The morning was ending and the afternoon was approaching, and Nick was looking at the neighborhood through the open bedroom window, his expression stoic.
He felt something brushing against his leg. He didn't need to look down to know it was that cat from before, which had decided his foot was a suitable pillow.
Nick sighed but ignored it.
His blue-and-white pajamas, consisting of a shirt and pants, were actually quite comfortable.
But even if he wanted to leave the house and walk around the neighborhood, he wouldn't do it in his pajamas, even if he didn't care about others' opinions.
Still, he wouldn't be leaving anytime soon, mainly because of his fever.
"This neighborhood seems pretty quiet," he said, silently observing.
"Or maybe not so much." That was what he muttered upon seeing two elderly men shouting at each other.
Nick didn't know what was being said, nor did he care to find out. The music playing on the radio seemed far more intriguing than some random argument between neighbors.
The cat soon left Nick's foot and jumped onto his bed, perhaps claiming that spot as its territory or something like that.
Nick sat down in his chair at the table and picked up one of his sheets of paper.
When he started drawing, the tip of the pencil broke after Nick accidentally pressed it against the paper too hard.
He was frustrated, truly. But he grabbed a utility knife he had found in a cabinet. As the blade slid out, he began sharpening the pencil, slowly shaving away the wood.
After a few careful cuts, the pencil had a new tip—a sturdier one.
Nick then retracted the blade before placing the knife on the table, away from everything else.
Looking at the paper, Nick saw that the spot where the pencil tip had broken left a dark, irregular smudge.
He didn't mind much. Instead, he decided to incorporate that smudge into the drawing as a highlighted detail.
The radio kept playing. This time, it was a song with a calmer tone.
Tapping his foot lightly on the floor in sync with the music, Nick returned to his drawing.
He drew lines, then some scribbles, circles, and rectangles. He didn't press the pencil too hard, so the strokes looked smoother this time.
After sketching the general outline, he traced over everything, adding more details.
In the end, he had an uncolored artwork of a tall character with pronounced muscles, wearing a basketball uniform with the number 10 on it. His hair was styled in a messy pompadour, his facial expression intimidating, and a basketball rested in his hands.
"Hanamichi," Nick said, looking at his drawing.
Hanamichi Sakuragi is one of the characters and the protagonist of Slam Dunk, a manga series originally written and illustrated by Takehiko Inoue between 1990 and 1996. Throughout the story, Hanamichi is portrayed as a very temperamental person—loud, arrogant, aggressive, rude, and immature.
Slam Dunk was the first thing he acquired from his system, and Nick was still surprised by it.
Originally, in his past life, he hadn't read the entire story. But suddenly knowing and being aware of everything that happens was quite strange.
"I'm basically turning into some kind of art copier," Nick sighed. "But if I'm going to recreate the work originally done by these people, I'll have to do it well."
Nick stored his drawing, placing it in the same drawer where he kept his previously made artworks. Then, he went to put the utility knife back where he had found it.
But then, his system suddenly made him stop mid-way to his room.
|| "Tokyo Revengers - Manga - Volume 1"
Nick blinked, incredulous.
"Tokyo Revengers...?" He read the title, confused.
|| Receive?
|| Y/N.
Nick took a deep breath and pressed "Y."
When the flood of information rushed into his consciousness, Nick's breath faltered slightly, and he leaned against the wall until everything was fully absorbed.
The flow was less painful than the previous one, but that didn't make it any less irritating in Nick's eyes.
As he drank a glass of water, Nick thought for a moment, looking at the newest addition to the "Works" section of his system.
"The first two things I received were manga," Nick murmured. "The first one was the 'complete package.' The second was just the first fraction of the entire story."
He took a slow sip of water and continued, "I guess there's some kind of randomness to what I might receive. Maybe some unknown roulette or something."
Nick finished the water and, without delay, washed the glass in the kitchen sink before storing it in the cupboard.
He sat on the living room armchair, the radio music now nothing more than background noise.
He didn't know when he fell asleep, but he did, waking up a few hours later.
It was the moment the front door opened, and his uncle Hugh entered the house, carrying his toolbox in one hand and a plastic bag in the other.
Nick rubbed his eyes and got up from the armchair. He went to drink another glass of water.
Walking with heavy steps, his breathing slightly tired, Hugh stored his toolbox in its usual place and placed the plastic bag on the kitchen table, where it landed with a light thud.
Hugh raised an eyebrow when he heard the sound of a cat meowing.
Slowly lowering his gaze, Hugh noticed an unfamiliar cat staring at him.
He looked at Nick, his eyebrow raised in question, though he already suspected his nephew had something to do with the cat's sudden appearance in his house.
Nick let out a nervous laugh but chose not to say anything.
Hugh's eyes narrowed, and he just sighed, looking too tired to argue.
"You're impossible," Hugh said, his tone decidedly matter-of-fact, as he rubbed his wrinkled forehead in circles.
The following afternoon, a bowl of freshly bought pet food was placed near the living room armchair.