Soon, lunchtime arrived.
Groups of editors drifted out together to eat, and the noisy office gradually quieted down.
Sonoko Machida didn't go out. She pulled a neatly packed bento box from her drawer and ate in small, measured bites.
After finishing, there was still some time left before the afternoon shift.
Bored, her gaze drifted idly toward the cardboard box in the corner.
It was nearly full. The top manuscript caught her eye—she remembered the name on its cover.
Well, more like she remembered the face of the handsome boy who had submitted it.
Otaku were the ones who read light novels. And usually, otaku were the ones who wrote them too. They went hand in hand.
—6 Days, 6 People, 6 Guns.
"Heh." Sonoko chuckled and picked it up, more out of boredom than anything.
Might as well see what that good-looking kid had written.
Just a little afternoon amusement to keep her awake.
With that casual mindset, she flipped to the first page.
And then—
[Title: 6 Days, 6 People, 6 Guns]
[Author: Warukawa-denka]
[Outline: Six days. Six prisoners of completely different backgrounds—a disgraced elite police officer, a debt-ridden doctor, a bullied high school girl, a devout priest, a hostess who sells her body, and a sly con artist—are locked inside a pure white room filled with countless surveillance cameras.]
[Rules: Each day, a mysterious "Director" announces the darkest secret of one prisoner through a broadcast, and drops a revolver with a single bullet into the room. A brutal survival game begins. Whoever kills inherits the victim's secret and gains priority access to tomorrow's information.]
[Endgame: On the sixth day, the lone survivor earns freedom and a life-changing fortune. The losers… are erased completely from existence.]
By the time she finished reading those few lines of outline—
The playful smile froze on her lips.
All the levity, the lazy ease in her eyes, was washed away in an instant by a flood of pure shock.
No dragons. No magic. No reincarnation. No system.
None of the tired, overused, cheap gimmicks flooding the market.
What it had was the purest, rawest kind of story that hit straight at the soul.
The outline was clear, tight, and logical.
Every element, every step was like an interlocking gear, precise and seamless, brimming with unbearable tension.
Just one glance, and her mind was already conjuring vivid, nerve-wracking scenes.
Would that fallen police officer, when his secret was about to be revealed, aim his gun at an innocent?
Would the priest, who preached God with every breath, rip away his pious mask when death stared him in the face?
Would the bullied, fragile girl unleash unimaginable malice once the gun was in her hand?
Suspense. Conflict. Reversal.
Every explosive element a commercial story needed was packed into this framework with surgical precision.
"This… this setup…"
Sonoko's heart skipped a beat, clenched by an invisible hand.
She drew in a deep breath. Her mood shifted from "mocking" to "serious"—even tinged with "anticipation"—as she carefully turned to the main text.
[Day One. First Person. First Gun.]
[When the man in the clown mask shoved a cold Colt Python revolver into my hand, the stage lights blazed to life. In an operatic, exaggerated voice, he declared that this cheap show called 'Survival' was about to begin.]
…
Just one page in, and it was like she had been struck by lightning.
This writing.
What the hell kind of genius writing was this?!
Sharp. Cold. Precise.
Not a wasted sentence. Not a single redundant adjective. Every word was like a bullet, fired straight into the reader's nerves.
The way it dissected a character's psyche under extreme pressure—detailed yet merciless.
She could see the transformation in that police officer's eyes—confusion, then vigilance, then killing intent—all in under three hundred words.
Sonoko was gone. Completely hooked.
She forgot she was in an office. She forgot time. She even forgot to breathe.
She was utterly consumed by this dark, twisted story.
Rustle, rustle—
The only sound left in the room was the frantic rustling of paper as she flipped page after page, her hands trembling with excitement.
Faster, faster—like a dying traveler in the desert, desperate for the next sip of water.
And when she reached the final page, when the last chilling resolution landed—
She let out a long, shuddering breath.
A breath heavy with aftertaste, with awe, with fear.
"Amazing."
Reading a true masterpiece was like feasting on a banquet for the soul.
She closed the manuscript gently, like it was a rare treasure, then collapsed back into her chair.
Her chest rose and fell violently, sweat clinging to her hair.
Her face, flushed red with feverish exhilaration, was damp at the corners of her eyes.
She just sat there, staring at the ceiling in a daze.
It took three whole minutes before she found her voice again.
"A genius…"
Sonoko whispered hoarsely, almost in disbelief.
For a long moment she simply sat there, before finally reaching for the manuscript again with trembling hands.
This time, she wasn't reading the story. She was scrutinizing it through the eyes of an editor.
Line by line, word by word.
A typo? None.
An awkward sentence? None.
A paragraph that could be trimmed? Not a single one.
Even the punctuation—perfectly calculated, serving the rhythm, sharpening the tension, enhancing every beat of emotion.
And she knew exactly what that meant.
This manuscript needed no edits. It was a flawless, ready-for-print final draft.
Boom.
Another tidal wave crashed through her chest.
For a rookie submission, having a solid outline alone already made you a one-in-a-hundred genius.
Having prose this sharp made you a once-in-a-generation prodigy.
But delivering a finished manuscript that required no editing at all?
That was monstrous.
"No… no! I have to sign him immediately!"
The thought erupted in her mind like wildfire.
Sonoko shot to her feet so suddenly her chair toppled behind her with a crash.
BANG!
The noise exploded in the quiet office, startling every colleague still around during lunch.
They turned, wide-eyed.
"Machida-san, what happened?"
"Are you okay?"
"Too much work? Maybe you should lie down!"
Sonoko forced a deep breath, trying to calm herself. She bent quickly to pick up the chair, offering an awkward smile.
"It's nothing. Just… a really big cockroach flew past. Scared me half to death."
With that excuse tossed out, she clutched the manuscript to her chest and hurried straight for the editor-in-chief's office.
Her colleagues exchanged baffled glances, whispering among themselves.
"Machida-san's acting really weird today."
"Yeah. Her face was bright red, and her hands were still shaking when she picked up that chair. What kind of cockroach could rattle her like that?"
"Did you see the way she was hugging those papers? What do you think she's carrying?" one sharp-eyed coworker murmured.
"Who knows?"
"Hah, maybe Machida really did dig up gold from the trash."