The pen scratched across the cheap manuscript paper in messy, hurried strokes. Ink bled from the nib like blood from an open wound.
"Yuki... I love you," the character whispered on the final page, his eyes glistening as sakura petals fell across the panel. It was a confession scene—a beautiful one. Tender. Hopeful.
Keita Sumeragi stared at it, heart thudding in his chest. He'd poured everything into this moment. Weeks of sleepless nights, ramen dinners, and scribbled revisions on convenience store receipts. He believed in this story. He had to. It was all he had left.
He snapped the binder closed and slipped it into his bag, fingers trembling not with excitement, but with exhaustion.
---
The next day, he sat in the cold, sterile office of his editor.
Tanaka, mid-30s, dressed like a startup CEO with trendy glasses and a perpetual smirk, flipped through the manuscript half-heartedly. He didn't even bother reading the dialogue. Just scanned the pages like a bored AI.
"Hm."
Keita's heart was already sinking.
Tanaka closed the binder and pushed it back across the table like it was radioactive.
"Another romance? Seriously, Keita?"
Keita straightened. "It's more than that. It's about rediscovering love after loss. There's nuance, layers—"
Tanaka sighed loudly. "Look. You can draw. Sure. And your paneling has gotten better. But this kind of sentimental crap? No one buys this anymore. Teenagers want trash. Sex. Betrayal. Drama. You're stuck in the '90s, man."
Keita's hands clenched in his lap. "I... I'm trying to write what matters to me."
"And that's the problem. You think anyone cares about what matters to you?"
Silence filled the room. The ticking of a cheap wall clock sounded like a time bomb.
"I'll be honest with you," Tanaka continued. "Your last three one-shots bombed. Zero traction online. Comments said it was boring. You're running out of chances."
Keita swallowed. "So what do you want me to do?"
Tanaka leaned back in his chair, intertwining his fingers like a villain in a soap opera. "There's a demand for NTR right now. Netorare. It's hot. Controversial. Sells like crazy. We've got a slot open in Blackline Adult Monthly. You interested?"
Keita froze.
"NTR…?"
Tanaka grinned. "Yeah. Cheating. Stealing lovers. Twisted sex. Readers eat that shit up. And hey—draw some ugly bastard stuff. Add shame. Add tears. Readers love the crying girls."
Keita felt sick. "That's not me. I don't believe in that kind of story."
Tanaka shrugged. "Then believe in poverty."
---
That night, Keita walked home in the drizzle, his manuscript getting damp inside his bag. The city lights blurred behind wet lashes. Trains rushed overhead. Salarymen laughed in izakayas, clinking glasses with shallow joy.
When he reached his rundown apartment, he hesitated at the door. He could already hear the television blaring. His stomach turned.
He slid open the door and stepped inside. His socks soaked the moment they touched the tatami.
"Keita," his wife called from the couch without turning. "Didn't get accepted again, huh?"
He said nothing. Just slipped off his shoes and set down the bag.
In the corner, his 5-year-old daughter, Emi, lay curled in a thin blanket. Her cheeks were hollow. Her lips dry.
He knelt beside her. "Did she eat?"
His wife rolled her eyes. "We're out of rice. There's still instant noodles if you want to cook something."
He rose slowly. "I gave you money last week."
"Yeah, and I paid the damn electricity bill." She stood, finally facing him. "What do you expect me to do? Miracles?"
Keita looked down at his calloused hands. His wife's face was thinner than it used to be. Her eyes dull. They hadn't touched each other in months.
"I'm trying," he muttered.
"Trying?" she scoffed. "You sit here drawing stories no one reads. You live in dreams, Keita. But dreams are useless if they don't feed your family."
---
Later that night, Keita sat in the cramped kitchen, the only light coming from his flickering desk lamp. He stared at a blank page. His pen hovered, but didn't move.
He thought about Emi's sunken eyes. About Tanaka's sneer. About the mocking laughter of anonymous commenters online calling his last manga "a sleep aid."
He flipped open a notebook, sketching a random panel.
A girl in a school uniform. Crying. Bent over.
A guy smirking behind her. Her boyfriend standing in the background, betrayed.
He closed the book quickly.
What the hell was he doing?
He opened another page and drew sakura blossoms again. But the flowers looked fake now. Hollow. Meaningless.
---
Flashback—
Keita at age 15, staring at a bookshelf in a manga store.
He clutched a volume of Ichigo 100%. Smiled like an idiot. Told himself, "Someday, I'll draw stories that make people feel like this. That make people fall in love."
Back in the present, he whispered to himself:
"What happened to me?"
---
The next morning, Emi tugged at his sleeve.
"Papa, my tummy hurts."
Keita lifted her gently. "I'll get something to eat. Just wait, okay?"
He opened the cupboards. Empty. Just soy sauce, half a bag of expired chips, and a few sad onions.
---
Three days later, his editor called again.
"You considered my offer?"
Keita didn't answer immediately.
Tanaka chuckled. "You've got talent, Keita. Just stop resisting reality. No one cares about love. They want shock. Give them pain. Give them betrayal. Give them lust."
He hung up.
Keita stared at Emi sleeping on the futon. He hadn't eaten in two days. His hands were shaking.
He picked up the pen.
---
That night, he drew for six hours straight.
Panel after panel. Dark expressions. Screams. Stolen kisses. Moans. Guilt. Shame. Power.
By 3 a.m., he finished the prologue.
He stared at his reflection in the window. A stranger looked back.
His wife didn't even come home that night.
---
Days passed. He delivered the manuscript. Tanaka grinned. "This is it. This'll sell."
Keita felt hollow.
He went home and found a letter.
"I'm leaving. Don't contact us again."
No name signed.
And Emi was gone.
---
A week later, he got the call.
Emi had passed away in a rural hospital. Malnourishment. Fever. No insurance.
No one claimed the body.
Keita dropped the phone.
He stood in silence for an hour.
Then he climbed to the rooftop of his building.
The wind was gentle. The sun was rising.
He looked out at the city. The buildings were so small from here. Just like his dreams.
---
He stepped over the edge.
And as he fell, he smiled.
Not because he wanted to die.
But because there was nothing left to live for.
---
To be continued