Chapter 128: The Person He Forgot

Chapter 128: Chapter 128: The Person He Forgot

The message about 1987 stayed in Haruki’s head for exactly nine minutes.

Then a deadline attacked.

---

Deadlines possessed excellent timing.

A terrible personality.

They never arrived when convenient.

They never waited for emotional stability.

And they certainly didn’t care about mysterious anonymous messages.

---

At 8:05 AM, Suzune called.

No greeting.

Expected.

"Where are you?"

"Home."

"Wrong answer."

Then the line disconnected.

Haruki stared at the phone.

Concerned.

Reasonably concerned.

Not because Suzune had hung up.

Because she had sounded calm.

Suzune being angry was manageable.

Suzune being calm was dangerous.

Twenty minutes later, he arrived at Yamashita Publishing.

Suzune waited near the entrance.

Arms crossed.

Tablet in hand.

Visible irritation.

The standard configuration.

"You forgot."

Haruki blinked.

"What?"

The assistant editor looked genuinely offended.

An alarming sight.

"The cover meeting."

Silence.

Then horror.

Because she was right.

The cover redesign meeting.

The one scheduled last week.

The one tied to Threadless Gate’s recovery campaign.

The one he completely forgot.

Wonderful.

No.

Catastrophic.

Better word.

Suzune turned and started walking.

Fast.

Haruki followed.

Because survival remained important.

"How did I forget this?"

"You’ve been busy."

"That’s not an excuse."

"I know."

A pause.

"That’s why I’m annoyed."

Haruki had no answer.

Reasonable.

---

The meeting room already contained six people.

Two designers.

One marketing director.

One printing specialist.

Mizuno.

And Rika.

Of course.

The heiress looked entirely too comfortable before ten in the morning.

A suspicious trait.

The cover concepts covered an entire wall.

Different versions.

Different color palettes.

Different branding approaches.

Different taglines.

Different character arrangements.

Actual publishing work.

Exactly what the story needed.

Haruki immediately noticed a problem.

Half the covers looked safer.

Cleaner.

More commercial.

More accessible.

Less threatening.

The marketing director began explaining the reasoning.

"Version Four tested best with new readers."

A chart appeared on the screen.

"Stronger visual clarity."

Another.

"Broader demographic appeal."

Another.

"Lower barrier to entry."

Useful topics.

Dangerous topics.

Because eventually someone said:

"The darker elements reduce accessibility."

The sentence landed harder than expected.

Not because it was wrong.

Because it sounded familiar.

Too familiar.

Adaptation committee.

Rewrite disaster.

Arata’s contract.

The same pressure.

Different form.

Haruki stared at Version Four.

It looked good.

That was what made it dangerous.

Beautiful.

Professional.

Marketable.

And completely disconnected from what Threadless Gate actually felt like.

The discussion continued.

Designers explained sales projections.

Marketing discussed audience growth.

The printing specialist discussed production costs.

Haruki listened.

Actually listened.

For once, he didn’t immediately defend his instincts.

He wanted to understand why they wanted this version.

That mattered.

But after several minutes, he finally spoke.

"I don’t like Version Four."

The room paused.

Version Four sat in the center.

The safest option.

The most commercially optimized option.

The one everyone expected him to choose.

The marketing director frowned.

"Why?"

Haruki looked at the cover.

Then answered.

"Because it isn’t my story."

Silence followed.

Not dramatic silence.

Professional silence.

The kind people used when deciding whether someone made a good point.

Or a terrible one.

Rika smiled.

A dangerous sign.

Very dangerous.

Mizuno remained expressionless.

An even more dangerous sign.

Eventually the editor spoke.

"Explain."

Fair.

Reasonable.

Haruki stood and walked toward the display.

He pointed toward the protagonist.

"The conflict disappeared."

Another section.

"The tension disappeared."

Then the supporting characters.

"The consequences disappeared."

The room looked again.

This time differently.

Because once someone noticed the issue, it became obvious.

The safe version sold an easier story.

Not the real one.

Haruki continued.

"It tells readers that this is an adventure story."

He paused.

"It’s not only that."

The marketing director folded his arms.

"Then what is it?"

Haruki thought.

"Consequences."

Nobody spoke.

He continued.

"The characters make choices. Those choices hurt them. Sometimes they make things worse. That’s part of why readers stay."

Mizuno’s eyes narrowed slightly.

Listening.

Haruki looked toward the cover again.

"If we remove all of that because it’s uncomfortable, we’re not making the story easier to understand."

A pause.

"We’re making it less honest."

The realization felt strangely familiar.

Because months ago, he would’ve accepted the safer version.

Maybe even preferred it.

Not anymore.

The meeting lasted another two hours.

Messy.

Complicated.

Useful.

They rejected some of Haruki’s suggestions too.

He argued.

They argued back.

