The Shōnen Black editorial offices were never truly silent, not even in the dead hours past midnight. The hum of dormant electronics, the occasional creak of a chair adjusting to the building's slow cooling—these were the sounds Chief Editor Ogawa had grown accustomed to over thirty years in the industry. Tonight, they did nothing to distract him from the manuscript spread across his desk.
Aoki Itsumi's debut chapter lay before him, the ink still seeming fresh despite having dried a long time ago. The pages were immaculate in a way that unsettled him. No stray pencil marks, no white-out corrections, not even the faintest impression of an erased line. Just perfect, confident strokes that seemed to breathe on the paper. His finger hovered above a particular panel—the knight's gauntlet gripping a cursed rose, the intricate detailing of the metalwork catching the moonlight in the illustration.
That flourish at the wrist and the way she had captured the weight of the armor with just a few precisely placed lines—it was unmistakable. A style he hadn't seen in decades. Not since...
The filing cabinet in the corner of his office groaned in protest as he pulled open the bottom drawer, the one labeled only with a faded sticker marked "1995 - 2000." Dust plumed into the air as his fingers found the spine he sought. The third volume of 'Crimson Quill', its cover illustration of a bleeding knight barely visible beneath layers of time. He blew across the top edge, watching particles dance in the fluorescent light before settling on his desk beside Aoki's work.
Side by side, the resemblance was undeniable. Not just in subject matter—both featured armored warriors—but in the very essence of the linework. The way shadow pooled in the crevices of the armor. The exact angle at which the artists had chosen to depict chainmail links catching the light. The particular curve of a sword's crossguard. These weren't just similar techniques; they were identical artistic fingerprints.
Ogawa's gaze drifted to the framed photograph on his desk. Two young men, arms slung around each other's shoulders, standing before a banner that read "Congratulations on Your Serialization!" The colors had faded with time, but he could still see the ink stains on his brother's fingers, the proud glint in his eyes that hadn't yet been dimmed by disappointment. Ren had been so certain CrimsonQuill would run for years. It had lasted eight weeks.
The memory came unbidden—the phone call in the middle of the night, the frantic rush to the hospital. Ren's apartment had reeked of sweat and iron when they found him, slumped over his drafting table, nose bleeding onto unfinished pages. The doctors said it was exhaustion, malnutrition, the toll of overwork. But Ogawa had seen the way his brother's fingers had locked around that damned fountain pen, how even unconscious, his grip couldn't be broken.
"It's not me drawing anymore," Ren had whispered during one of his lucid moments, his voice raw. "It's hungry. And when it's done with me..."
The pen had disappeared after the funeral. Ogawa had turned the apartment upside down looking for it, half out of grief, half out of some unspoken fear. Now, staring at Aoki's flawless pages, he felt that same chill creeping up his spine.
Ogawa's reflection in the dark office window seemed to shift as he reached for his coffee. For just a moment, his own tired eyes were replaced by Ren's fever-bright gaze, both of their mouths forming the same silent words:
"Not again..." He whispered while touching his brother's old photo.
___
Across Tokyo, the sun had already dipped lower, casting a soft amber hue across Aoki's apartment. The shadows from her blinds striped her wooden floor, and the warm breeze through the open window ruffled the discarded drafts still scattered around. A calm should have settled over the room—her work was done, submitted. But instead, a strange tension lingered in her chest, as she stared at the glowing pen.
"What the—"
She walked toward her desk, as if being pulled to it. The violet light dimmed as stepped closer. She had placed it in the drawer but now it was lying diagonally across her blank sheet of manuscript paper, almost waiting.
The violet light that laminated it wasn't bright anymore but still visible. She uncapped it momentarily, as if ordered to do so. There was nothing unusual.
But the moment she placed the nib on the paper, the atmosphere shifted.
A droplet of ink—dark red pooled and spread. The red liquid moved with purpose, not quite liquid, not quite solid—like mercury with a heartbeat , spreading across the page with startling precision. And as Aoki watched, frozen, an image began to form on the paper.
A sketch. No—more than that. It was the first panel of TheFlowerofMargaria, redrawn entirely in this impossible ink. The lines were crisper, the shading deeper, the emotion on her characters' face more haunting and alive than what she had originally drawn.
