Chapter 16 Sales Pitch

A few hours before the disaster, Shachiku Giseisha sat at his office desk, staring at the endless rows of sales spreadsheets on his computer. The hum of the air conditioner was the only sound, save for the occasional click of a keyboard and the rustling of papers. He had barely touched his coffee, the cold liquid now sitting untouched beside his computer, a bitter reminder of the long hours he'd spent in this same chair, day in and day out.

It was just another day. Another endless cycle of selling products no one cared about, to clients who didn’t even remember his name. He’d been at this corporate grind for years—his body a machine, running on autopilot, his thoughts always elsewhere. He barely even noticed when the boss, Mr. Tanaka, came around to give him more tasks. The man’s voice was a distant buzz in his ear as he nodded absently, the weight of his exhaustion clouding his thoughts. If only he could get out of this office for a day, maybe he could breathe for once.

It was seventeen years, he had been a cog in the great corporate machine, tirelessly grinding away at his sales job. Day after day, year after year, he sat in the same dull gray cubicle, surrounded by the same stacks of meaningless reports, answering the same questions from clueless newcomers. His official title changed over the years—Sales Representative, Senior Sales Coordinator, Client Account Manager—but the work never did.

New employees came and went like seasonal office decorations, bright-eyed and hopeful at first, only to be crushed under the weight of endless quotas and unrealistic expectations. Eventually, they would all end up at his desk, desperate for help when they couldn’t handle something. Shachiku never refused. He had long accepted his role as the office’s unofficial problem solver—the guy who knew all the tricks, all the shortcuts, all the unwritten rules.

But he felt nothing.

No satisfaction, no frustration, no ambition. Just numbness. His body moved on autopilot, his hands typed emails and filled out forms without thought, his face locked in the same permanent, exhausted expression—one of a man who had long since surrendered to the monotony of corporate existence.

His co-workers joked about it.

"Even if the planet split in half, Shachiku wouldn't even blink."

"The guy’s basically a zombie. Are we sure he's still alive?"

"If stress could kill, he’d have died years ago."

They weren’t wrong. His dead, glassy eyes had lost any trace of life, like he was just waiting for the next sales report, the next pointless meeting, the next decade of wasted time.

For most clients, Shachiku was an empty shell—polite, professional, efficient, but uninterested. He processed contracts, scheduled meetings, and closed deals with the cold, detached precision of a machine. Nothing moved him.

Except for one client.

Dr. Ichiban.

A lead scientist from Helios-9, the mysterious research facility up in Kuro Mountain.

Whenever Shachiku had a meeting with Dr. Ichiban, his face changed.

It was subtle, but the dead, corporate mask cracked—just a little. His tired eyes sharpened, his monotone voice gained a fraction of warmth.

Maybe it was because Ichiban was different. Unlike the usual clients who droned on about numbers and budgets, she spoke with passion. Her work at Helios-9 was cutting-edge, pushing the limits of human knowledge. Even when discussing business, the doctor had a way of making things sound exciting.

 Their meetings were the only moments when he felt something close to alive. But today’s morning meeting was different.

The moment Dr. Ichiban walked in, he could tell. Something was off. It was subtle—almost imperceptible—but he had spent enough time around her to notice. The usual confidence in her posture was slightly slouched, her eyes, normally sharp and full of curiosity, held a faint weight behind them. She was trying to act normal, keeping up appearances, but beneath the surface, worry lurked.

Shachiku saw it. He knew something was troubling her.

And yet, he said nothing.

Because it wasn’t his place.

He was just her salesman. A faceless corporate worker whose sole job was to handle transactions and shipments. She, on the other hand, was a lead scientist at Helios-9—a person whose mind operated on a plane far beyond his own. What right did he have to worry about someone like her?

His mind drifted as she spoke, her presence pulling at something in his otherwise deadened heart. Ichiban was different. No one else spoke to him like she did. No one else made him feel like he was actually present, rather than just another lifeless cog in the machine.

Then her voice—soft but firm—snapped him out of his trance.

"Shachiku-san! Shachiku-san!? Sha-chi-ku-san!"

His unfocused gaze met hers. The moment he saw her smile, the faint frustration in her eyes, he realized he had zoned out again.

"Are you with us? Please, are you listening? I don’t want to be late for my lecture at the university—my students are waiting. Did you hear what I said? I want you to handle the shipment and processing of the materials we need. As usual."

Shachiku blinked, forcing his sluggish mind back to reality.

Then, without thinking, the words rolled off his tongue.

"Ahhh, I’m sorry, Ichiban-san, I got lost in your eyes there for a second. But thanks to your beautiful voice, I found my way back."

A silence settled between them. The weight in her expression didn’t fully disappear, but the corner of her lips twitched ever so slightly—half amusement.

Shachiku straightened up, adopting his professional tone. 

"You can leave everything to me. I’ll make sure it happens."

"I appreciate it. Just... make sure it’s done properly, alright?"

He gave a small nod, adjusting his tie.

"Of course, Ichiban-san. Consider it done. You know me—when have I ever failed you?"

For a split second, the tired weight in her eyes lifted, replaced by something warmer.

“Shachiku-san… if nothing else, I can always count on you to say something unexpectedly charming. Thank you. Really. I’ll see you next time."

And just like that, she was gone.

Shachiku watched Dr. Ichiban disappear beyond the office doors, her presence lingering like a faint afterimage. That was the highlight of his day. And now, it was back to the abyss.

With a tired sigh, he turned his chair back toward his overstuffed inbox. 124 unread emails.

The top one was from his manager, titled: "URGENT: Sales Targets Falling Behind – Team Meeting at 10 AM"

The second was from HR, about another mandatory training session.
The third was from a client, demanding a discount that corporate policy didn’t allow but would probably be granted anyway if they complained enough.

He exhaled through his nose, cracked his fingers, and started typing—his hands moving faster than his thoughts, purely out of muscle memory.

Click. Send. Click. Forward. Click. Delete.

Just another day in the pit.

Shachiku barely reacted when the hot coffee splashed across his desk, soaking the neatly stacked purchase orders from Dr. Ichiban. The panicked “Oh crap! I’m so sorry!” from his younger coworker barely registered.

He just sighed, blinking at the ruined papers as the brown liquid bled through the ink, smearing the numbers and signatures into a useless mess.

"Don't worry about it," he said flatly, already reaching for a tissue to mop up the spill. 

"Happens."

The coworker hurried away, relieved at avoiding a scolding.

Shachiku looked at the mess again. This was a problem, but not an urgent one. Usually, he'd just send an email and wait. But this was Ichiban’s order. And without her signature, the materials couldn’t be processed.

He picked up his phone and dialed her number.

Ring...
Ring...
Ring...

But there was no answer.

He frowned. That was unusual. She always picked up—even if just to tell him to call later.

He tried again. Still nothing.

Shachiku leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. 

“Maybe she’s just busy.”

Not wanting to bother her, he opted for email instead.

TO: Dr. Ichiban
SUBJECT: Urgent – Need Your Signature

Ichiban-san,
One of my coworkers ruined the documents you signed earlier. I need to get new copies approved. Let me know when you have time.

-Shachiku

He clicked send, then leaned back, expecting a quick reply.

Ten minutes passed.
Then twenty.
Then thirty.

No email. No reply.