Eventually they found a middle ground.

The darker elements stayed.

The typography became cleaner.

The character arrangement became more accessible.

The promotional hook became clearer.

Compromise existed.

Healthy compromise.

Not surrender.

An important difference.

For once, Haruki left the room without feeling like he’d either won or lost.

He had participated.

That felt better.

---

At one o’clock, Haruki escaped to the cafeteria.

Food.

Necessary.

Thinking consumed energy.

Unfortunately.

He sat alone near a window.

Lunch in front of him.

Phone beside him.

The anonymous message remained archived.

Ignored.

For now.

Then someone sat across from him.

Without asking.

A bold strategy.

Haruki looked up.

Then blinked.

Aoi Kisaragi.

The creator carried a tray.

And an expression suggesting she belonged wherever she decided to sit.

A dangerous power.

"You look surprised."

"I was eating."

"Terrifying."

Haruki sighed.

Aoi began eating.

For several minutes, neither spoke.

Not awkward.

Comfortable.

Different.

Then Aoi suddenly asked:

"Do you know why Arata frustrates people?"

The question arrived from nowhere.

Or somewhere.

Hard to tell.

Haruki looked up.

"Because he’s good at everything?"

"Wrong."

Immediate.

Confident.

Annoying.

Aoi took another bite.

Then:

"Because he remembers people."

Silence.

The creator continued.

"He remembers assistants."

A pause.

"Editors."

Another.

"Receptionists."

Another.

"Junior creators."

The statement settled heavily.

Because Haruki immediately thought about Suzune.

Then Mizuno.

Then Takeda.

Then Yui.

Then dozens of people who quietly supported his career.

People he appreciated.

People he sometimes forgot to show it to.

Aoi watched his expression.

Of course she noticed.

Talented people remained annoying.

"He doesn’t treat people like tools," she said.

Haruki looked down.

"I don’t either."

Aoi raised an eyebrow.

"I didn’t say you did."

That somehow sounded worse.

She continued.

"But you get focused."

"That’s a polite way to say it."

"I was trying."

Haruki almost smiled.

Almost.

Aoi looked out the window.

"Being focused isn’t bad."

A pause.

"Just don’t become so focused on your own story that you forget the people helping you write it."

Haruki didn’t answer.

Because the words had landed too accurately.

---

At five-thirty, Haruki finally left the building.

The sky above Tokyo glowed orange.

Autumn sunlight stretched across the city.

For once, he didn’t head straight home.

Instead, he stopped at a small bookstore near the station.

No reason.

Or several.

Hard to tell.

Twenty minutes later, he left carrying three items.

A writing notebook.

A mystery novel.

And a small notebook covered with cartoon cats.

A ridiculous purchase.

Completely ridiculous.

He didn’t know why he’d bought it.

That was a lie.

He knew exactly why.

---

At 7:12 PM, he stood outside Suzune’s desk.

The assistant editor looked up.

Confused.

Reasonable reaction.

Haruki placed the cat notebook down.

Then immediately regretted everything.

Suzune stared.

Then at him.

Then at the notebook.

Then back at him.

The silence lasted too long.

Far too long.

Finally:

"What is this?"

"A thank you."

Another pause.

"For what?"

"For today."

Suzune looked genuinely shocked.

An extremely rare sight.

Haruki immediately felt uncomfortable.

"I forgot the meeting."

"Yes."

"You reminded me."

"Yes."

"So..."

He gestured toward the notebook.

"Thank you."

Suzune looked down at the cats.

Then back at him.

A tiny smile appeared.

"You’re terrible at this."

"I know."

"But..."

She picked up the notebook.

"I’ll accept it."

Haruki nodded.

Then escaped before she recovered.

A tactical retreat.

A necessary retreat.

---

Outside, night settled across Tokyo.

The city lights reflected against glass buildings.

People moved through crowded streets.

Life continued.

As always.

Haruki walked toward the station.

The anonymous message remained unanswered.

Yui’s confession remained unresolved.

The collaboration project remained unstable.

The manuscript remained unfinished.

Nothing was solved.

And yet—

Something had changed.

Somewhere between deadlines, contracts, arguments, confessions, and mysteries...

Haruki had finally noticed something important.

Creators didn’t build careers alone.

They built them with editors who caught their mistakes.

Assistants who remembered their schedules.

Artists who challenged their instincts.

Readers who trusted them.

Friends who irritated them into thinking.

People who stayed when things became difficult.

The dangerous part?

Everyone else had realized that long before he did.

Haruki smiled faintly.

Then his phone buzzed.

He didn’t check it.

Not yet.

He kept walking.

For once, the choice felt deliberate.

Not avoidance.

Not fear.

Just priority.

The manuscript came first.

People mattered.

Mysteries mattered.

Yui mattered.

But tomorrow would bring another deadline.

And Haruki intended to meet it.