Her lips parted slightly. A shiver ran up her spine.
"…It's better," she whispered, horrified and amazed. "It's so much better."
Snapping out of it, she picked up her phone and called Takeru.
"Yo, what's up?" he answered, voice casual. "I forgot something?"
"Did you already submit the manuscript?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
"Yeah, I ran straight to the office. I showed it to Chief. He didn't even complain this time. Said it felt 'cleaner than her old stuff.' You impressed him."
She bit her lip. "Don't send it to print yet. I'm going to redo the entire thing."
Takeru laughed. "Wait—what?"
"I'm serious. I'll draw a version that'll blow the current one out of the water. You said it yourself—he was only slightly impressed. I want to get into the top five rankings. That version isn't enough."
"Aoki, the serialization meeting was tight. Ogawa already started internal prep. The next issue of ShōnenBlack is going to print in two days. You can't redraw everything in that time. I know you've done crazy things with limited time but this is... It's impossible."
"I'll do it," she said firmly. "I don't need assistants. I'll ink it, tone it, letter it—all of it. I won't rest until it kisses perfection ."
There was a heavy pause. "Are you serious?"
"I've never been more serious."
"...You're kinda scaring me," he muttered, then sighed. "Should I call Yuka to help? She's probably free this week—"
"No. I said I'll do everything myself." she said raising her voice slightly.
Another silence. Then, softly, "You're putting a lot on the line, Aoki."
"I know. But trust me. I just need you to convince Chief."
Takeru hesitated. "Okay," he said finally. "I'll try. But he's not going to like it."
She hung up without another word.
___
Takeru stood outside Editor-in-Chief, Takagi Ogawa's office door, knuckles poised to knock. He took a breath and knocked twice.
"Enter," came the deep voice.
Ogawa was seated at his desk, flipping through a stack of printed sample pages from various artists. A few mockups of chapter spreads and logos lay strewn about. On the far side of his desk was the one Takeru had dropped off earlier—Aoki's work with Ren's old manga, he was still comparing them.
He looked up. "Takeru?"
"Sorry to bother you, sir. I… I wanted to ask something."
Ogawa raised an eyebrow. "You already submitted Aoki's storyboard. What's the matter?"
"She wants to submit another one. A better version."
Ogawa blinked slowly. "Excuse me?"
"She said she wants to redraw the whole chapter manuscript. Said the one we submitted wasn't strong enough."
"That's absurd. We already approved it internally. It's being reviewed by layout. If she's worried about rankings, she should draw better next week. Not start all over two days before deadline."
Takeru scratched the back of his head. "I know. But she's serious. She said she's doing it without assistants. She believes she can beat what she submitted."
Ogawa stared at him for a moment, then leaned back in his chair. His fingers folded on his stomach, eyes narrowing.
"…Why?" he asked.
"Huh?"
"Why would she suddenly want to redo everything? Her tone was confident—too confident. Almost… unnatural."
Takeru swallowed. "I don't know. But I believe her. She's not the same the same Aoki Itsumi that submitted Saint ♰ Rewind."
"Fine," he said finally, standing. "Let her submit a new version by tomorrow afternoon. If it's not better than the one I already have, we'll publish the original. No extensions."
Takeru nodded quickly. "Yes, sir. Thank you."
As he left the office, Ogawa remained abit puzzled, arms folded as he looked toward the window, expression unreadable.
"What's going on…? What's gotten into her? Is it the fountain pen or am I just insinuating?" he muttered.
Takeru typed out a quick message as he got to his chair.
~ Chief said okay. But you have till tomorrow afternoon. Don't flop this, seriously.
Aoki's phone buzzed just as she returned to her desk with a fresh cup of coffee. She smiled faintly at the message.
Her fingers gripped the fountain pen again. She sipped her coffee.
"All right," she said aloud. "Let's do it again. And better."
Her hands moved before her thoughts caught up. She pulled over her storyboard notes, swept away the torn pages of the previous version, and cleared space on her desk.
Her G-pen was nearby, forgotten. The fountain pen — weighty and familiar clicked softly in her grip.
No more doubts. No more back-and-forth. She dipped into the first panel like a diver into dark water.
