Around 9 PM, the restaurant closed for the night.
The chefs were long gone—no way they'd stick around to scrub things down. The manager had already driven home to soak in a hot bath. The noble duty of leaving behind gleaming floors, wax-polished tables, and spotless stovetops—for the energetic satisfaction of tomorrow's hungry customers, thereby subtly contributing to the advancement of society—fell squarely on the shoulders of the younger generation.
Yin Ze dripped cleaner onto a sponge and worked up a lather, attacking the greasy tabletops. The grime surrendered quickly. Even the chairs got the same treatment. After several rinses, the clean water in the bucket had turned a murky grey.
His shoulders jerked with effort, and after a handful of tables shone like new, his lower back began to ache. He straightened up, hands pressed to his back like an old man nursing the aftermath of a wild night.
Being a "ladies' man" sure was rough.
Today, he'd been every bit the model servant—like a eunuch groveling before an empress dowager in a historical drama. He'd pulled out all the stops in hospitality, even flirting a bit to coax some laughter out of older women with cash to spend. The rippling waves of meat on their bodies jiggled with laughter—just enough to keep the flow of customers alive.
Staring at his trembling hands, Yin Ze sighed.
No wonder Japan was the gold standard of overworked youth. It felt like they were squeezing out every last drop of human potential.
Still, this kind of experience was valuable. Might come in handy next time.
He wasn't the only one chasing that precious overtime bonus. Not far off, a silent coworker was gripping a mop with the strength of a seasoned warrior—his steady rhythm spoke of experience.
Sensing he was being watched, the man turned. "Something wrong?"
"Nothing, just taking a breather," Yin Ze replied with a stretch.
"You worked hard today," Matsuoka Yoshitsugu said with a nod. "You were really on your toes handling all those customers."
"If not for the money, who'd willingly become a glorified errand boy for rich old ladies?" Yin Ze muttered.
"Takizawa-san, are you short on cash?" Matsuoka asked. "You're still in high school, right? And you're local, too."
"My parents divorced. I'm basically on my own now. Got an eviction notice recently, so… yeah, a lot going on."
"Ah… sorry, I didn't mean to pry."
"It's fine. As long as I can earn enough to solve my own problems, they're not real problems. Disasters and tragedies—those are the things you can't fix with effort," Yin Ze replied. "Honestly, Matsuoka-san, you're the one who's got it tougher, coming here all alone to chase your dreams."
"Well, I am a guy. There are even some girls making the same leap as me—that's real bravery," Matsuoka said.
"Voice acting, huh?"
"Yeah. My teachers back home said if I was serious, I'd have to move to Tokyo. The training schools here are full of people just like me."
"That's impressive. But it's paying off, right? I heard it's tough getting from training school to an agency."
"Actually, my teacher keeps reminding us—the first year is the hardest."
"Then you just have to get to the second. Every field's like that. Starting out is always rough."
"From what I hear, the second year doesn't get much better…" Matsuoka sighed.
"Three years in, and you'll be a pro," Yin Ze grinned. "That's when the real battle begins."
"But if I don't level up fast enough, new talent will catch up and I'll lose my edge."
"No way. Newbies can't beat our experience."
"But our experience doesn't hold a candle to the veterans," Matsuoka countered.
Yin Ze went quiet. Fair point. He watched the man still diligently scrubbing even while talking. Hard to tell if it was low self-esteem or just sheer determination. Either way, Yin Ze felt guilty slacking off. He squeezed out the sponge and sped up.
They finished cleaning after another half hour. Aprons off, doors locked. As they stepped out into the quiet commercial street, Yin Ze had a thought.
"Matsuoka-san, since we ran into each other on shift, how about some beer and grilled skewers?"
"Wait, high schoolers in Tokyo can drink?" The Hokkaido-born man looked shocked.
"Cough—no, I mean, just grabbing a bite as coworkers."
"Oh, that's fine then. I know a cheap place nearby." Matsuoka agreed without hesitation.
"...Huh?" Yin Ze didn't expect that. Matsuoka seemed like the reserved type. He'd only asked out of politeness.
"Matsuoka-san."
"Yes?"
"Just so we're clear—I'm into women."
"Uh—what? I—me too!"
...
In a cozy night-time eatery, the two sat on floor cushions. Matsuoka ordered fried rice, some meat and veggie skewers, fried chicken, and cold drinks.
"You're not the type to say no, are you?" Yin Ze observed.
"Not really… or maybe it's just that I don't get asked much," Matsuoka shrugged. Then awkwardly added, "Not like someone as confident and good-looking as you."
