Company Dinner
Director Tomizawa tidied up the scattered setting drawings on his desk and said, "That's it."
The office fell quietly still. A few animators who had been fidgeting with their pencils, stealing glances, now looked up cautiously. Tomizawa checked his wristwatch, and everyone else flicked their eyes to the wall clock. 7 p.m.
"Let's call it here."
A brief silence. Then someone asked tentatively, "Director... does that mean..."
Tomizawa pulled out a cigarette. "To Wadaya."
The office erupted in murmurs.
"Company dinner?"
"For real?"
Someone said in an awed voice, "If it's a company dinner... does that mean we can go home?"
Everyone burst out laughing.
"Hey, you idiot."
"You went home every day."
"Nah, don't you remember crashing at the office last night?"
"Don't lie, man. Everyone knows you pretended to nap in the storage room and snuck home."
Tomizawa lit his cigarette with his left hand and waved his right. "Shut up. Yamada, did you sneak out too?"
The man called Yamada scratched his head. "Well... that..."
"And you still haven't paid up those 3,000 yen from the horse racing bet last time."
The office quickly turned rowdy.
"Aw, Director, you still remember that? Cut me some slack."
"The world of bets is a cold one."
Tomizawa clapped to draw everyone's attention. "Alright, alright. And since this guy's here today, and the planning's come a long way, we're heading to Wadaya!"
Yasuhiro, who had been doodling some mysterious mecha design on a scrap of paper, shot to his feet. "Sounds good!"
Someone shouted, "Booze! Booze!"
Another muttered, "I'm saved..."
"Were you dead this whole time?"
"Pretty much, heh heh."
Everyone grabbed their coats, humming cheerfully, and started filing out.
"Let's go, let's go."
"Man, I'm starving."
"Draft beer! Draft beer! Draft beer!"
Tokyo's October was refreshingly cool, not much different from Korea. I slipped on my coat and wheeled after them.
Stairs. This place was on the second floor. Takushi had helped without a word earlier, but what about from now on? Tomizawa noticed me hesitate, scowled, and yelled down to a staffer heading downstairs.
"Hey, Yamada!"
"Yes?"
"Forget the 3,000 yen. Help Kyogo up and down the stairs instead."
"Huh? That covers it?"
Yamada, who had been coming back up, brightened. "Nah, you'll do it every time."
"Aw, come on..."
"I'll let the sneaking out slide too."
"Damn... Kenji, you bastard... Fine, got it."
Suginami Ward at dusk. Amid the chill settling air, the Moonrise crew shuffled along in a pack. Acrid cigarette smoke pierced by rough laughter.
Yasuhiro sidled up close to Kyung-ho's wheelchair and spoke. "Kyogo."
"Yeah."
"You saved our asses."
"We've still got mountains of work left."
Someone chimed in from behind. "You think we don't know how huge what you did was?"
"Yeah! You have any idea how soul-crushing it is to cling to planning with all that work piling up?"
Kyung-ho, soaking up the praise, felt awkward—he hadn't come up with most of the settings himself. "I prepped in Korea ahead of time."
"Damn cocky kid! Prep doesn't mean it'll all click!"
Yamada, who had helped him down the stairs, playfully ruffled Kyung-ho's hair. "And don't forget, five hours straight on settings? Nah, you drew the art live while setting it up. How many sheets?"
I had no clue. Lost for words, I just grinned. "The foundation Director Tomizawa laid was solid."
Tomizawa called from ahead. "What foundation? When did I lay one I didn't even know about?"
He pointed down the alley. "There."
A sign glowed under yellow light. Wadaya.
Kyung-ho's gaze lingered. "..."
It felt familiar. Fragments of his past life flickered by—overworked animators rolling up damp shirt sleeves, clinking draft beer mugs.
He muttered softly, "Huh... this place hasn't changed a bit."
He paused, then chuckled. Guess this *is* the past now.
His sense of time still threw him off sometimes.
Tomizawa shoved open the weathered sliding door. Ding-a-ling—. The metallic bell scraped his eardrums.
Inside, the shop brimmed with jaundiced lighting, soy sauce fumes, and the thick must of aged wood. Just a counter and a few small tables crammed into tight quarters where shoulders brushed.
The server bowed. "Irasshaimase. Moonrise?"
"That's us."
Tomizawa answered. No wonder he'd taken that call mid-meeting. He'd reserved the place. Even in my past life, this guy was like that—though I'd never met him, his stories were legendary. He'd chew you out but teach relentlessly, then apologize with a meal on him. The director behind those sleek purple '90s mecha had taken the abuse with a grin, they said. Sure, some cracked under the stress and called him a cranky old coot.
"As we discussed on the phone, space is tight, so if you could split up and sit accordingly."
"Got it."
The crew dispersed like an ebbing tide to claim seats.
"Kyogo, sit with me."
Tomizawa grabbed Kyung-ho heading for a corner spot.
"Director, I wanna chat with the others too."
"Do that at the office."
Isn't it usually the other way around? Grumbling inwardly, I wheeled to the table, shoved a chair aside with practiced ease. Perfect space for the wheelchair.
