Something new

The sunlight that spilled through the narrow window of Aiko Shirai's loft was a far cry from gentle. It sliced across her face like an uninvited hand, waking her with the kind of slow ache that wasn't just physical, but deeply woven into her bones. Her eyes cracked open, gritty and resistant, and for a moment, she didn't move.

Everything hurt.

Her neck was stiff, her shoulder pinned awkwardly against the desk surface. One of her arms had gone numb, curled beneath the weight of her own head. Her lower back pulsed dully, reminding her that she'd spent hours hunched over without a single stretch. When she finally shifted, her chair creaked a metallic groan, the kind that sounded accusatory. Her hair, half-fallen from the loose tie she'd thrown up the day before, was streaked with ink. Her fingers were stained black, tips darkened like she'd dipped them in soot.

The sketchbook lay before her, closed gently on its side, as though she'd known to preserve it even in sleep.

Paperblade.

That was the name she'd written without a second thought. It had come to her fully formed. A title with weight, like the name of something that had always existed and had only just now decided to let itself be drawn.

She sat up slowly, dragging her hand across her face and immediately wincing as dry ink smudged her cheek. Her body complained in every direction, but she ignored it.

The sketchbook was there. Real. Tangible. Not some fever-dream.

She opened it.

The first page greeted her with bold kanji: Paperblade.

She ran a fingertip across the corner of the page where that strange little symbol sat—a glyph-like mark or signature she couldn't place. It was etched so finely, so cleanly, it almost looked printed. But the ink matched hers, and she didn't remember drawing it. It hadn't meant anything to her last night, and even now it didn't spark recognition. She set that aside. Artists doodled without thinking all the time.

What mattered was that the work still held up. Even in the harsh light of morning.

She flipped through the first few pages, then the next. The panels were tight. Lines deliberate. Expressions clear and controlled. She didn't know how it had come together so smoothly, but it had.

Not just passable, it was really good.

She leaned back in her chair, a strange numbness rising in her chest that wasn't from sleep or ink. It was something quieter. Something like... pride.

She had drawn this. Somehow.

No storyboards, no planning, no pre-inking notes. Just raw, uninterrupted drawing. And yet it had rhythm, character and flow.

Her stomach rumbled and the spell broke.

She looked around the room for the first time since last night. The loft was in its usual state of creative disaster—sketchbooks stacked against bookshelves, manga volumes opened face-down, coffee-stained mugs crowding the desk corner like broken trophies. A trail of graphite pencils lay on the floor like breadcrumbs, leading toward a half-collapsed stack of reference material by the futon.

Aiko stretched her arms above her head until her spine gave a satisfying crack, then groaned as she stood. Her knees wobbled. Her thighs felt like she'd run up a thousand stairs. But it felt… cleansing.

She crossed to the tiny bathroom, flicked on the light, and caught her reflection in the mirror. The woman who stared back had half a fingerprint on her cheek, smudged eyeliner, and a ponytail that had turned into a nest.

She snorted.

"Beautiful," she muttered, voice dry and unused.

She turned on the shower. The mirror fogged up quickly as steam filled the room. The water ran hot—too hot at first—but she let it burn across her shoulders, down her spine, soaking the remnants of ink and sleep from her skin. She stood under the stream longer than necessary, palms pressed to the tiled wall, letting the exhaustion melt off. Rinsing out everything she hadn't allowed herself to feel yesterday.

She shampooed twice, scrubbed the ink out from beneath her nails, and watched it swirl into the drain in thin gray ribbons.

Twenty minutes later, she stood in the kitchen with a towel around her neck, hair tied back neatly, and a loose black hoodie that fell halfway down her thighs. Her legs were bare except for striped socks. She felt lighter. Still tired, but in a different way—like she'd shed something.

In the fridge, the milk was gone, but there were still eggs. She cracked two into a bowl and added a pinch of salt, then stirred slowly. The skillet hissed when the mixture hit the surface. She made toast while it cooked, buttered it while warm, and sat at the table with a cup of hot green tea by her side.

Her eyes drifted toward the sketchbook again, which she'd left on the dining table this time. It wasn't calling to her. It was simply… waiting.

