If Eizo timed it right and stretched the story, he’d have no issue meeting the three-year contract with Suigetsu. Everything was in the notes. All he needed to do was trace them and fill them with color so that the story would look sharper and more vivid. Then it would be ready for submission. Suigetsu would pay him, but it was more important that they release the story in its original form.

  What was lost had become found. The tides returned the books to him, which meant he had only one path to tread from now. He had drawn upon his childhood memories to craft a story for Wizard and climbed to where he was. He would do the same for New World. Could he achieve a similar outcome? Nothing could go wrong, for everything was in its place, and soon the time would come for him to break away.

  24

  Even though they were neighbors, Ran hardly saw Eizo, apart from that fortnight where the writer had been everywhere like an unwelcome ghost. That made sense, since he had a family home to run back to—in the riches of Azabudai, no less.

  Ran didn’t believe Eizo’s lousy excuse for living in Kichijoji when everyone in Tokyo envied his address. He probably saw the building’s funky structure as something unique and ‘cool’ to boast about to his friends, and had the spare change to invest in an apartment to use as a backup writing studio. But that wasn’t for him to know. As long as Eizo produced a high-quality fantasy serial by next June, whatever he did in his free time was none of Ran’s concern.

  When he flicked the lighter he’d wanted to scare Eizo a little, to push his buttons further than he normally would. He’d wanted to see how important the books were to the younger man. He was only trying to test where Eizo’s threshold lay.

  He hadn’t expected Eizo to grab at it without concern for his safety.

  No—he had expected it, and in that instant, he had almost wished for the flame to burn off the thin film that stood between him and the real Kamada Eizo. That was how you punished liars and broke down people who say words without meaning, and forced them to be honest for once.

  Why did he stop? Was it the look on Eizo’s face?

  Little Quill.

  Such an innocent-sounding name. Such a reaction it drew from the younger man.

  As if his insides were wringing together into a ball of black mass swallowing him from within.

  If that was how he responded to a mere flame from a lighter, how would he react if he learned Ran had almost thrown the box away?

  In the end, Eizo hadn’t answered him. Did he write the notes? While the handwriting couldn’t look more distinct than that on the apology letter, Ran wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss them as penned by two different people. He recalled that on closer inspection, there were elements hinting that the same person could have written them. For example, the tail-end stroke of some characters slanted right, taking up one and a half spaces instead of the usual single spacing. If Eizo indeed wrote both, it showed his care for the ideas that came to him as a teenager, pitted against the extreme reluctance he felt in proffering his apology.

  * * *

  With all that said and done, Eizo listened to Ran. Half listened, that was.

  At the meeting with Kisuke, Eizo reintroduced his concept that began with the emotional weight of the dumpling-shaped alien’s struggle, and the premise fell into place. The innocuous alien would serve as the protagonist, at least for the first season. That was all he changed.

  Eizo still wanted the Baku’s journey on earth to begin in Yokohama, its cross-country trip to Yakushima recast as backstory that wove in and out of the present. As for the Baku’s shape, Eizo reiterated that it would be a dumpling, which annoyed Ran but made Kisuke laugh.

  “Let’s keep it as a dumpling,” Kisuke said. “I like how inoffensive it sounds. People make dumplings to eat them. A Baku eats nightmares. To eat and to be eaten. A dumpling satisfies hunger. Your Baku becomes hungrier the more it eats.” He paused, and the room fell silent as they waited for him to continue. “These are two things our audience is familiar with—dumplings and the Baku monster. Just like how the wizard without magic has a baseball bat, I trust you can blend two disparate yet familiar elements into a unique trait the readers will never see coming. Although our little Baku sounds cute, it can transform into truly terrifying apparitions. A double juxtaposition is at play here. Once again, I think you’ve landed on something very intriguing.”

  Eizo flashed his brightest grin. “I knew you’d get it. You’re the boss, after all.”

  Kisuke laughed heartily. “Did Ran scold you for the dumpling idea? He hates those things.”

