Chiyoda Ward. The Shueisha headquarters building.
It stood beside a bustling street, understated on the outside and full of hidden machinery within.
Countless manga magazines and tankobon volumes that had swept Japan were born here, passed through the hands of editors, and eventually reached hundreds of thousands of readers.
Today, though, the front entrance of Shueisha was ringed with reporters.
And inside the Weekly Shonen Jump editorial department, the scene was something close to chaos.
Phones rang in overlapping waves. Young editors hurried down the corridors with armfuls of manuscripts.
Posters of every description covered the walls, from long-running classics to the hottest new titles, a condensed history of manga in a single hallway.
And in a small partitioned room deep inside the department, Tsushima Kagami sat bolt upright with a slightly glazed look on his face.
He couldn't remember how he'd gotten here from the Manga Research Club.
By the time he came back to himself, he was already sitting in Shueisha's editorial department.
Had he awakened King Crimson or something?
That would be perfect, actually. Then he'd finally have a way to handle Shizuku.
Now fully present again, Kagami took stock of his surroundings.
The room wasn't large, but it was tastefully arranged.
Frosted glass partitions shut out most of the noise outside, leaving only a faint murmur of voices as background.
The low table was dark solid wood, covered with a plain, elegant cloth.
Four cups of steaming sencha sat in a neat row on a tray, the fragrance rising in thin curling ribbons.
Kosaka Akane sat on his left, leaning slightly forward, hands folded on her knees, uncharacteristically tense.
A manila envelope lay beside her hand, holding the manga pages she and Machida Sonoko had drawn together.
Months of work. Countless late nights, polished down into that stack of paper.
Machida Sonoko sat beside her, posture noticeably looser.
But from the way she kept taking small sips of tea, she was no calmer inside than her partner.
Sayuri sat on Kagami's right. She'd only tagged along to see how these things worked and make up the numbers.
"Um…"
Kagami's hand drifted up to his neck without him thinking about it, fingertips brushing the few dark red hickeys there.
Across from them sat an editor by the name of Oonishi.
Editor Oonishi looked to be somewhere in his thirties or forties, in a white shirt and dark grey slacks, sleeves rolled to the forearm, exposing solid wrists.
He wasn't handsome, exactly, but his features were even, and there was a veteran's unhurried calm about him.
At the moment his head was down, working carefully through the pages in his hands, brows faintly knit, focused and serious.
And every so often, between pages, his eyes would flick — as if by accident — toward the boy sitting in the middle of the three girls.
Every time that gaze passed over him, Kagami's hand went back to his neck.
Followed by a faintly embarrassed smile.
Which Oonishi would return with an equally embarrassed one.
Catching the movement out of the corner of her eye, Kosaka Akane's lips barely moved.
She spoke at a volume pitched for the two of them alone.
"Stop touching it."
Kagami's hand jerked away as though he'd been shocked and settled primly back on his knee.
Watching him, Sayuri's mouth curved higher.
Oonishi's eyes moved slowly across the artwork, but his thoughts weren't on the panels in front of him.
Is that Dassai-ya?
It has to be Dassai-ya, doesn't it?
He turned the thought over and over.
The genius who had swept the literary world while still in high school, who had taken the Akutagawa Prize at an absurdly young age.
And with The White Tower, the recent television adaptation, Dassai-ya hadn't merely overseen the structure of the original — he'd written the scripts himself.
Ratings had climbed straight through the roof after it aired. Even the occasional glimpse in the end-credit behind-the-scenes footage of a masked boy walking fast with his head down was enough to set social media alight.
Oonishi's wife and daughter were both devoted viewers of The White Tower.
Every week his wife had snacks and drinks ready right on schedule while their daughter curled up on the sofa with a cushion, the two of them watching together.
He'd read a fair amount of Dassai-ya's work himself.
And now that literary titan, the man countless readers looked up to, was sitting across from him in a school uniform.
Oonishi's gaze slipped past the pages again for another quick look.
The boy sat straight-backed and slender, his features almost unfairly delicate.
Those red marks on his neck…
Oonishi pulled his eyes away.
No. He shouldn't be noticing that.
His attention went back to the artwork.
Should he try approaching Dassai-ya about a project?
The idea dropped into his mind like a seed and sprouted on the spot.
Shueisha had several pillar artists on its roster. If Dassai-ya wrote the story and paired up with one of them for a manga…
The picture was too beautiful to look at head-on.
It would be a smash hit, wouldn't it?
It absolutely would.
No, "hit" didn't cover it. It would be a phenomenon.
The corners of Oonishi's mouth twitched upward before he caught himself and smoothed his face over.
A professional editor maintained his composure.
Or, then again…
His eyes dropped back to the pages in his hands.
Had Dassai-ya had a hand in this manga's story?
Why else would he have come along?
