Chapter 4: The Deadline is a Cruel Mistress

My room is a war zone.

There is no other way to describe it. If a bomb went off inside a paper factory and then that factory was hit by a tornado made of energy drink cans, it would still look more organized than my current living situation. Crumpled balls of paper cover the floor like a layer of fresh, rejected snow. Reference books on medieval weaponry, Gothic architecture, and "100 Poses for Cute Girls" are stacked in leaning towers that threaten to crush me to death if I so much as sneeze in their general direction.

The air is stale. It smells like graphite, eraser dust, and the lingering scent of desperation. The curtains are drawn tight, blocking out the judgment of the outside world. The only light source is the radioactive glow of my dual monitors, bathing my face in a harsh, artificial blue light that is probably destroying my retinas.

I am hunched over my drawing tablet like a goblin protecting its gold. My hand is cramping. My back feels like it has been replaced by a rusted iron rod.

"Deadlines are a social construct", I mutter to the empty room, my eyes burning as if I have rubbed them with sandpaper. "Time is an illusion created by the government to sell more calendars. I refuse to acknowledge the passage of time. I am eternal. I am infinite".

I am also delirious.

"Time is 8:00 PM and you haven't eaten dinner", a voice cuts through my philosophical breakdown.

I spin around in my gaming chair, the wheels screeching in protest against the wooden floor.

Aiko is standing in the doorway. She is wearing her favorite oversized t-shirt that says "Wake Me Up For Cake" and holding a plastic tray. She looks annoyed, her eyebrows knitted together, but underneath the irritation, there is that familiar look of concern she tries to hide.

"I'm in the zone, Aiko", I say, my voice raspy. I turn back to the screen, where a digital canvas is taunting me. "The line art for page 12 is looking weird. The anatomy is off. Look at this elbow. Elbows don't bend like that. Unless the character is double-jointed. Is she double-jointed? Should I make that canon? No, that is a retcon".

"You have been in the zone for six hours", she says, walking into the room. She navigates the sea of trash with the grace of a ninja, stepping over a pile of laundry and kicking a stack of Weekly Shonen Jump magazines aside to clear a path.

She reaches my desk and sets the tray down on a rare empty spot between my keyboard and a cup of cold coffee that has started to grow its own ecosystem.

"Eat", she commands. "It is hamburger steak. Mom made it extra greasy because she knows you are stressing out".

My stomach growls loudly, a feral sound that echoes in the quiet room. It betrays me instantly.

"Fine", I groan, surrendering to biology.

I pick up the chopsticks. The smell of the demi-glace sauce hits my nose, and suddenly, I realize I am starving. I haven't eaten since a granola bar at 10 AM.

Aiko doesn't leave. Instead, she drags a giant, shapeless beanbag chair over from the corner. She plops down next to me, sinking into it until she looks like a marshmallow in a cup of cocoa. She watches me eat like a hawk watching a field mouse.

"So", she starts, her eyes wandering over my messy desk. She reaches out and picks up one of my physical draft sketches. It is a character design sheet I was working on during history class when I should have been learning about the Meiji Restoration. "This is the new heroine?"

"Don't touch that, the ink is wet-", I try to stop her, reaching out with my chopstick hand, but she pulls it away effortlessly.

She holds the paper up to the light, squinting at it. It is a sketch of a girl with long hair, sharp eyes, and a very specific, confident posture. She is wearing a battle dress that I spent three hours designing.

"She looks kinda like that model girl", Aiko says, tilting her head. "You know. The one on the fashion magazines? Hina? The one with the red hair who looks like she steps on people for fun?"

I choke on my rice. I cough violently, thumping my chest.

"What? No", I wheeze, grabbing my water bottle. "She is… generic red-haired fantasy girl number four. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. That is my legal defense".

"Hmm", Aiko lowers the paper, looking at me with narrow eyes. "She has the same bangs. And the same 'I am better than you' expression. You have a type, Niisan".

"I do not have a type", I argue, feeling heat rise up my neck. "And even if I did, it wouldn't be terrifying supermodels. Now give that back".

"Whatever", she shrugs, tossing the paper back onto the desk. It lands dangerously close to the sauce, but I save it just in time. "Oh, by the way, your phone has been buzzing non-stop for the last hour. It is vibrating so much I thought we were having an earthquake".

I look at my phone, which is buried under a pile of eraser shavings. I dig it out and tap the screen.