  “He gave good advice,” Eizo said, keeping his eyes on Kisuke and the rest of the room except Ran. “I reworked my concept, and it looks much better now.”

  “Told you I have the right guy for the job.”

  The Suigetsu founder beamed at Ran, who refused to take part in the circus act. He reached over to Eizo’s laptop and took control of the trackpad, moving the document on the screen to the last page—project timelines. It was supposed to be prepared by the team, but Eizo probably had too much time on his hands and put together an entire table to track the major milestones.

  As he withdrew into his seat, the back of his fingers brushed Eizo’s hand in one long sweep. He felt queasy when their hands touched. It wasn’t about coming into contact with Eizo, but rather, feeling the roughness of blisters and mottled skin, a reddish pink on the side of Eizo’s palm, as it rubbed against his skin. Eizo’s burn had barely healed.

  The meeting concluded after Ran handed out tasks. Their plan was to run New World in four parts, each lasting eight months, with a six-week hiatus between them. The Suigetsu contract required that Eizo publish two new chapters of at least 3,000 words each weekly. Eizo was to submit a synopsis for the first and second seasons, along with the first three chapters, to give a flavor of how he planned to write the story. Those were to be emailed to Ran and the team in two weeks, and they’d review them before their next meeting.

  Ran said to Eizo, “Since it’s a serial, you’ll be working at this pace for the first six months until we build up a backlog.” The younger man nodded in response, although he still seemed determined to look everywhere else but at Ran. It irked him, but he’d look incredibly petty if he complained. “Once your serial publishes in June, we will update it every Tuesday and Saturday. That means we must always have twenty chapters’ worth of buffer. Reika and Takeru will time your progress to make sure we have that in the bag.”

  “What about reader feedback? If we are always that far ahead, how do we tweak for real-time feedback?”

  “Those will probably be small copyedits. Write your draft before you even worry about that.”

  Later, when everyone had returned to their desks, Ran asked if Eizo was free at noon.

  “What for?” Eizo answered, looking past Ran to the potted plant behind him, having suddenly developed a fascination with the fenestrations in the monstera leaves.

  “Didn’t you say you wanted to eat with me again?”

  “I was joking. Please don’t take whatever I said last month seriously,” Eizo mumbled. “Besides, I said dinner. Not lunch.”

  “Don’t be picky,” Ran said. “I’m buying.”

  * * *

  “Gyudon?” Eizo asked when they’d turned a few alleys out from the office, stopping before an eatery tucked between a parking lot and a kindergarten.

  Of the many gyudon restaurants he’d dined at over the years, this looked the most sophisticated. White exterior with white linoleum floors. Square tables in concrete gray. Slate blue chairs with wooden legs. A thick glass wall separated the kitchen from the dining area. The ceiling was high, with air vents installed to promote circulation. It was lunchtime in the business district, and diners who dressed like Ran in proper suits and ties packed the restaurant. Only Eizo looked out of place in his hoodie and jeans. He’d always dressed for the occasion, so this was a novel experience for him. He had a feeling that he should start getting used to looking different from everyone else.

  Besides, who knew that eating gyudon was so fancy?

  “Karubi-don,” Ran corrected as they took their seats. He scanned the QR code on his phone and passed it to Eizo to place his order.

  “I thought you were a staunch gyudon guy.”

  “Nothing beats Mrs. Tamura’s, so I don’t bother anymore.”

  “Is this the first time we've agreed on something?”

  “Don’t get my hopes up.”

  Eizo entered his order and saw that Ran was getting the same: karubi-don with braised shimeji mushrooms, topped with a raw egg, and accompanied by extra servings of spring onions and grated yam. Subconsciously, his eyes dropped to Ran’s neck. With his business shirt buttoned to the top and sashed with an emerald green tie, there was no way of telling if Eizo’s grip had left any traces on his skin. He recalled the angry red lines encircling Ran’s neck. He should be the one apologizing and buying a meal, not the other way around.

