Rain splattered the office windows like someone spitting on glass.
Keita sat stiffly across from his editor, the same crumpled sketch pages from his romance manga resting in a clear binder between them—unopened, untouched.
Tanaka tapped a pen against the table. He wasn't smiling. Not this time.
"You want a lifeline?"
Keita blinked.
"You're drowning. Your rent's three months overdue. Your kid's what? Five? Six?" Tanaka's eyes narrowed. "You're not twenty anymore, Keita. You don't get to starve for art. You've got mouths to feed. Be a damn adult."
Keita's jaw tensed.
Tanaka tossed a manila folder across the desk. It slid and stopped just short of Keita's fingers.
"Take a look."
He opened it slowly. The storyboards were clean, the thumbnails provocative. A young wife being seduced by her husband's best friend. Guilt. Tears. Moaning. Her husband quietly weeping as he listened behind a door.
"This..." Keita's voice cracked. "This is disgusting."
"It's what sells." Tanaka leaned back. "Netorare. Cheating. Forbidden stuff. It's like poison—you don't admit you want it, but people buy it anyway."
Keita closed the folder like it reeked.
"I don't draw filth," he muttered.
Tanaka raised an eyebrow. "Filth? You think the people buying this are filth? That makes them your enemy, Keita."
"I became a mangaka to write about love. About truth—"
"—And no one cares," Tanaka snapped. "No one wants truth. They want fantasy. They want pain wrapped in lust. You think you're better than them?"
Keita stared at his hands.
"They used to shake," he said quietly, "when I picked up a pen. Not because I was scared—because I wanted to draw. Because I loved it."
Tanaka folded his arms. "Then draw. Draw what they want. And you'll earn the right to draw what you love."
Silence. Just the sound of the AC humming.
"I'll give you one week," Tanaka said finally. "You write me the first chapter. NTR. One volume pitch. Do it... or we're done."
---
That night, Keita walked home in the rain, soaked through. The binder felt heavy in his hands. Like a tombstone.
His apartment was dark. He opened the door quietly.
His daughter Emi sat on the floor, trying to scrape rice from the bottom of an empty bowl.
His wife sat at the kitchen table, scrolling on her phone with an expression carved from stone.
She didn't even look up.
"You're late."
"I met with Tanaka."
"Did he give you a job?"
Keita hesitated. "He… offered me a project. But I turned it down."
Her eyes flicked up. Narrowed.
"You what?"
Keita stepped forward, lowering his voice. "It was NTR. Cheating garbage. I told him I don't do that."
She stood abruptly. The chair screeched behind her.
"Don't do that? Keita, you can't do anything! You haven't published a real series in years! Do you think we're living off your honor?"
His voice trembled. "I'm not going to sell my soul just for a check."
She laughed bitterly. "Your soul? We're boiling water for dinner! I pawned my wedding ring last week. You didn't even notice, did you?"
His chest tightened.
"I'm trying," he said quietly.
"Trying doesn't feed a child," she snapped.
Emi looked up from the floor, eyes wide and confused.
Keita knelt beside her, gently brushing her hair. "I'm sorry."
His wife crossed her arms. "You think you're some tragic artist? You're just a man-child chasing a dream that already died."
Her words struck like ice in his veins.
"I married a man," she continued. "Not a coward hiding behind pretty pictures."
---
That night, Keita sat at his desk.
Blank page. Pen uncapped.
He stared at the folder Tanaka gave him.
The characters were hollow. Weapons of lust and betrayal. It felt like holding a knife and carving into his own values.
He closed it again.
Opened his own sketchbook. Drew a young boy under a tree, sketching stars. Innocent. Hopeful.
Then he drew the boy years later—sitting alone in a train, holding a rejection letter.
Then again—standing at his daughter's grave.
The last panel… was of him jumping.
---
He looked down.
His hands were still.
No tremble.
No desire.
Just emptiness.
---
The next morning, Keita found his wife packing her clothes.
"What… what are you doing?"
She didn't stop folding.
"Going to my sister's. Emi's coming with me."
"Wait—just give me more time. I'll find another project. Something clean. Something I can believe in."
She zipped the suitcase shut.
"I stopped believing in you a long time ago."
---
He watched as she dressed Emi in a coat, gave her a tiny backpack, and walked toward the door.
Emi looked back at him, blinking.
He crouched down, hugged her close.
Her stomach growled.
"I'll bring food soon," he whispered. "I promise."
She didn't reply.
Just held tighter.
---
When the door shut, the silence screamed.
Keita sat on the couch, alone.
---
Later, his phone buzzed.
[Tanaka]: One more day. Then I move on. Your call.
---
Keita lit a cigarette. He hadn't smoked in years.
He pulled out the blank pages.
He drew one panel.
Then another.
Then another.
A girl crying.
A man watching her with a smile.
A broken heart.
---
The next morning, he dropped the manuscript on Tanaka's desk.
Tanaka flipped through it.
His eyes lit up.
"This… this is perfect."
Keita said nothing.
He just stared at the wall.
---
Tanaka laughed.
"See? I told you. You've got a dark side. Use it. Let it feed you."
Keita stood.
"Don't ever say that again."
---
Outside, Keita walked through the city streets like a ghost.
He passed a billboard for a popular NTR series.
People laughed around him. Ate. Talked. Lived.
And he felt like he was watching from behind glass.
---
Back at home, he stared at the empty futon where Emi used to sleep.
He lay down, the smell of ink still on his fingers.
For the first time in his life, he hated his art.
---
To be continued