Keita sat in his cramped apartment, the brown envelope resting unopened on the desk before him. The manuscript he had poured his broken soul into—the NTR story he had once sworn he would never create—was now a symbol of his defeat. For days he'd been waiting for any sign from the publisher, any glimmer of hope that his desperate gamble might pay off. Yet the silence was suffocating.
Then the call came.
---
"Keita Sumeragi?" The voice was unfamiliar, but the tone carried the cold efficiency of the publishing world.
"Yes," he answered, voice trembling.
"This is Mr. Mori from Haruka Publishing."
Keita's heart jumped. At last.
"We've reviewed your manuscript."
Keita held his breath.
"It's well written. The story's pacing, the artwork… it's impressive."
A faint flicker of relief warmed his chest.
"But," Mori continued, "we've had a long internal discussion. The board feels the manuscript is… too dark, too depressing for our current audience."
Keita's throat went dry.
"We decided to assign the serialization to another artist."
Another artist?
"The new artist is younger, with a fresh, sexier style. They believe this will sell better."
Keita's mind reeled. His story—his creation—relegated to a footnote. His own art, erased and replaced.
"We will credit you as the original creator, but the new artist will take lead on all illustrations and story adjustments."
He clenched his fists until his nails bit into his palms.
"Is this… is this final?" he asked quietly.
"Yes, I'm afraid so."
The line went dead before Keita could say anything else.
---
The apartment suddenly felt colder, emptier.
He stared at the desk, the manuscript that now belonged to someone else, someone younger, someone more marketable.
His dream—the last remnant of hope—was taken from him.
His breath hitched.
His fingers trembled.
He crumpled to the floor.
---
The next few days blurred into one another. Keita barely ate, barely slept. The world outside moved on without him.
One evening, the phone rang.
An unfamiliar number.
He almost didn't answer, but something compelled him to.
"Mr. Sumeragi?"
"Yes?"
"This is Dr. Nakamura from City General Hospital."
Keita's heart froze.
"I'm calling about your daughter, Aoi."
Her name echoed in his mind like a prayer.
"Is she…?"
Dr. Nakamura's voice was soft, hesitant.
"I'm very sorry. She passed away last night."
The words slammed into him like a physical blow.
"No," he whispered.
"There was nothing we could do. She was severely malnourished and suffering from complications."
Keita's vision blurred.
"Where was she? Why wasn't I called sooner?"
"We attempted contact, but… your wife and your daughter have been unreachable."
He sank to the floor, the world tilting wildly.
Alone.
Starved.
Forgotten.
His daughter had died alone.
---
The days following were a haze of grief and self-loathing.
Neighbors whispered behind drawn curtains.
Letters from collection agencies piled up unopened.
His phone remained silent, except for calls from his editor, politely avoiding the subject.
Keita couldn't eat.
Couldn't sleep.
Only the memory of Aoi's small hand gripping his finger haunted him.
---
One night, as rain lashed against the windows, Keita sat at his desk staring at the empty page again.
His pen hovered, but no words came.
He thought of the other artist—young, flashy, popular.
His story, twisted and distorted to fit a market craving cheap thrills.
His soul shredded and sold.
The thought made bile rise in his throat.
---
At the same time, the silence was pierced by an unexpected letter.
A fan—someone who had read the leaked early drafts—had written.
They called his work "brutally honest," "painful and necessary."
They thanked him for telling a story they needed to see.
For a moment, Keita felt something he hadn't in weeks: a flicker of pride.
But it wasn't enough.
---
On the rooftop of his apartment, Keita looked out over the city lights, the sprawling maze of lives he felt disconnected from.
He clutched the letter tightly.
His tears mingled with the rain.
"I'm sorry, Aoi," he whispered.
"I failed you."
---
The cold night air cut through his thin jacket.
He closed his eyes.
His mind replayed the moments he'd lost—meals he couldn't provide, laughter that faded, promises broken.
He stepped closer to the edge.
The void called to him.
The end seemed like the only escape from the crushing weight of guilt and sorrow.
---
But as he stood there, the letter fluttered from his hand.
Caught by the wind, it danced in the rain.
A voice echoed faintly inside him, the fan's words:
"Your story… is not meaningless. It hurts because it's true."
Keita opened his eyes.
For a moment, he saw something else—something beyond the pain.
A chance, perhaps, for a new beginning.
---
He didn't move from the edge.
But he didn't step forward either.
The night stretched on, silent and endless.