The Prince of Trash Manga Appears

Lately, the simulation's been glitching.

Every few nights, right before closing, the same cutscene plays. Engine hum outside. Clock ticks once. Headlights flicker through the window. Car door opens. Closes.

Then he appears.

Tall enough to make the store feel smaller. Light brown hair that turns red under the fluorescents. Moves like someone who's memorized the route. Calm. Precise. NPC routine with protagonist animations.

He walks the aisles, one hand in his pocket, the other brushing spines. Always finds what he wants—entire series, spin-offs, one-shots. Completionist behavior. I respect it.

By the time he reaches the counter, my brain's still buffering. I stand too fast, stool scrapes, BL volume slips out of my hand. Hits the floor. Loud.

He looks up. Blue eyes. Too calm. Too unreadable.

"Good evening, sir," I blurt. Way too loud.

He doesn't answer. Just stares.

Smooth, Shizuka. Real pro.

I start scanning his stack. Hands shaking slightly. He doesn't say a word. Doesn't need to. I ask if he wants them wrapped; he shakes his head.

Then he slides a hundred-thousand-yen note across the counter. Like it's nothing. Like people just buy half of Mandarake every week.

He takes the bag and walks out before I can hand him the change. The chime rings once. Then silence.

Only his scent stays behind—clean, faint citrus, with a hint of rain and something stupidly expensive.

He's always like that. Polite. Distant. Looks at me like I'm part of the background.

And yeah, that's unfair—because he's hot.

What is wrong with me? I'm out here crushing on Kuran Kaname's emotionally unavailable cousin.

Every encounter's the same. He shows up, buys an armful of manga, disappears. No small talk. No eye contact. Just pure speedrun energy.

And the kicker? His taste is garbage. Not mainstream garbage—real trash. Obscure, discontinued, "forgotten by God" titles. Love triangles that never resolve because the magazine died mid-arc.

Most girls would be disgusted.

I call it soulmateship.

So yeah. That's our thing now. Our after-midnight ritual. He shows up. I ring him up. And for ten minutes, I get to pretend I'm part of someone else's route.

I don't know his name. I've never heard his voice. But I gave him one anyway.

The Prince of Trash Manga.

Proof that not all otaku are hopeless—just the good ones.

I rest my head on the counter. The hum of the lights, the smell of paper, the soft thud of my pulse in my ears.

Then it hits me.

This is my last night on the night shift. My last chance to say something. My missed event flag.

Tomorrow, my final year starts. And this—this dumb, quiet, peaceful little world—ends.

Pathetic, right? That the highlight of my week is a stranger buying manga?

Still… I can't help it.

The clock ticks again. Louder this time. Sounds like the end of a save file.

Please, God of Otaku—just one more chance. Next time, I'll pick the right dialogue option.

Next Episode : Morning, alarms, and the first chime of chaos.