“Are you thinking of quitting?”

  “That would be the easy way out,” Misaki said. “Truth be told, I’ve found my One Book. I wish I hadn’t, so I’d have worked harder to find it. But since I did, I no longer feel the verve I once had. Not even with the same author. Weird, right?”

  “Okamura Juri wrote your One Book.”

  Misaki scoffed at that. “I thought I had that in the bag, but the series she’s working on is even better. I should feel thrilled about the idea of having a writer with whom I click so well, trust me with her work.” She turned to Ran. “Remember I said I’d push her latest work to publish under Ido?”

  “How did that go?”

  “Kisuke said to put it on hold first and assume Suigetsu will publish it directly. Juri’s series will take up at least one slot a year, which leaves Ido with one less title to publish. He guards these slots so zealously, like a gem-crazed leprechaun. Does he really think that a mind-blowing title will come up every year?”

  “Maybe he doesn’t think that Okamura’s series is worth the gamble,” Ran said. “Not saying she isn’t good. Just playing devil’s advocate here.”

  “Juri is young, ambitious, wanting to learn more, wanting to do more. She wants to reinvent herself. She’s doing everything a young novelist should do. Her mind is in the right place. As her editor, I should push Kisuke harder, but lately, everything feels like a chore. I want to do more, but I also don’t want to take on too much. Is that possible? On days like these, I wonder if I’ve stopped moving,” she said with a wry smile. “And if I did, am I betraying her?”

  This was why Ran refused to engage with his authors beyond occasional meetings; anything more could lead to this bizarre author-editor codependency. Those regular encounters with Eizo were an anomaly, occurring only because he was betting on New World to bring him Ido.

  Misaki stared out the window. “But,” she began.

  Ran felt a sinking feeling in his chest. He knew what happened when people opened with that dreaded word.

  “I feel that if I falter now, I will regret it for the rest of my life. I want to give this a shot. Push Kisuke to accept Juri’s series. Push him to accept that his way of managing Ido as an ultra-exclusive imprint is outdated. If we are to democratize publishing, we shouldn’t limit ourselves to two or three books a year. What if ten excellent books pushed the boundaries in one year? What then?”

  Her voice swelled with conviction as she spoke. Unlike Ran, she possessed a vision for Ido. She just never mentioned it. Or maybe she had, but her voice was too soft, and now, after years of reverberating at the bottom of the well, it grew louder, until she couldn’t keep it in anymore. Ran steeled himself for the inevitable, just as he had one fateful Saturday afternoon.

  She went on. “These are titles that may not find a home elsewhere, since they are so new that there isn’t yet a niche market for them. But they can find a home with us, because this is what we promise our readers. I want each of them to be read. I want to push Kisuke to give me an answer. None of his usual ‘We’ll see’ crap. Give me a yes or a no.”

  “What will you do if he declines again?”

  “Take over Ido by force,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “Maybe that would work.”

  “I should have thought of that first.”

  “You already answered the phone.”

  “It means nothing.”

  “But Ido isn’t nothing to you,” Misaki said. “It sure isn’t nothing to me.”

  The light in her eyes shone more brightly now. She finally realized that Ran had gunned for Ido from the very beginning, before they’d spoken of their One Book. Ran knew what she was going to say next. He knew it from the moment her posture straightened in the seat, neck strong, eyes straight to the front, focused. Some people shrank in the face of rivalry. Others rose to their feet and stared it down. Misaki was the latter. She’d wanted to declare her intent from the start, before they sat down with their drinks.

  “Since you’re serious about it, I should give Ido a shot too. A little competition is healthy, don’t you think?”

  “Don’t let me get in your way,” Ran said.

  Misaki finished the rest of the drink and rose from her seat. “The senior versus the protégé.” Her smile remained warm. “Come on. It will be fun,” she said to Ran, although he knew it was really meant for herself.

