"Next, please."
The receptionist barely looked up as the door to the office opened with a quiet click.
Itsuki Yoshida stepped forward, straightening the wrinkles in his bargain-rack blazer. His palms were clammy, but he forced a smile onto his face like it was armor.
He walked into the interview room with stiff shoulders and an awkward gait, then stopped just short of the desk, bowed deeply—almost too deeply.
"Hello! I am Itsuki Yoshida. Pleasure to meet you, sir," he said, voice higher than usual with nervous formality.
The man behind the desk—gray suit, glasses too clean, fingers tented—didn't stand. He glanced at Itsuki, then at the paper résumé on the desk in front of him, unimpressed.
He didn't return the bow.
Instead, he gestured vaguely at the seat. "Have a seat, Mr. Yoshida."
Itsuki did.
A long pause followed, punctuated only by the soft click of a pen cap being toyed with.
"Alright," the interviewer said at last. "What could you bring to this company?"
"My dedication, sir."
"Dedication," the man repeated, eyes narrowing.
"Yes," Itsuki said quickly, leaning forward. "I may not have the academic background others have, but I make up for it with work ethic. I learn fast. I'm dependable. I—"
"I see," the interviewer cut in. "But what makes your dedication different? You don't have a degree. You've worked three part-time jobs over the last two years, none of them lasting more than six months."
He adjusted his glasses.
"So, Mr. Yoshida… what makes your dedication better than those who went to college, studied business, and followed a path that makes sense on paper?"
The silence was heavier than it had any right to be.
Itsuki opened his mouth, then closed it. His heartbeat was hammering. He could already feel it—the rejection. The slight curve of the interviewer's lips. The hint of dismissal.
"I…"
But nothing came out.
He left the building twenty minutes later with his tie undone, his resume folder still tucked under his arm, and his shoulders hunched like they were folding into themselves.
Outside, the bench in front of the train station called to him like an old friend.
He sat. The sky was gray. Not dramatic gray. Just... lifeless. The kind of gray that made everything feel two degrees heavier than it was.
Itsuki buried his face in his hands.
"I should've gone to college," he muttered. "Damn you, Itsuki."
He pulled his tie off completely and shoved it into his backpack like it had personally betrayed him.
It wasn't that he didn't try. He just couldn't afford the tuition, not after what happened with his dad. Not after being the one to take care of his little brother when things went sideways. Everyone else was sprinting on clean tracks while he was climbing barbed wire barefoot.
And yet here he was—still trying.
Still failing.
Two hours later, he was back in his tiny apartment.
Second floor. Cracked walls. One window with a broken lock. A rusted fan in the corner and a rice cooker that made strange noises when plugged in.
His suit jacket was now hanging on the only chair he owned. He sat cross-legged on the floor in front of his cheap desktop PC—his pride and joy. Built it himself from secondhand parts. Upgraded it piece by piece with money saved from overtime and skipped meals.
He didn't boot up anything productive. No job boards or résumé builders. Just a game. One of the old ones he played in high school. Pixels and music and sword swings and XP counters.
Some fantasy world where choices made sense, and monsters died when you hit them hard enough.
In the game, he was a hero.
Here, he was a statistic.
He let himself sink into it, if only for an hour. Maybe two.
But then…
The screen froze.
No, not the usual crash. Not a lag spike. It froze. Mid-frame. Mid-sound. Even the soft hum of the computer fan faded until it was utterly, impossibly silent.
He blinked. Tapped the keyboard.
Nothing.
The clock on the corner of the screen was stuck at 7:41 PM.
He looked up.
The second hand on the wall clock had stopped too.
The air in the room had changed—denser, colder, like he'd been plunged underwater without realizing it. Even the outside sounds had gone quiet. No passing cars. No distant shouting. No wind.
Just silence.
And then came the voice.
Not loud. Not booming. It was soft—velvety, intimate, like someone whispering in your ear from behind a door that shouldn't exist.
"How would you like to turn back time, Itsuki Yoshida?"
He froze.
The room remained still, but something shifted. Like the walls were breathing. Like the question had unsettled the bones of the building itself.
He stood slowly, backing away from the monitor.
"W-who said that?" he asked. "Is this some kind of prank? Did I get hacked—?"
"No hack. No prank. Just an opportunity."
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere at once.
Itsuki's eyes darted around the room. Nothing moved. The game was still frozen on-screen. The digital sword mid-swing. The enemy mid-attack. He could almost hear the missing music, the silence where sound should be.
"You've been wondering, haven't you? If you had gone to college. If your choices were mistakes. If the door you didn't walk through led to a better life."
"Who are you?" he whispered.
"A question for another time. But for now, I offer you this: a chance to go back. Just once. One moment. One regret."
His throat was dry.
He didn't know whether to scream or fall to his knees.
Back?
Back to what?
To study harder? To get the scholarship he missed by a fraction? To say yes instead of no? Could he change everything?
Could he become something more?
He clenched his fists.
"…What's the price?" he asked.
The voice paused.
A tick. Then another.
"There is always a price. But you won't see it. Not at first. Some doors open quietly, Itsuki. But what slips through them doesn't always knock."
And then—
The screen blinked back to life. The game music resumed. The second hand on the wall clock ticked once. Then twice.
Outside, a car honked. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked.
Time had resumed.
But the silence hadn't left. Not completely. It lingered, like a film over his ears. Like the moment wasn't done with him yet.
Itsuki looked down at his hands.
He didn't know it yet, but the countdown had begun.