The morning sunlight slipped through the thin curtains, landing gently across Aoki Okabe's cluttered desk. Empty energy drink cans, pencil shavings, and loose sheets of storyboard drafts filled the space like an artist's battlefield. Her alarm had gone off an hour ago, but she was still curled up under her blanket, phone in hand and thumb hovering over the screen.
The new Shonēn Black weekly rankings had just dropped.
Her heart thudded louder than she wanted to admit. She took a slow breath before tapping the update link.
#18: Saint ♰ Rewind – Aoki Okabe
For a few seconds, she stared at the number without reacting. Then she sat up.
She reloaded the page, hoping there was an error. But no — it was even worse than last week.
Last week was 15. The week before, 12.
Her shoulders sagged. She closed the app, tossed her phone aside, and buried her face in her hands.
Her third serialization was slipping and she had only published 21 chapters. And this time, there was no excuse — no production delay, no assistant quitting mid-chapter, no illness. Just... readers losing interest.
And then, like clockwork, she opened the rankings again and kept scrolling — past her own name, and to the top of the leaderboard where she once found herself. There it was.
#6: Blade Ceremony – Satoshi Morita
Of course.
She leaned back against the wall, head resting against it with a soft thud. Satoshi's manga had only started a few months ago, but its momentum was ridiculous. Clean paneling, sharp pacing, cool protagonists— everything editors dream of. Everything she used to have a grip on, once.
They had gone to the same university. Even shared the same art professor. He used to ask her for feedback. Now, he was getting fan letters printed in the magazine, and she was counting how many chapters she might have left.
A notification buzzed. It was get editor.
Takeru-senpai: Kindly drop off the manuscript before 1'Oclock today, Aoki. We need to discuss something too.
"Great," she muttered, standing up stiffly. Her knees ached from sitting too long last night. Her stomach grumbled, but food could wait. She put the folder containing her manuscript pages in her bag and picked up her phone, then slipped into a loose jacket before heading out.
The Shonēn Black Editorial Office looked the same as always — overworked staff, faint smell of printer ink and instant coffee, and walls plastered with posters from ongoing hits. Her footsteps echoed a little louder than usual.
At the front desk, she spotted a familiar figure before she even spoke.
Satoshi.
He was leaning against the wall casually, phone in one hand, coffee in the other. Black turtleneck, pressed pants, like he belonged in a fashion magazine rather than a manga studio.
"Oh," he said when he saw her, lips curling just slightly. "Didn't think we'd run into each other again so soon."
"I come here every week," she replied, adjusting the strap of her bag. "It's not a rare occurrence."
"Right," he said, as if just remembering. "You'ce still not made it into the top.10, huh?"
Aoki didn't answer. She wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. She brushed past and headed to the elevators.
"Hey," he added before the doors closed, "don't take it too hard. Some stories just don't land. It's nothing personal."
The doors slid shut as she pressed the button.
She swallowed the lump in her throat and reminded herself to breathe.
As the elevator doors slid open, she saw Takeru-senpai walk into his office and she followed behind him, handing over the manuscripts he requested for.
Takeru Matsumoto, her editor, didn't sugarcoat things. He rarely did.
He flipped through her manuscript pages slowly, occasionally pausing to squint at a panel or reread a bit of dialogue. Aoki sat stiffly in the chair across from him, trying not to fidget. She already knew what he was going to say. The pause between his movements told her everything.
When he finally looked up, his voice was calm but heavy.
"I'm going to be honest with you, Aoki. The decision's been made. Saint ♰ Rewind will end with Chapter 24. We'll give you three more weeks to wrap things up."
There it was.
She nodded once, too quickly. "Understood."
"You did great making it this far," he added, softer now. "Three serializations at your age is impressive, even if they didn't go long. Most people don't get one. I hope the board gives you another chance."
Aoki smiled faintly. It didn't reach her eyes.
He meant well. She knew that. But the words felt like someone complimenting how nicely you tripped.
Outside the building, she didn't cry right away. She walked the whole way home with her hands shoved deep in her jacket pockets, looking at nothing in particular. The world around her moved normally — cars honking, students chattering, clouds drifting overhead, as if her career hadn't just been quietly dismantled.
When she finally reached her apartment and shut the door behind her, the silence hit hard.
There was no assistant to greet her. No deadline to race. Just her, alone with a stack of unfinished dreams and microwavable meals.
She changed into her hoodie, tossed her bag aside, and lay face-down on the bed. She didn't know how long she stayed there. Eventually, sleep crept in without warning.
It was dark when she woke again, the orange glow of the streetlight casting shadows through the blinds. Her stomach grumbled — she hadn't eaten all day. Groggy and heavy-headed, she wandered into the kitchen and started boiling water for noodles.
She was reaching for a bowl when something caught her eye, a pen case.
It was lying on the edge of the kitchen counter, long and narrow, made of a dark leather she didn't recognize. The surface was stitched with gold thread in patterns that looked almost... ancient. Worn, but elegant like something forgotten in time.
She froze, it wasn't hers. She had never owned anything like that. She looked around the kitchen, like she was expecting someone to be standing there.
She blinked and looked back. The pen case was gone.
Her breath caught in her throat. She walked over and checked the spot, nothing was there. Trying to shake the unease, she poured the noodles into the bowl and carried them to her room.
But when she opened the door, she stopped cold. The same case with the gold-stitch design was resting on her table. As if it had followed her. She approached slowly and picked it up.
The leather was cold and smooth under her fingers. The clasp gave a quiet snap as she opened it, revealing a single black fountain pen. Unlike the case, the pen itself was sleek, metallic, and oddly warm — like it had just been used.
Something about it made her chest tighten.
She didn't know where it had come from, or who owned it. But her fingers moved almost on their own as she reached for a blank storyboard sheet and held the pen like she'd done a thousand times before.
The tip met paper.
And in the next moment, her mind emptied. Her hand moved on its own — not fast or frantic, but fluid. Clean lines flowed like water. Panel layout, character poses, dialogue — it was all there, pouring out of her like she'd already seen it.
She didn't notice the time passing.
She didn't hear the kettle start to hiss again in the kitchen.
She just drew.