  With that, Ando Misaki had officially thrown her hat into the ring. She, who was more deserving of the role than he could ever be. The competitor he’d feared. Ran regretted joining her at the cafe. But it was too late. He must now prove himself to be the more promising candidate. There was no more room for doubt, no more half-hearted allowances to excuse work that could derail his goal. Should Eizo’s project become an obstacle in his path, he’d do the same as he did for creases in his clothes—iron them out until they no longer existed.

  36

  Eizo wondered if Ran had noticed his absence at Oakwood.

  If he did, he didn’t mention it at their meeting. True to his style, he dished out clinical feedback on New World, fast and furious, and supplemented it with explanations from Takeru and Reika. Eizo needed to tighten the opening, introduce fewer characters at the beginning, and space out the events more. He could improve his prose, which was fine but sometimes a little sparse, in later revisions. Otherwise, he was heading in the right direction. The synopsis particularly excited the two assistants, and they asked if Eizo had plans for a shocking midpoint twist, as he had for Wizard.

  “The haiku in Chapter 150 was superb,” Reika said. “It made me think twice about what I was seeing on the page versus what was really happening.” She was about to continue when she saw Ran frown. “Let’s get back to New World,” she finished hurriedly.

  Since that night at the coworking space, Eizo had been pondering what Ran intentionally left unsaid. The same situation seemed to repeat here, piquing Eizo’s curiosity even more. He had a vague sense that Ran was outlining a set of theories—about what exactly, who knew. He thought to ask Ran out for lunch, to deduce what the editor seemed coy about—if coy could even describe it—then dropped the idea when he saw Ran heading out together with Kisuke, deep in conversation. Despite the editor being a distance away, Eizo could hear the deep timbre of his voice.

  It wasn’t until Reika spotted him and waved him over that Eizo broke out of his stupor. “Join us for lunch,” she called.

  Eizo followed her and Takeru to a nearby vegetarian cafe, where they discussed the publisher’s upcoming restructuring exercise.

  “Everyone thinks Mr. Miyamoto is going to lead Ido,” Takeru shared as they moved along the queue with their trays and selected the mains and sides arranged in two rows behind a glass window.

  “He’s the youngest of the senior editors, too,” Reika added. “That means he has the longest runway to manage the imprint.”

  Takeru grinned excitedly. “Mr. Konishi has been asking him and Ms. Ando to attend all kinds of high-level meetings. It feels like he’s spending more time on those than on editorial work.”

  “True. I hardly see him in the office these days.”

  “Either that or he’s back at his desk after dinner.”

  “Sounds like he’s skipping out on work,” Eizo concluded with a straight face.

  The two assistants shook their heads. “I think he’s working harder than ever.” Takeru was quick to jump to the editor’s defense. “It was actually Mr. Miyamoto who pointed out the areas we explained to you earlier and taught us how we should probe deeper and provide more useful feedback for the author.”

  “Would he leave this project if he ends up at Ido?” Eizo asked as they returned to their seats with the food.

  “Looks like it. Managing Ido is a lot of work,” Takeru said. “It’s the heartbeat of Suigetsu.”

  Reika poured sugar syrup into her iced tea. “Eizo, are you familiar with Ido?”

  A sensation akin to the discomfort he’d felt in Azabudai washed over him like a tide, cold and heavy.

  “Not really,” Eizo said. “I just heard that they are very picky about what they publish.”

  “It’s mostly Mr. Konishi handling the editing, besides overseeing Suigetsu,” Reika said. “Each title he publishes is always well-received by critics and readers. Ido has become synonymous with top quality. I believe we have a real shot at winning the Akutagawa Prize again this year. Winning it back-to-back is practically unheard of in the literary world.”

  Takeru dropped his voice and leaned in toward the center of the table. “My sister used to work as a typesetter for Bungei Shunju. You know, the literary magazine that grants our country’s top literary awards every year.”

  “Like the Akutagawa Prize?”

  Takeru nodded. “She said many rumors circulated about Suigetsu and Ido’s sudden rise to prominence when they first began. Guess the one that stuck?”