Oonishi had seen far too many submissions in his time.
Dozens, sometimes hundreds of new works flooded the department every week, and more than ninety percent of them didn't survive the first screening.
Girls' band stories were nothing new. But this one's angle really was unusual.
It didn't open with the orthodox growth arc of a newcomer easing her way into a band. It opened under a low-pressure front — the group already teetering on the edge of breaking up.
The central conflict rested squarely on the vocalist who had suddenly announced she was quitting.
And nobody knew why.
So that was the premise: a girls' band journey where they saved each other's lives?
What kind of heretical structure was that?
And yet.
And yet an opening like that had a strange magnetism to it.
Like a mystery drama where the writer tells you who the killer is in the very first scene. You already have the answer, and somehow it only makes you hungrier for the process.
Why was she leaving? What had she been through? Could the band hold on to her?
The suspense was an invisible hand at your collar, pulling you toward the next page.
Oonishi gave a small, private nod.
He picked up the pages again — this time out of genuine appreciation.
And then he noticed the art style.
The linework was sharp and fluid, the figure proportions exaggerated but enormously expressive, and the storyboard had a pulse to it, as though an invisible drummer were beating out the tempo.
This was an imitation of Xuanyaye's style.
Xuanyaye.
That name occupied roughly the same position in manga that Dassai-ya occupied in literature.
He had rewritten the entire industry's standard of beauty with an art style a full generation ahead of its time.
More and more artists were drifting toward his manner, and the overall technical level of the field had been hauled up several notches as a result.
But there was imitation, and then there was imitation.
What lay in front of him was not the clumsy kind.
It kept the beauty of Xuanyaye's style while bringing its own handling of detail, its own emotional register.
It had genuinely caught something of the essence of Xuanyaye's work.
Xuanyaye's own style was famously changeable, of course.
But certain habits in the actual drawing never changed.
And this manga shared a great many of those habits.
So they'd learned from the master properly, then.
It made Oonishi think of that guy Oda.
Who spent every waking hour obsessively dissecting Xuanyaye's technique, storyboarding, and plotting.
Oonishi turned a few more pages and went through them again, carefully.
The opening: no problems. The hook: no problems. The art and the draftsmanship… no problems either.
Better than that, in fact. Far beyond what he'd expected.
Only then did he accept the outline for the rest of the story from Machida Sonoko.
A thick stack, a dozen-odd pages, the handwriting neat, the organization clear.
The character relationship chart and the plot progression were marked out in different colored pens, laid bare at a glance.
Oonishi spent a few minutes skimming it, then looked up, his eyes moving between Machida Sonoko and Kosaka Akane.
"About the real reason the vocalist leaves."
His voice was steady and level. "The hints you're giving at the moment are still fairly vague. You could plant a few more setups earlier on, then pay them off one at a time later."
Machida Sonoko wrote rapidly in her notebook, nodding as she went.
The two of them went back and forth on plot direction and characterization for roughly twenty minutes.
Oonishi's questions were meticulous, Sonoko's answers unhurried, and now and then Kosaka Akane cut in to add something she'd been thinking about while drawing.
A shift in one character's expression. The storyboard layout of a particular scene.
Oonishi listened seriously to every word and gave professional feedback and suggestions.
At last he drew a deep breath, squared the pages into a neat stack, and set them down on the table.
Then folded his hands on his knees and leaned slightly forward.
"Kosaka-san. Machida-san."
"In that case…"
Machida Sonoko and Kosaka Akane held their breath at the same instant.
Beside Kagami, even Sayuri went tense.
"If it's convenient, we can sign the contract right now."
Sayuri let out a whoop.
The rims of Kosaka Akane's eyes went red on the spot.
She whipped around to look at Machida Sonoko, who was holding on to a calm surface even as her hands trembled.
Their eyes met in midair, and everything neither of them had said — the excitement, the joy, the flood of relief — passed between them in that single look.
"Thank you so much!"
Kosaka Akane shot to her feet and bowed so deeply her forehead nearly clipped the table.
"Thank you, Editor Oonishi!"
Machida Sonoko rose and bowed as well, a tremor she couldn't quite suppress running under her voice.
Watching them, Kagami found himself smiling.
Sayuri clapped softly beside him.
The signing went faster than any of them expected.
Oonishi took a few standard-form contracts out of a drawer and walked them through the clauses one by one.
Machida Sonoko and Kosaka Akane listened all the way to the end, then signed their names at the bottom.
With everything settled, the group got ready to leave.
Kosaka Akane put her copy of the contract away with enormous care, sliding it into the canvas bag on her shoulder.
Then patted the outside of the bag, as if confirming it was really in there.
Kagami stood and straightened the hem of his uniform.
He was about to follow Kosaka Akane out when Oonishi's voice came from behind him.
"Um… forgive me."