Tomizawa, a middle-aged man in a suit who appeared out of nowhere beside him, mecha designer Yasuhiro, and trainee Kyung-ho. The four settled at one table.
Tomizawa flipped open a peeling laminated menu. "Biggest contributor today picks first."
He stared at Kyung-ho, then realized with an "oh" and added, "First time with a Japanese menu?"
Scanning it quickly, most were familiar, but I played dumb. "You pick the snacks. I'll have a draft beer—"
Silence crashed down.
"—no, make that oolong tea, please."
The suited man laughed heartily and addressed Kyung-ho. "You talk like a pro drinker."
"N-not really."
As Yasuhiro ordered "Three drafts, one oolong," Tomizawa narrowed his eyes, scanning Kyung-ho before spilling to the suit. "Yamamoto-san, know what this punk said the second he walked into the office today?"
"Oh? What?"
The man called Yamamoto set down his glass, intrigued, eyeing Kyung-ho.
Tomizawa exhaled smoke and continued. "I yelled at him for insubordination, told him to get lost right then. And this guy doesn't blink—pulls out the key animation envelope from beside his wheelchair."
Tomizawa mimicked Kyung-ho's expression, furrowing his brow and dropping his voice. "Then he goes, 'Should I take this back too?' This arrogant little—!"
Yamamoto threw his head back laughing. Yasuhiro chuckled beside him.
"And that's not even the end. 'I prepped designs that'd fit perfectly,' he says, poking just enough to rile me. What could I do?"
"Normally you'd blow up."
Tomizawa took a draft from the server and replied as he set it down. "Honestly, the faxed drawings shocked me so much I couldn't coldly send him packing."
He grumbled, but a faint smile lingered on his lips. The cocky Korean high schooler who bulldozed the director's authority with pure skill alone. He didn't hate the guts.
Truth was, Kyung-ho had sized up Tomizawa's personality from his past life knowledge before pulling that stunt.
"Director, even so, telling me to scram after coming all the way to Japan..."
"See, Yamamoto-san? This guy's on my level."
"Hahaha, true. But you look pleased."
"Can't deny that."
He propped an elbow on the table, pointing at Kyung-ho with a finger. "He's cocky, sure..."
Tomizawa grinned at him. "But guys who prove it with skill? They get a pass."
Kyung-ho grinned back. "Music to my ears."
"Music? You still need to rein it in, punk!"
Someone from the next table yelled, "Director! Give us a speech!"
Tomizawa set down his chopsticks and cleared his throat. Every eye in the cramped shop locked on him.
"Fine. One word it is!"
He swept his gaze over the tables, glass in hand. Tap—he drummed the table with chopsticks instead of a pencil.
"Everyone, great work!"
"We did the work!"
People grumbled playfully. Tomizawa widened his eyes to shush them and pressed on. "This guy's Kyogo, our trainee learning the ropes for three months! But!!!!"
He bellowed, paused, scanning every face. "Honestly... there's nothing to teach him!!!!"
Laughter exploded around the room. Puhaha!
"You gonna let a new high schooler strut like that?!"
"Ooh—!"
"No way!"
"Show Kyogo the might of his seniors, somehow!"
The staff's morale visibly surged. In his past life, Moonrise's production sites must've been a mess. How this butterfly effect would play out, even Kyung-ho couldn't say.
"Kyogo, your turn."
The director nudged his back. Kyung-ho lifted his oolong tea with a faint smile. Butterfly effect or not, he couldn't resist.
"Kakatte koi!"
He quoted a famous line from Invincible Superhuman Titan 3, the one Tomizawa had just referenced, and downed the tea in one go. Bitter warmth slid down his throat.
"This punk!!!"
"Uahaha!"
Kyung-ho's bold shout rang out as draft beer mugs clashed in the air. Clink—the crisp sound struck the low ceiling. The shop heated up even more.
Sizzling yakitori fat, human warmth, damp wood scent thickened the air.
Then—
Ding-a-ling—.
The entrance bell pierced the din sharply. The noise died like a lie.
Animators near the door froze their gazes in unison.
Kyung-ho glanced over casually. What caught his eye was a splash of color utterly out of place in this smoky, grimy izakaya.
A serene beige long coat. Classic silhouette nipped at the waist. Beneath, a cream blouse and neat pleated skirt falling below the knees.
Tokita Mari.
Standing at Wadaya's entrance amid the haze, her gaze swept the interior unflinchingly. Then pinned exactly on Kyung-ho in the corner booth.
Click, click.
Steady heel strikes pressed the wooden floor. Ignoring the stares, Mari strode straight to Kyung-ho's table, arms crossed, looking down at him.
"Why didn't you say a word about coming to Japan?"
"...Mari-san?"
Heavy silence poured over the table like a boulder. Producer Yamamoto's beer paused mid-sip, Tomizawa's glass halted, Yasuhiro froze chopsticks in hand.
Mari shot them a glare, fanned away the cigarette stink from Tomizawa's hand, then turned and headed out. "I'll wait outside. Take your time."
Ding-a-ling. Thud—the door shut. Tomizawa, who'd been staring blankly at her back, turned to Kyung-ho with a hushed urgency.
"You dating the Toei girl?"