___
The afternoon passed in silence. Then evening. Then night.
Aoki barely noticed the time.
When she glanced up, the clock on her wall said 3:14 a.m.. Her legs were cramping. Her neck ached. Her coffee had gone cold long ago.
But she didn't stop.
Her trash can overflowed with crumpled drafts, used tissues, and packaging from half-eaten snacks. Her nose bled again, dry air and exhaustion catching up with her. She wiped it with a tissue and kept going, one hand drawing while the other held pressure.
The pages flowed out, almost possessed. The ink from the pen remained steady, clean. No smudges.
Every scene — from the tense dinner confrontation between Lady Fiora and the cloaked assassin, to the flashback of Margaria's final prayer beneath the cherry tree — came to life in stark, emotional detail. Aoki hadn't drawn like this in years. Maybe ever.
Sometime near dawn, she caught her reflection in the window. Pale, eyes dark and fingers trembling.
But her heart was steady. Her breath slow. She wasn't rushing. She was… immersed.
She whispered to herself, "Just a few more pages."
By noon, sunlight burned through the curtains. Aoki stapled the last chapter and let out a sound halfway between a sigh and a groan. Her shoulders were locked in a permanent curve, fingers stiff and twitching. The pen clattered from her hand onto the desk.
She stared at it. The glow had stopped.
She stared at the thick manuscript stacked neatly on her desk. Her eyes blurred for a moment from exhaustion. The room spun slightly as she reached for her phone, checking the time.
12:11 PM.
She needed to send it now.
Too weak to make the trip herself, Aoki opened a delivery app and selected express courier. Her trembling fingers struggled to type out the address of the editorial headquarters, but she double-checked it twice. Takeru had drilled it into her memory over the past few weeks.
She wrapped the manuscript in stiff brown paper, slipping in a small sticky note with nothing but her name and the title.
The Flower of Margaria – Chapter 1 manuscript
Aoki Itsumi
By the time the courier arrived, she barely made it to the door. She handed over the parcel with a silent nod and watched as the young man gave her a polite bow and disappeared down the stairs.
She shut the door gently and stumbled back into her room.
The room was eerily silent now. Her desk was empty. The scent of ink still clung to the air.
She didn't bother changing. She collapsed beside her bed, her cheek pressing against the floorboards. The G-pen still sat near the edge of her table, forgotten.
Sleep pulled her under instantly. As sleep took her, the pen rolled toward her limp hand—as if checking her pulse.
On the other hand, Takeru was pacing near the editorial reception when his phone buzzed again.
He picked it up with irritation.
"Hey, Matsumoto-san," said the voice on the other end, he recognized it to be a member of the Printing team. "We didn't get your manuscript, where is it?."
"What?" Takeru tired to act surprised like he expected them to have it. "I... Umm.." he didn't know what to say so he hung up.
He tapped out a message to Aoki. Then paused. Tried calling instead but there was no answer.
The receptionist nearby raised a hand. "Hey, Takagi-san? Someone just signed in a delivery. Addressed to the editorial division. From… Aoki Itsumi."
Takeru jogged over and signed for it. The package was still warm from the sun. He didn't even wait for the elevator—he took the stairs two at a time to the floor where the printing team had gathered.
"This better be the final version," one of the printing supervisors muttered, not looking up from the stack. "We don't have time for another back-and-forth. You editors stress us out."
"It is," Takeru said, slightly out of breath. "Chief's already vetted it."
A younger staffer squinted at him. "He approved it… since the last meeting?"
"He never unapproved it," Takeru said with practiced calm. "There was just a minor revision round. One panel tweak."
The supervisor sucked her teeth. "You're lucky we've got breathing room in the schedule."
Takeru took a step back as they began peeling the manuscript open.
A wave of scent—something like fresh ink mixed with iron—rose faintly as the first page was lifted.
The scanner operator frowned. "Mm."
"What is it?" Takeru asked.
"Nothing," she said slowly, eyes scanning the page, rubbing her eyes. "These last panels... the lines almost look like they're moving."
One by one, the pages fed into the machine.
Takeru turned his phone over in his palm. Still no reply.
He let out a quiet breath and smiled, knowing Aoki had probably passed out cold.