Kagami stopped and turned.
Oonishi stood there with an odd expression, like a man gathering his nerve.
His eyes flickered twice, then settled on Kagami's face.
"Excuse me for asking… but are you Dassai-ya?"
The air in the little room froze for a beat.
Kosaka Akane turned back to look at him. Machida Sonoko stopped mid-step. Sayuri raised an eyebrow.
Kagami looked at Oonishi and gave a small smile.
He'd been wondering the whole time when the question would come.
After a few of those stolen glances, he'd had a fairly good idea he'd been recognized.
After all, he'd been appearing on television lately in high definition and completely unblurred, over and over.
It would be hard for anyone not to remember that face.
People stopped him on the street regularly now.
He was used to it.
He nodded, still smiling.
"I am."
Oonishi's eyes lit up.
"I knew it! I knew it was you! I knew it!"
He came forward quickly, rubbed his hands together twice in front of himself, then stopped.
Evidently deciding this wasn't dignified enough, he quickly recovered his composed bearing.
The excitement in his voice, though, was still perfectly audible.
"Dassai-ya, I'm a devoted reader!"
"I've watched every single episode of The White Tower."
"No — sorry, that's not right. It's my wife and daughter who follow every episode."
"I watch along with them. But I love it too!"
Kagami hadn't expected the stone-faced editor from five minutes ago to turn this warm.
"Th-thank you for your support…"
"Could I trouble you for an autograph?"
As he spoke, Oonishi's eyes swept rapidly across his desk.
He settled on the latest issue of a weekly manga magazine, opened it to the title page, and held it out with both hands.
"Right here is fine."
Kagami took the magazine and the pen, bent over, and wrote his pen name, Dassai-ya, on the title page.
Then he handed it back.
Oonishi received it with an expression bordering on bliss.
He tucked the magazine carefully into his own folder, and by the time he lifted his head he was a professional editor again.
"Dassai-ya, if the opportunity ever arises, please do consider collaborating with one of Shueisha's artists."
"You'd handle the original story, and we would put absolutely everything behind it—"
"Of course. If the chance comes up."
Kagami answered politely and gave a small bow.
"Then let me see you out."
And so, with Oonishi escorting them, the group finally left the editorial department.
Once he'd seen them off and returned, Oonishi took the signed magazine out again.
Sitting in his chair, looking down at the signature, the delight that had filled his face a moment ago slowly gave way to a deepening frown.
"I keep feeling like…"
"…I've seen this handwriting somewhere before?"
Oonishi muttered to himself.
Just then another editor walked in, mopping sweat from his forehead.
"Oonishi, what're you staring at?"
"How'd it go with those high school girls who submitted?"
"The manga's good. Already signed them."
"Also, they're college girls now."
Oonishi came back to himself and looked at his colleague.
"That reminds me — how did Saiki's press conference go?"
"Ugh… I'd say he's finished."
"The man never even showed up."
"Why not?"
"Word is the police took him in this morning."
Understanding spread across Oonishi's face.
"No wonder the department hasn't been able to reach him."
He nodded slowly.
Then his colleague remembered something.
And went on.
"Oh, right — that guy who came in with those girls just now. He looked so familiar."
"I just can't place where I've seen him."
Oonishi picked up the teacup at his elbow, took a sip, and said mildly:
"Of course he looks familiar."
"You can see him on the TV news and in the weeklies any time you care to look."
"What's that supposed to mean?" his colleague asked, baffled.
"That high schooler is Dassai-ya."
"What!"
His colleague's voice jumped a full octave.
Heads turned all across the department.
He ducked his head at once and dropped to a whisper.
"Dassai-ya came to our department and you're only mentioning it now?"
"Did you notify the editor-in-chief?"
Oonishi shook his head.
"He was obviously just here keeping his friends company."
"And I wasn't sure the whole time. I only asked right at the very end."
"Didn't expect it to actually be him."
"But from the look of it, he doesn't want a fuss made, so it's probably better not to let the whole building know."
"What if Dassai-ya ends up resenting our department over it?"
"Fair enough, I suppose."
His colleague nodded seriously.
"Speaking of which, Oonishi — you definitely got him to sign something on the sly, didn't you!"
"Come on, hand it over, let me see!"
The elevator chimed on the ground floor and the doors slid open.
The lobby was far busier than usual.
Kagami and the others stepped out, glanced idly across the hall, and paused.
A sizable crowd had gathered outside the glass front doors, several of them shouldering video cameras or holding up voice recorders.
Press badges stamped with the logos of one outlet or another hung around their necks.
They stood in clusters at the foot of the steps.
Some talking in low voices, some adjusting equipment, some staring fixedly at the building's exit.
Like a pack of hunters waiting for the moment to move.
Reporters.
And a considerable number of them.
Why so many today?
