Akihabara's electronics district was a mecca for otaku culture.
Giant screens blaring anime and game ads, oversized posters, cat-eared maids in white stockings handing out flyers, and endless crowds formed a textbook modern commercial hub.
The local social code stressed "don't bother others," but street pickups weren't rare. A pretty young woman lingering too long often drew bold guys trying their luck.
Chasing beauty is wired into biology, reproduction etched in DNA. To pass on strong genes, instinct drives the search for healthy, attractive mates.
Not always, though—some species look near-identical, so male birds build nests to woo females. In human terms, that's buying a house.
In this bustling district, many introverted otaku headed straight for maid cafés, but flirtations weren't uncommon.
Sakura witnessed more than one—though only as a bystander.
First, a Shibuya-style goth girl pestered a guy, storming off when ignored. Then a part-time maid approached under the guise of promotion. Finally, a chic woman with a designer bag whispered something—whatever it was, the guy visibly wavered.
That last encounter ended when Sakura stepped in.
"Sorry for keeping you waiting," She said, apologetic yet pointed.
"No big deal, wasn't long," Takizawa replied, tossing a perfumed business card into the trash. He'd sworn to uphold his principles that morning—backing out now would be disgraceful.
Sakura let it slide. Friends should be forgiving.
"Got plans for later?" She asked, clearing her throat, diving in. "I'm good with anything. There's a new blockbuster, Fatal Code, with a big cast and budget. Or we could hit the art gallery for books and exhibits. Arcade's fine too, but no pachinko. Or… want to try a maid café for a heart-shaped omelet rice? I'll tag along to broaden your horizons."
"Your vibe's wild," Takizawa teased.
"What? Got a better idea?"
"Heh, I'm taking you to mooch a meal."
"?"
Twenty minutes later, Sakura stared silently at Matsuoka, who opened the door holding a handful of fresh pork mince.
"Come in, come in!" Matsuoka stepped aside enthusiastically.
"They started wrapping yet?" Takizawa asked, stepping inside.
"Nah, still chopping meat and seasoning."
"Takizawa-kun's here? Been a while! Wow, Sakura-chan's still so cute!"
The small, dimly lit apartment buzzed with activity. A dough ball sat on the coffee table, and the kitchen echoed with chopping. Fellow rookies from the agency welcome party were there. Matsuoka dove back into the kitchen, Iwasawa Toshiki, the host, brought out a big bottle of oolong tea and cups, and Yoshimura Haruka waved, hands dusted with flour.
Takizawa changed into slippers, followed by a timid Sakura, who poked his side, whispering, "What's this? You didn't say there'd be so many people!"
"All colleagues, no drinking today—just cooking and eating together," Takizawa said proudly. "Plus, you'll get to taste my skills!"
"You cook?" Sakura asked, skeptical.
"Oh, I've mastered a divine kneading technique!"
"When'd you learn that?"
"Just made it up."
"…"
Sitting with the high schooler, Sakura switched from her lively banter with him to a stiff, formal politeness, exchanging mechanical pleasantries.
"Guys have stronger hands, so kneading's on you," Yoshimura said, stepping back.
"Leave it to me!"
Takizawa washed his hands, rolled up his sleeves to reveal pale forearms, and activated Life Corridor, mimicking a master chef's kneading moves from a cooking show.
Honestly, his copycat routine looked convincing—at first. Sakura watched, initially surprised, but as the dough stayed unchanged, her expression normalized.
It wasn't without merit; his flour-sprinkling got more stylish.
"That's it?" She teased.
"You don't get it. I've infused every inch with inner strength. This dough's transcended," Takizawa huffed.
After wasting a few minutes, sweat beaded on his forehead.
"Takizawa-kun's stamina's… lacking," Yoshimura remarked.
Both women shot him odd, pitying looks.
Takizawa stayed cool, but inside, he panicked.
Life Corridor's on all the time—classic dramas in the bathroom, bangers on commutes, and set breaks. Am I… burnt out?
"Let me take over," Yoshimura offered kindly.
Takizawa clung to the dough like a kid with a toy, but the graceful older woman pried his fingers off, reclaiming it.
Such grip strength! Takizawa stared at the red marks on his wrist, reminded of a certain diplomat known for crushing handshakes. Yoshimura-san looks refined, but she's got raw power.
Her movements were fluid, forceful, yet relaxed as she chatted. "Sakura-chan, do you cook?"
"Me?" Sakura blinked, eyes darting. "Sometimes, especially if Mom's not home."
"When'd you learn?" Takizawa chimed in. "Like my—"
A light stomp cut him off, silencing him.
"That's great. I was lazy at your age. Only after moving out did I explore the kitchen," Yoshimura said warmly, unsuspecting.
"You seem pro," Sakura said.
"Kneading's easy and fun. Wanna try, Sakura-chan?"
"I'll pass," She said, waving her hands.
"No need to be shy. Show off some home-cooking skills," Takizawa said slyly.
"My usual dishes don't include this," Sakura said, chin up.
"That's it?" Takizawa teased.
"What?! Fine, I'll show you!" She shot her "friend" A look, cheeks pink, and washed her hands.
Recalling their techniques, she attacked the dough with bold, sweeping moves.
Takizawa and Yoshimura watched silently.
"How's that? Better than you, right?" She huffed.
"Impressive," Takizawa praised.
"Hmph."
"Your technique's gold-standard massage-level. Those chickens, ducks, and fish headed for the pot must feel soothed, their rage and regret calmed. Even this lifeless dough radiates peace, elevated from prey to euthanasia, returning to the cosmos' origin. I call it a soul-soothing ritual. Do you bless every meal's ingredients like this, Sakura-chan? So kind," Takizawa said, awed.
"Very delicate touch," Yoshimura nodded.
Sakura's face went blank, her movements erratic.
"What're you doing? That looks like a face," Takizawa said, his art-trained eye catching the dough's shift.
"Looks like one—wonder which jerk it is," Sakura said, smirking, slapping the dough.
"Feels like you're hinting at someone."
"Nope, just kneading."
Takizawa pinched off a piece, sculpting his own face.
"Hey! Don't steal my dough!" Sakura protested, like a kid whose clay was snatched.
"Yoshimura-san, tear me a piece! I need short hair!" Takizawa guarded his dough like a hen.
"Who're you making?!"
When Iwasawa and Matsuoka emerged with meat filling, they didn't find neat gyoza wrappers but two lifelike dough busts on the counter.
The masculine one was lopsided; the feminine one had neat features. Yoshimura, watching with a stifled laugh, stood beside a sulking Takizawa and a triumphant, arms-crossed Sakura.
A silent duel had just ended.
"How's mine? Cute, right?" Sakura asked, gloating.
"Adorable. Nine out of ten agree," Takizawa said, rubbing his side, smiling.
"And the tenth?" She pressed.
"His name's Akihiro. He's dead."
"So, the wrappers…" Matsuoka, ever practical, cut to the chase.
"No worries, I've got Plan B," Iwasawa said confidently. "Store-bought wrappers in the fridge."
"And these?"
"Knife-cut noodles."
***
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