  The tides flooded and ebbed as Takeru spoke.

  “It’s an unpublished manuscript that won first prize at the inaugural contest. From a nobody award to one that stayed on the lips of the literary world for months. All because of that mysterious winner who never showed up. Imagine this: five million yen in prize money that went unclaimed. A story so outstanding that it couldn’t be dislodged by the second-place entry. You can’t make this up.”

  “Or maybe you can,” Reika chimed in. “I have many theories about it. Could it have been a marketing tool? The Suigetsu team fabricated the book to stir up controversy, even though it never existed.”

  “Wow, I have underestimated your cynicism.” Takeru grinned. “To be honest, I thought the same when I first heard of it. Mr. Konishi is such a smart person, you can’t help but overthink all the possibilities of how something like this could have happened.”

  “But no one really talks about it anymore,” Reika said.

  Takeru nodded. “Definitely not in Suigetsu.”

  “I suppose the organizing team of the inaugural contest had already left or retired,” she added.

  Takeru said, “Which means, the only one who knows the truth is Mr. Konishi himself.”

  The tides swept toward Eizo. He tried to move out of the way, but something held his feet in place beneath the murky water.

  “Have you all considered that a real person wrote it under their real name?” Eizo asked, in a voice that barely sounded like his. “Not one hiding behind a pseudonym.”

  “Definitely.” Reika stirred her drink. “The question is, who?”

  Takeru cast a knowing glance around the table. “The wildest, but also most plausible theory was that Mr. Konishi wrote the prize-winning entry and submitted it.”

  The water level was rising. From his knees, it rose soundlessly to his waist, then his chest. Before he knew it, the weight of the tides pressed on his neck, snaking along his throat. As he gasped for air, the pressure grew stronger, threatening to crush his windpipe. He could barely breathe. The fork slid out of his grasp, falling to the ground with a clang.

  * * *

  The bat slides out of your grasp.

  You toss it away with a flip when you land a hit to left outfield, shocking even yourself.

  You’re on second base, springing ambitiously for home.

  Kazumasa’s on the plate.

  Two-for-two, last chance to score at the bottom of the ninth.

  Last chance to equalize and enter the tenth.

  Kazumasa readies his bat.

  The pitcher winds up.

  A southpaw.

  A forkball.

  Big Bat Kazumasa’s great at those.

  The ball leaves the mound and swerves late, a sharp downward break as it approaches the plate.

  He lowers his bat to connect.

  The wizard lowers his bat to connect.

  Get ready, Little Quill.

  Your muscles coil.

  Moisture seeps into your shoes.

  You look down at your feet.

  Soles on the soil.

  Toes curling in sand.

  The tide rushes in.

  * * *

  Eizo felt a hand on his back.

  “You alright?” Takeru asked while Reika looked on with concern.

  Eizo bent down to pick up the fork. He removed his hands from the table and sat on them. The air was colder and drier these days. Once his hands warmed up, they’d resume motor function in no time.

  “I’m good.” Eizo straightened himself. “You were saying?”

  Reika continued with interest. “I don’t think Mr. Konishi would do that. It’s impossible. Don’t you need to submit proof of identification with the entry, which is then screened by staff members at the first stage?”

  “He must have slipped it in somewhere. Mr. Konishi has a minor in literature from Todai and swept the national college writing awards with his short stories. He has the talent.” Takeru grew more excited as he spoke. “My theory goes like this: he submitted an entry for fun, slush readers voted it into the top four, and the guest judges picked it as their unanimous winner. But the winner needs to go on stage to collect the prize and attend interviews, so he pulled out at the last minute because it would look incredibly rigged. There’s a vacuum at the top. And guess what? Our wily boss left it open instead of pushing up the second-prize entry. The headline slaps, that’s why.”

  Reika’s face fell. “Mr. Konishi wouldn’t do that.”