Kagami hung back in a corner of the lobby and looked at Kosaka Akane and the others, curious.
Machida Sonoko spoke up.
"Apparently one of Shueisha's popular authors got exposed in a scandal involving children. The story broke and social media went off instantly."
"No wonder there are this many reporters camped out."
Kagami looked away, pulled the mask he always kept on hand out of his bag, and put it on.
Then, without breaking stride, the four of them headed for the doors together.
At that moment a figure came striding in from the side and passed close by them.
The man wore a dark blue jacket and carried a document envelope, moving fast.
He was a reporter for Shukan Bunshun, Japan's most notorious gossip weekly.
In the instant he and Kagami passed one another, their eyes met briefly in the air between them.
This Bunshun reporter — let's call him Tanaka.
His original objective had been to charge into the building and get to the author at the center of the scandal, but in the moment he passed Kagami, his stride hitched for a fraction of a second.
That boy…
Where had he seen him before?
Images flickered through Tanaka's head at speed, a slide projector cycling too fast to follow.
He walked another few steps, then stopped dead.
He whipped around, his eyes chasing the boy's retreating back.
The boy was walking out of the building with three young women, sunlight falling across his uniform.
The Eisai Private Academy uniform.
Dassai-ya.
That's Dassai-ya!
Tanaka all but shouted the name inside his skull.
His heart kicked twice against his ribs, and professional instinct seized every last channel of bandwidth in his brain.
The mysterious high school literary giant.
And he was standing right there in front of him.
While Tanaka was still wrestling with whether to run after him for a comment this instant,
another thought split through like lightning.
No. Wait.
Tanaka stayed where he was, eyes locked on the group's movements.
If he chased them down now, he'd get a few short answers at best.
Nothing but the usual off-the-shelf material. "Are you really Dassai-ya?" "Could you talk about your creative philosophy?"
Any outlet in the city could run that interview.
But…
If he followed them, he might turn up something more.
He couldn't have explained why. He simply had the feeling that if he tailed them right now,
the odds were good he'd come away with something nobody was expecting.
Maybe that was a reporter's professional premonition.
Or you could just call it a sixth sense.
Tanaka tightened his grip on the envelope and made his decision.
He crossed quickly to a corner of the lobby, pulled out his phone, and called a colleague.
"Hey, it's me."
"You watch the building for now. You take the Saiki scandal."
"I'm chasing another lead."
"Yeah. It's important."
"Dinner's on me later."
He hung up and strode out of the Shueisha building.
Heading for the row of taxis idling at the curb.
He hauled a door open, dropped into the front passenger seat, and told the driver:
"Follow those people, if you would. See that boy in the school uniform over there?"
"The one with the three girls. Follow their car."
The driver was a man past fifty. He looked at Tanaka in the rearview mirror, then followed his gaze forward.
He gave him a look that said he understood completely, said nothing further, and put his foot down.
Kagami stepped out the front doors and squinted, letting his eyes adjust to the change in light.
It was late April, and the street trees along the road were thick with tender new leaves; the wind coming through carried the first breath of early summer.
The group walked to a dark grey sedan parked at the curb.
A servant of the Kosaka household, already waiting there, pulled open the driver's-side door.
Kosaka Akane glanced back at Kagami, Machida Sonoko, and Sayuri.
"Get in. We'll head to wani first."
"Mm."
Kagami nodded, opened a rear door, and climbed in.
Sayuri slid in after him, while Machida Sonoko took the front passenger seat.
"Did you bring the new doujinshi?"
Sayuri asked from beside him.
"Got it right here."
Kagami opened his school bag.
It was crammed with textbooks, notebooks, and one manila envelope.
Inside the envelope were his newest pages — the manga he intended to submit to wani.
Kosaka Akane started the car. The engine hummed low, and the sedan pulled smoothly out of its space and merged into the traffic on the main road.
About fifty meters behind them, a taxi followed at an unhurried pace.
Tanaka's gaze stayed fixed through the windshield on that dark grey sedan.
His fingers tapped absently against his knee while his mind raced ahead, already drafting.
If he got shots of Dassai-ya's private movements, that was an exclusive.
No — not just an exclusive. Front page, above the fold.
Dassai-ya coming and going at Shueisha, mixing with people from the manga industry…
Perhaps the great writer was secretly involved in some manga project.
A story like that wasn't enough on its own to blow up every entertainment headline in the country.
But attach Dassai-ya's name to it and the man could be eating yakitori at a roadside stall and it would still lead the issue.
The driver glanced over at him and switched on the radio.
The afternoon broadcast was playing an old Showa-era song, the melody drifting and unhurried.
Ahead of them, the dark grey sedan turned right at an intersection and slipped into a quieter street.
Tanaka watched its taillights flash once and disappear around the corner.
He urged, low:
"Keep up with them."
____
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