  He still couldn’t meet the editor’s eyes. No one had ever seen him so worked up before. Before he could get the words out, the food arrived, and that was all there was to it.

  At times, it seemed like Ran wanted to say something, but didn’t. When Ran didn’t speak—and he didn’t for the rest of lunch—there was no opportunity for Eizo to latch on. Without that opening, it was too awkward for him to say anything without sounding like he demanded an apology in return, or worse, acknowledging the moment of folly that had provoked him into doing something he never should have.

  The queue outside the restaurant stretched to two lines, and the staff cleared their table once they finished eating.

  “I’m going in another direction,” Ran said after he footed the bill. Before they parted ways, he asked Eizo to hold out his hand. A tube of medicated ointment for treating stings and burns rested in his palm.

  “Use this. It’ll heal faster.”

  “I don’t need it.”

  “Either you take it, or I’ll apply it to your hand now, in front of everyone.”

  Eizo looked around to make sure no one heard them. Most couples wouldn’t even do that so openly, much less two men in broad daylight in a business district. He closed his fingers around the tube before Ran could take it back.

  “Thanks,” he said after a while. “For this and lunch.”

  “No need to thank me.”

  “Thank you,” Eizo repeated.

  Ran sighed. “If you want to show your gratitude, channel the energy you brought today into your work, and we might have something good on our hands.”

  Eizo glanced up from his palm to look at Ran. The usual animosity directed at him was gone, replaced by one of mild irritation. Not completely friendly, but a step removed from a wolf dying to rip his throat out.

  “Might?” Eizo teased.

  “I might tweak that conditional form after I have proof.”

  Eizo found his usual smile creeping back onto his face. “You will be bowled over, Mr. Miyamoto. You will be so floored with my prose that you’ll wonder why you ever doubted me.”

  “Doubt? Not sure where you got that.” Ran turned in the other direction and waved as he began walking. “We shall see in two weeks.”

  25

  The first matchup between bitter rivals Keio and Waseda for the Tokyo Big 6 Baseball League kicked off at Meiji Jingu Stadium on a Saturday afternoon.

  Eizo was no stranger to it, having played in the spring and fall tournaments with Keio. Starting as a backup to one of the best varsity shortstops in Tokyo, Eizo had progressed to the first team within a year, impressing Coach Ito with his speed and dexterity catching loose balls that breached infield lines, followed by a rapid release to first base, a strategy that saw the infielders double-play many teams. Their much-vaunted defense brought Keio consecutive victories in his second and third years, including the intercollegiate title in 2023.

  Keio always invited alumni from the baseball team to their games. Sitting behind home plate, it felt odd to simply stay still and watch the match after years of playing competitive baseball. When the players swung their bats to perfect their stance before stepping to the plate, Eizo felt his arms moving in tandem, as if he were the one at bat.

  “Do that golf swing Kazumasa always does before his at-bat,” Roku said.

  He and Roku had joined the baseball team together and made it to the starting lineup. While Eizo received praise for his speed and agility, Roku had a powerful swing, hitting twelve home runs in his second year despite limited first-team appearances.

  Chuckling, Eizo obliged and mimicked their former teammate’s peculiar routine before going up to bat, earning a hearty laugh from his friend.

  “I swear you can mimic anyone. Remember our third-year instructor from Kujo Juku and his bizarre way of arranging markers on their bases as he burp-talked? Shit, that was funny. What else can you mimic? Voices? Can you forge someone’s handwriting?” Roku’s face lit up. “Have you ever forged signatures?”

  “I know you hate me, but let’s not put me in jail,” Eizo joked in return.

  “Your mom will get you out in no time.”

  Eizo’s smile turned taut at the mention of his mother. He shifted his attention back to the field. “Remember how we struck out completely in our first game at the Tokyo Big 6? Coach really tore us a new one in the dressing room.”

  “My ears still hurt from that.”

  “You had it worse,” Eizo added.