  Eizo looked at both of them. Their faces seemed familiar and foreign at the same time. The tides were flooding back in. He remained rooted to the spot as the water rushed around him. Water, he exhaled. If he talked now, bubbles would spew out. He raised his chin toward the ceiling to keep breathing.

  “This is all speculation, of course!” Takeru grinned. “But the entry that won is definitely real. They announced the title when they pulled it from the contest.”

  “An Act of Courtesy,” Reika said.

  Takeru’s eyes widened. “That’s right!”

  Reika mulled it over. “Knowing Mr. Konishi’s character, could he be baiting someone by releasing only the title? It’s strange to do that when no one knows who the author is.”

  “The events caused quite a stir in my sister’s office,” Takeru said. “One editor who had signed up to slush read for Suigetsu, cursed them to close down after word of the vacant top prize got out. He even wrote a couple of blog posts that ended up circulating among media outlets. They were quite vitriolic, claiming that Mr. Konishi was a sham and had pocketed the prize money he had seemingly coughed up from his own funds. That guy was sacked not long after. Conflict of interests, apparently.” Takeru finished his herbal fusion tea in one large sip. “The Mr. Konishi rumor now makes sense, right? He’s a PR monster.”

  The water was rising to his ears.

  Takeru and Reika continued, but all Eizo could hear were distortions. They were above water; he was fast sinking to the bottom. He’d better leave while he could still move.

  Eizo cleared his tray and stood up.

  “You’re leaving already? Let’s walk back together,” Reika said.

  “I’ve got an errand to run.” He slung his backpack over his shoulder and grabbed the tray, his knuckles turning bone-white from the tight grip. “We’ll catch up over email.”

  He left before they noticed his hands were shaking.

  37

  Eizo was at the subway station when he realized he’d left his laptop charger in Suigetsu. It was a risk to return to the office and run into Reika and Takeru, but a risk he had to take nonetheless. He had only one charger, and his laptop couldn’t even last three hours on battery. He just had to be quick. In and out in under five minutes, before anyone saw him.

  The elevators going up to Suigetsu at lunch hour were so crowded that he was considering taking the stairs when a familiar voice, light and cheery, called out to him.

  “Eizo, is that you?”

  It was Chiharu.

  He eked out a smile. “Look who’s here.”

  As Chiharu approached, his smile turned into a grin, a standard response to the Kujo Juku clique. She stopped before him, straight black hair cascading about her shoulders. “Dude, are you for real? I haven’t seen you in months! I thought your mom whisked you off to become a corporate bore.”

  “Things have been busy since she returned.” Eager to change the topic, Eizo asked, “Aren’t you supposed to be in Shizuoka?”

  “Didn’t you see the group chat? I’m visiting a couple of Tokyo labs this week.”

  Eizo hadn’t checked his messages all week. He was more concerned with the pass Chiharu was holding. Meaning that she, like him, was going up to the office. He tried to see the stripe on her pass. The card color denoted access to levels. Hers was the same as his—purple—for offices on the 30th to 40th floors, which mostly housed creative industries such as ad agencies, magazine publishers targeting businesses and financial elites, and, of course, Suigetsu.

  He had to be cautious around Chiharu. While friendly, she was a math major who excelled at identifying patterns in seemingly unrelated events. Whenever she found something odd, she’d latch onto it and spend hours analyzing the finest details until satisfied, if that were even a word in her dictionary. Her curiosity knew no bounds. After graduating from Keio last summer, she volunteered for a local music zine until she joined a research institution in Shizuoka last month, where she focused on developing machine learning models to optimize tea cultivation. It should have been easy to tell Chiharu that he was an author. But he couldn’t bring himself to say it. Not to her, nor to Roku.

  She wouldn’t be here for Suigetsu, would she?

  “I’m here to do a live reaction take for COSMO,” Chiharu went on. “The new sister magazine of Bungei Shunju. They approached me to be their reader model after seeing me reading Okamura Juri’s book at Tokyo Station.”