She reached over and laid a hand on the cover. Let her fingers rest there. There was no pressure now. Just a sense of direction. Of forward.

She chewed her toast more slowly.

"Maybe I should show it to someone."

____

Koenji hadn't changed.

The sun was dipping by the time Aiko stepped off the train and made her way down the familiar streets lined with vintage shops and low-rise cafes. The air had that typical summer heaviness, even as evening came on. Music leaked from open windows—old J-Pop and soft jazz. Someone was burning incense in a doorway. It smelled like sandalwood and childhood temples.

The manga café was still tucked between a shuttered bakery and a used record store. Its awning was faded but clean. Inside, it was cool and quiet, the smell of paper and coffee instantly grounding.

Kanae was at the counter.

She hadn't changed much—same dyed brown bob cut, round glasses slightly crooked, red cardigan rolled up at the sleeves. She looked up as the bell jingled and did a double take.

"Aiko?"

Aiko nodded. "Hey."

Kanae came around the counter fast, arms already open.

"You ghost," she said, hugging her tight. "You total ghost."

Aiko didn't resist. She let herself sink into the hug and closed her eyes briefly.

"Sorry," she murmured.

Kanae pulled back. "Come to the booth."

They settled into a back booth. Kanae brought her tea without asking—jasmine. She always remembered.

"So," Kanae said. "What happened? You were dark for weeks. Didn't even reply to my texts. I was wondering if Matsumoto finally murder you?"

Aiko smiled, but it didn't reach far.

"I'm out."

Kanae blinked. "Out?"

"Crimson Requiem was canceled but I quit before they could make it official."

Kanae's expression fell. "Wait—what? But it was getting good. The last arc—your bloodflower imagery was finally starting to—"

"Didn't matter." Aiko stirred her tea slowly. "Volume Four dropped in the rankings to 19th. The readers weren't connecting so Matsumoto gave up. Gave my slot to that parody series by high schoolers."

"Tokyo Death Game?" Kanae nearly spat. "Are you kidding me? That garbage got your slot?"

Aiko shrugged. "They added some panty shots and the fans voted for them."

Kanae swore under her breath. "You fought so hard for Requiem, it was original, and they let that shit take over."

Aiko didn't say anything.

After a long moment, she reached into her satchel and pulled out a folder. "I drew something yesterday."

Kanae blinked. "Wait. Yesterday as in—less than 24 hours ago?"

Aiko nodded.

She passed it over the table.

Kanae opened the folder slowly, like she wasn't sure what to expect. The first page hit her like a gust of wind. She turned it. Then the next. Then faster. Then again, slower.

She stopped talking entirely.

The café's soft overhead jazz faded into the background as she flipped page after page. Her mouth parted. Her eyes darted across panels with the trained precision of someone who had once dreamed of becoming an editor at Kodansha.

When she finally looked up, her voice was small. "This is great. Even better than Requiem, no offens."

Aiko raised an eyebrow.

Kanae clarified: "I mean—it's still you. But there's no stiffness. No trying to match someone else's beat. This flows... It breathes."

Aiko shrugged. "I was angry. And free. I didn't think too hard.

Kanae whispered it under her breath, like tasting a new word. "Paperblade."

She flipped back to the first page. "Is this a one-shot?"

"I don't know yet."

"It shouldn't be."

Aiko leaned back, arms folded. "I just needed to draw something that didn't bleed."

Kanae smiled softly. "Then draw more of it."

A long pause stretched between them. The smell of fresh coffee filtered in from the front. Someone was browsing the manga rack. The world moved quietly around their table.

Kanae reached across the table and gave her a second hug. Just as tight as the first.

"You're still a damn good mangaka," she whispered.

Aiko closed her eyes.

"You're the best, Kanae."

__

The sky had turned the color of steel wool when Aiko stepped out of the café. A soft breeze tangled her bangs as she tightened her grip on the folder. Her legs moved slowly, but with certainty. The walk to the station was quiet.

The pages in her bag weren't heavy.

She didn't know what Paperblade was yet. But for the first time in a long time, she wanted to find out.