  Roku laughed. “Feels weird not to be out there anymore,” he said after a while.

  “Feels weird hearing that from you.”

  “I had it easy. Kazumasa is built like a tank and too good in center outfield for Coach to consider me a long-term starter. I just pop up now and then to swing at wild pitches and go home.”

  If Eizo was the overachiever, then Roku was the slacker. Roku had his interests early on, setting his sights on the culinary world since high school. He never planned on turning professional. And yet, Roku was the one who kept up with the club after graduation, while Eizo swore off Keio once he’d exhausted his excuses to remain on campus. Unlike his mother, who held on to her network and wound herself tightly into the heart of her connections, he did not need them.

  He wondered if she already knew what he’d submitted for the MBA application. A run-of-the-mill five-hundred-word essay that answered all the questions in a manner so dry and uninspired that the applicant’s lack of ability couldn’t be more obvious. The opening paragraph alone was enough to put the most alert person to sleep. A brave attempt, as the committee’s evaluation was bound to state, but a failure nonetheless.

  “Coach misses you,” Roku said. “He came by Sinfonietta with his wife the other day and asked why you stopped replying in the group chat. Said it felt like you dropped off the face of the earth after summer camp.”

  Eizo shrugged and tugged his cap low over his eyes. “Things got a little busy.”

  “Your mom’s back, right?”

  “She’s like a whirlwind. I need to keep up.”

  Roku gazed back out at the diamond-shaped field. “We are all moving in different directions. Who will make it home first?”

  Familiar faces filled the seats around them as the game progressed. Former teammates with whom he’d spent days and nights training on the field and in the batting cages. Friendly faces that traded locker room banter like they’d never stopped playing together. How many of them were like him—showing up for the sake of maintaining appearances, smiling and greeting warm hellos while inwardly griping that they could be elsewhere making better use of their time instead. Some, however, sought to provoke Eizo at every turn. After all, they taught Eizo that the best way to handle backhanded compliments was to squash them under his feet with a smile.

  “We had breakfast with Coach. He’s looking to renew his team of assistants. You know the current group is just not up to par anymore,” said one.

  “Guess what we told Coach?” another one said. “You must keep Eizo in Keio. Imagine if he runs off to his daddy in Waseda and spills the beans? We’d have to change our entire strategy.” The offender continued his charge. “Seeing how our best big bats are striking out, who knows—maybe Daddy’s little boy already snitched on us!”

  A round of laughter, matched only by Eizo’s airy smile. He casually slung an arm around the one shooting his mouth off.

  “You guys flatter me too much. Worth considering, though, if I have time.”

  “Are the rumors true?” asked another shit for brains. “You’re joining the Saiji Group?”

  “Credentials matter, especially for a firm flying the Japanese flag.”

  “But your mum’s the chief investment officer. Can’t she, you know, pull some strings?”

  Eizo nudged back the bill of his cap and shot them a pointed look. “Are you suggesting that Saiji practices nepotism?”

  He felt Roku’s hand on his arm and forced himself to relax a little. No point in getting worked up over a bunch of losers he would not see again.

  “What I’m saying is, there’s no shortcut to the career she built.”

  Spoken like a dutiful son. Kamada Kiko would be so proud to hear that.

  What he wanted to say was, I’m writing a fantasy serial. A world where a Baku the size of a dumpling feeds on the recesses of the human mind. The Baku call it food. We call it a nightmare.

  * * *

  The game went to extra innings after both teams tied at 2-2 by the end of the ninth. Nothing was going according to plan for Keio. If he were Coach Ito, he would have taken the pitcher out after allowing two base runners. From the third pitch, it was clear that the rookie lacked the poise needed to throw the fast curveballs that Waseda’s batters were weak against.

  Eizo went to the washroom before visiting the food stalls inside the stadium. Sitting on the bleachers made him breathless. While he and Roku occasionally commented on the match with some friends, he couldn’t stop looking over to the Waseda bleachers. His father’s stature made it easy to spot him from afar.