"No need for the honorifics. We're coworkers, and you're older. Besides, it's almost midnight—drop the formal tone, relax a little."
"Understood. Sorry if I made things awkward, Takizawa-kun."
"...There you go again."
"I'm not great at talking, sorry."
"Don't be. I'm not either. Just be yourself." Yin Ze tossed him a peanut.
"You seem pretty talkative to me."
"Just call me Takizawa."
"Ah… okay…" Matsuoka fumbled.
"Japan's too obsessed with titles. We're not negotiating a contract here. Skip the etiquette."
"You're really confident, Takizawa," Matsuoka said with a hint of wonder. "And you handle things without stepping on toes. Even earlier with those difficult customers… maybe it's just the charm of a good-looking guy?"
"It's because none of it matters. And you don't seem like the uptight type either. I bet you only act this way because the job demands it."
"Communication's delicate," Matsuoka said more easily now. "Especially with strangers. I know how easily words can hurt, so I'm careful. I envy how effortlessly you speak."
"There's small talk, and there's real talk. Polite fluff is one thing. Honest conversation is another. If you're sincere and not two-faced, people see that. Those who manipulate or scheme get exposed eventually."
Yin Ze popped another peanut.
"Being socially savvy opens doors. But if you really want to connect with someone, it's about the heart. Otherwise, all you get is a brief moment of spotlight over dinner."
"In a fast-paced world, how do you even get a moment without putting on a show?" Matsuoka asked quietly.
The owner arrived with sizzling fried rice, juicy skewers, and iced drinks. He nodded politely and left.
"You really worry about this stuff?" Yin Ze blinked.
"Just a passing thought," Matsuoka said, handing him the fattiest skewer. "A lot of people work hard and still never get a shot. So they keep training, building confidence piece by piece."
"When you're down to your last thread of hope, you still ask—will tomorrow be better?" Matsuoka looked down at his bowl.
"If no one answers… yeah, it gets heavy," Yin Ze said. Then paused. "Do you really love voice acting? What is it about it that draws you?"
Matsuoka thought deeply, then answered softly.
"It was when I realized that the voices behind animated characters came from real people. That blew me away."
"Your voice, someone else's—it becomes part of a character's soul. You say a line, and suddenly there's a new, living being. And no matter how many times it happens, it's still thrilling. That deep-down satisfaction… maybe it's obsession. Or admiration."
"Creation is sacred," Yin Ze said, his voice trailing as if chasing the thought.
Creation is selfish expression—and honest exposure.
It's a call for connection—and a whisper of loneliness.
Joy in growth. Pain in stagnation.
"Sounds kind of arrogant, huh? I haven't even landed a single role yet," Matsuoka scratched his head. "What about you, Takizawa?"
"Maybe I'll only know once I land something."
"You haven't even gotten an audition?"
"You sound weirdly happy about that."
"No, no! It's just… if someone as talented as you hasn't debuted, I feel less behind."
"You're not the type to push yourself too hard just because someone passes you in a marathon, are you?" Yin Ze grinned, biting into a skewer. "Relax. I'm nothing special. Might have to lean on you, Mr. Serious Actor."
"No way, I've got a long way to go."
"Oh come on, let's help each other out."
"No really, I—"
"Come on, I—"
"..."
Yin Ze tore into a juicy bite of grilled meat and raised his frosty glass.
"I really believe hard work pays off. It's cliché, sure. But we're just ordinary guys without natural talent. Kids dream of being superheroes—but for us? It's about forging ourselves in fire. Cheers, man. You've got this."
In the Flower Kingdom, "good brother" is like calling someone "boss" at a barbershop or "sensei" when asking for directions.
Matsuoka hesitated, then clinked glasses with solemn dignity.
"Thank you."
Bit too formal again—but the glasses nearly shattered from the force. Even the owner glanced over.
Yin Ze looked down at his food.
"The ribs are good. Not spicy enough though. I'll order some beef."
"The fried chicken's great here. House specialty."
"The rice isn't greasy either. Solid cooking. Let's come again tomorrow."
"Won't oily food mess with our voices…?"
"Ramen then?"
"There's a healthy ramen spot I know."
"How do you know so many places?"
"I've worked part-time in a bunch of them."
"Hook me up. I don't think I can keep smiling like this much longer."
"Sure, I'll ask around," Matsuoka said with a sincere smile.
Tokyo's night streets glowed. Like the other customers, the two boys let themselves unwind after a long day. The red charcoal crackled. Their glasses caught the starlight. And under it all—two young voices, quietly burning with dreams.