and a bump against something inside, the door creaked open, barely.
A man stood there, if you could call what was standing 'stable'.
The guy looked like a ghost, hollow-cheeked, pale, with eyes that hadn't blinked properly in what might have been days.
Hair messy, skin slightly slick with exhaustion, Nanami blinked.
"Is it about the unpaid bills… Mister?" The man mumbled, eyes glassy. "Sorry about that, I will pay them as soon as possible…"
Nanami glanced down at the plastic bag he was holding, the same one he had been handed this morning with strict instructions not to forget.
Inside?
Instant ramen… The kind students and madmen lived off.
This was exactly the address the man who sent him had been oddly insistent about.
Nanami sighed again, gently.
"I am not here about the bills." He said. "I am here to talk."
"…Talk?" The man blinked, confused, swaying slightly in the doorway.
Nanami gave a nod, the man stepped aside and gestured vaguely inward. "Come in… if you can find space…"
Calling it a 'house' was generous.
It looked exactly like what it was, someone's cluttered battlefield of failed deadlines, ink-stained dreams, and long nights with no proper meals.
Pages were taped to walls, stuck to floors, half-crumpled and rewritten again.
An open can of energy drink lay sideways, thankfully empty.
Nanami scanned the place once before heading straight to what looked like a kitchenette, if only in name.
"Can I get some hot water…?" He said plainly, setting the ramen down.
"Eh?" The man blinked, as if the idea of eating hadn't occurred to him in a week.
"For this." Nanami pointed, already reaching for the electric kettle, thankful it still worked. "You will faint if you don't eat soon."
The man didn't argue, just quietly obeyed.
A few minutes later, both of them sat on opposite sides of a low table, steam rising from the bowls of ramen.
The silence was calming… until Nanami's eyes began to wander.
There were posters, hand-drawn, some sun-faded - A boy with a straw hat.
One Piece.
Of course, he should have guessed.
The room was filled with little signs, fan sketches, copied panels, even a laminated photo tacked to the wall.
Eiichiro Oda - the creator.
Nanami nodded slightly to himself.
Seems like he idolizes him... Understandable, it's a great story.
One of the greatest.
Just past a small stack of One Piece design sheets, there, right next to Luffy's iconic straw hat and grinning pose, was another character… Nanami had never seen it before.
A boy.
About twelve.
Standing in a similar posture to Luffy, but with a different kind of aura…
He had wild, spiky hair that pointed out in all directions, wearing tinted goggles pushed to his forehead.
But it was the marks on his cheeks that pulled Nanami in, three small, curved lines etched on each side of his face.
Like whiskers - Cat-like.
The sketch looked incomplete, missing background, shoes only loosely outlined, and no color yet filled in.
But there was something oddly intentional about the boy's stance.
Not random, like someone who didn't belong in the One Piece world...
"What's this one?" Nanami asked, pointing casually.
The artist nearby, a slim man with tied-back hair and a mechanical pencil tucked behind his ear, looked up with an entirely different gaze this time… his eyes were shining.
His hands were smudged with graphite.
"Oh that?" He said, eyes lighting up a bit. "That's not official work, just something I have been doodling on my breaks, you know, when your hand won't stop drawing but your deadline says 'rest.'"
Nanami leaned in, studying the pencil strokes and nodded slowly.
Then caught himself and chuckled.
A year ago, he wouldn't have cared about a half-finished sketch.
Would have filed it away as some art student's whim.
Now? He was standing here trying to feel what the character might sound like, what kind of weight his voice might carry, what he would say if he finally opened his mouth in some dark alley or hidden room.
Maybe that was the biggest change of all.
Not just that he had entered a new industry.
But that he had learned to see stories.
Even in silence.
Nanami turned his head toward the artist, offering a small, apologetic smile. "Actually… I am sorry, but what was your name again, Mr…?"
Though Nanami wasn't the sort to forget a name easily, this time it had slipped his mind.
"Oh, no worries." The man replied with a casual wave, as if brushing the matter aside entirely.
Then he introduced himself. "Masashi Kishimoto."
Nanami gave a polite nod. "Kento Nanami."
And with that, two strangers exchanged names, setting in motion a crossing of paths that would shape a future neither could yet imagine.
.
….
[To be continued…]
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