Yin Ze found Yoshitsugu Matsuoka slumped on a bench beside a vending machine. His back was pressed against the wall, shoulders sagged, head down—he had dozed off, strands of hair obscuring half of his tired face.
The silence around him felt like falling snow—still, fragile. Yin Ze hesitated to break it.
But the studio would eventually close for the night, and security would start ushering people out.
Yin Ze stepped forward and lightly tapped him. Matsuoka flinched from the poor-quality sleep, blinking open bloodshot eyes.
"...Takizawa?" he mumbled groggily, then rubbed his eyes once he got a better look.
"You fell asleep here?" Yin Ze asked softly, half-squatting.
"Didn't even realize it. Just meant to rest my eyes for a sec... guess I knocked out." Matsuoka stretched his stiff neck. "Did I bother anyone?"
"You've been overworking yourself, haven't you? Those dark circles are brutal," Yin Ze said with concern.
"Same pace as usual, really. Maybe it's just the extra stress—auditions, memorizing lines—it wears you out more." Matsuoka smiled gently.
"So? How'd it go today?"
"I passed." Matsuoka beamed. "What about your villain role?"
"Didn't make it," Yin Ze shrugged.
"Damn, what a shame. We could've shared the screen—though I'd probably just be the guy who gets vaporized in three seconds," Matsuoka said, half-joking.
"It'll happen someday. Anyway, come eat with me—my treat. Once you've filled up, head home and get some real rest. Sleep's not optional." Yin Ze offered, a kind of warmth rare from an agent.
"Ah... I've got a shift coming up soon. I'm on duty until past 3 a.m.," Matsuoka replied apologetically. "Let's take a rain check."
"You sure? You gonna be okay?"
"It's late-night work. Won't be that busy. I'll sneak in a nap when I can. Should be fine," Matsuoka waved it off.
"Can't you ask for time off?"
"They dock pay."
Yin Ze fell silent. Anything more would've just been empty kindness—words that help no one.
"Next time, then." Matsuoka stood and stretched, slapping his cheeks to wake up.
"If you ever need help, seriously—just say so," Yin Ze called after him. "Be as shameless as I was crashing at your place, alright?"
Matsuoka replied with cheerful gratitude. But deep down, he knew—he would never make that call. He was too used to being hard on himself. Even when he was completely overwhelmed, he never felt right asking family, let alone a friend, for help.
Train ride. Part-time bar shift. Uniform change.
Everyone who knew him said he was a good guy—too honest to fake a smile or lie.
But everyone lies. He was no exception.
Like when he told his family over the phone that life in Tokyo was fine. That he worked 9 to 5, ate well, drank often, and wasn't stressed.
Like how, in reality, catching even a quick nap in a deafening bar under flashing laser lights and pounding music was almost impossible.
Maybe in the early morning, after the crowd of hyped-up partygoers finally cleared out, he'd get a few hours' rest. Just enough before his dawn paper route.
After graduating from the academy, he had more free hours on paper—but it never felt that way. The industry was brutal. If you couldn't break out during the rookie phase, odds were you never would.
He often passed by other nameless, aimless rookies loitering around the agency, voices unheard, potential untapped. Those sights burned into his memory.
Every audition meant the world.
But walking onto a set, knowing this wasn't some class simulation but a real test that could make or break his career—it dried out his mouth, made his heart race. He couldn't help but imagine failing.
To keep himself focused, he'd overanalyze small, insignificant supporting lines. It helped stave off the fear.
Workplaces always carried this vague but ever-present weight. *This isn't play. This is survival.* The diverse cast of colleagues only heightened the pressure.
Before the actual recording, everyone milled about freely. Seniors chatted. Newcomers exchanged greetings. Some were shy, others natural-born extroverts.
Matsuoka always admired the social butterflies who could strike up conversations with anyone. Back in his hometown in Hokkaido, he'd tried working at a busy hardware store to learn how to interact with people. But every time, the manager would pull him from the counter and quietly assign him to stocking shelves instead.
"I'm Yukichi Mukai from 91 Production. Looking forward to working with you all."
"I'm Soraha Nagamura from Tohai. Pleased to meet you!"
"Zhang Qiguang, Aoni Production. Let's do our best together."
"I'm Yoshitsugu Matsuoka from I'm Enterprise. Please take care of me."
He wanted to say more, but when he saw the seniors joyfully catching up, and his own introduction barely earning a glance, he quietly slid into a corner and buried his head in the script.
Honestly, for someone of his experience, this was exactly where he belonged.
This episode had a bigger cast than usual—seats were nearly full.
"Excuse me, is this seat taken?"
A soft, polite voice pulled him from his script.
It was a young girl holding a linesheet. Petite and delicate.
Her hair was shoulder-length and silky. Over her school uniform, she wore a warm brown knit sweater. A clean, faint scent of shampoo and body wash hung around her.
She looked young, her features still slightly babyish, but already lovely in a shy, modest way. She reminded Matsuoka of a skittish kingfisher or a shy kitten in a park.
"Of course, go ahead," he whispered.
"Thank you."
She sat quietly beside him. The space was tight, their shoulders brushing. He could feel the faint warmth of her skin through her clothes. The floral fragrance of her shampoo became stronger.
Embarrassed by the stale beer smell clinging to him from the bar shift, Matsuoka instinctively leaned away toward the wall. He didn't want to make her uncomfortable.
Chatter soon died down as the recording session began. Everyone took turns at the four mics based on their scenes.
"Heh. Thought you could play hero? If you'd just coughed up the access key, you wouldn't be suffering now!"
"You don't understand. What it means to protect something."
On the monitor, rough sketches from the unfinished animation played. The sound director, behind the glass, listened closely through his headset.
"They're just using you. Those so-called Judges don't need truth, only pretty speeches to convince idealistic fools like you to throw yourselves into the fire!"
"I won't let you insult her dream."
Even with nothing but rough storyboards, the veteran actors brought the scene to life with emotional intensity. You could feel the drama even with your eyes closed.
Matsuoka sat tight-lipped, quietly absorbing it all, until his turn came.
"They've lost their chance to escape the sanctuary—no, wait! It's not over yet! We need to find a gap, a weakness!"
"Mana levels are surging—79.8% and rising. Containment fields are nearing overload. There's a vortex forming in a ten-kilometer radius—" Matsuoka rattled off his lines with speed and clarity. He'd rehearsed them plenty.
"The system shows only seven openings. Plan X39 has been activated. There's about a ten-second window before lockdown."
To his right, the girl—much shorter than him—delivered her lines crisply. Despite her gentle voice and young age, she managed a cool, professional tone.
That was it for the researcher interludes.
They both let out a quiet breath and stepped aside to make room for the next cast.
Their timing had been oddly synchronized. As they returned to their seats, the girl offered him a polite smile and nod.
Matsuoka quickly gave her a thumbs-up, then went back to his script like an eager student.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her sitting with her hands neatly on her knees, eyes fixed on the performance unfolding ahead.
This time, Matsuoka wasn't watching the veterans. He was thinking about the girl's introduction.
"I'm Yui Ogura from Style Cube. I still have a lot to learn—please bear with me."
She was nervous. But she still stood tall in an unforgiving industry.
Kids these days… really are something else.