5 Missed Calls - Yoshi

12 Unread Messages - Yoshi

I sigh, a sound that comes from the depths of my soul. "He probably wants to play Ranked. He is obsessed with getting to Diamond tier before the season ends".

"I told him you died", Aiko says casually.

She picks at a loose thread on the beanbag chair, acting like she just said 'I told him you are busy'.

I freeze. The hamburger steak hangs halfway to my mouth.

"You WHAT?"

"I answered the landline when he called earlier", she explains, looking at her fingernails. "He called the house phone because you weren't answering your mobile. He was screaming something about a 'duo queue'. So, I told him you were battling a fever of 42 degrees and that if he disturbed you, your vengeful spirit would haunt him for seven generations".

"Aiko!", I groan, burying my face in my hands. The hamburger steak is forgotten. "He is Yoshi! He is gullible! He is going to come over with soup and a priest! You have to be nice to him!"

"He is annoying", she crosses her arms, her cheeks puffing out slightly. "He takes up your time. You are on a deadline, Niisan. You need time to write. You need time to draw. Every minute you spend listening to him talk about his K/D ratio is a minute you aren't working on Twilight-Senpai".

She looks at me with intense, dark eyes.

"I am protecting your career, Niisan. I am the guardian of Twilight-Senpai. I am the gatekeeper of your genius".

"You are a tyrant", I correct her. "You are a tiny, pajama-wearing dictator".

"I am a supportive sister!", she protests, leaning over and poking my cheek hard. "Who else brings you food? Who else lies to your friends? Who else knows that the Great Twilight-Senpai is actually a dork who sleeps with a stuffed shark?"

"Hey, Sharky is for lumbar support", I mutter defensively.

"Sure", she rolls her eyes. "Now finish eating. You have ten pages left to ink, right? The background assistants already sent back the files for the first half, so you just need to finish the character art for the climax".

I look at her. She is fifteen. She should be worrying about homework or boys or what color to paint her nails. Instead, she memorizes my production schedule better than I do. She knows my page counts, my deadlines, and my weakness for hamburger steak.

She is annoying, yes. She is a brat who invades my privacy and threatens my friends with supernatural curses. But she is also the only reason I haven't collapsed from exhaustion yet.

"I'll erase the pencil lines for you when you're done", she adds softly. "And I can fill in the solid blacks on the beta layer if you trust me".

I chew my food slowly. Erasing pencil lines on the physical drafts is tedious work. It takes hours. And filling in beta blacks is boring, repetitive labor. She is offering to do the grunt work. She is willing to sit up until midnight, inhaling eraser dust, just so I can maybe sleep an extra hour.

A lump forms in my throat that has nothing to do with the food.

"Thanks, Aiko", I say softly.

She blushes, looking away quickly to hide it. She grabs a comic book from the floor and pretends to read it.

"Just… just make sure the ending is good", she mumbles from behind the comic. "If the hero doesn't confess to the princess in this volume, I'm going to be mad. The fans are waiting, Niisan. Don't let them down".

"I'm working on it", I say, a small smile tugging at the corner of my lips. "But it is complicated. Romance is hard".

"It is not hard", she says. "You just make them kiss. Boom. Done".

"That is not how narrative tension works", I laugh.

I finish the meal quickly. The food gives me a second wind. The fog in my brain clears up a little bit. I spin my chair back around to the monitors.

The cursor blinks on the screen.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

It is waiting for me.

I pick up the stylus. It feels familiar and heavy in my hand, like a sword.

"Okay", I whisper. "Let's do this".

Aiko settles into the beanbag chair, reading quietly. The sound of pages turning is the only noise in the room. It is a comforting sound.

I look at the screen. Page 12. The hero is standing on a cliff, looking out at the enemy army. He is scared, but he is standing his ground.

I zoom in on his eyes. I need to get the expression right. It needs to show fear, but also resolve.

I start drawing.

Scratch. Scratch.

The digital pen glides across the tablet.

Outside my window, the city lights of Tokyo twinkle in the distance. Millions of people are out there.

Somewhere out there, beneath those lights, Aoi is probably practicing dancing in a studio until her feet bleed, striving for perfection.

Somewhere out there, Hina is probably at a photoshoot, staring down a camera lens with that terrifying, beautiful gaze of hers.

And somewhere out there, Yoshi is probably crying over my fake death, wondering if he should bring corn soup or miso soup to my funeral.

I shake my head, focusing on the lines.

I am just Kenji. I am just a high school student with a messy room and a bossy little sister.

But right now, in this war zone of a room, under the glow of these monitors, I am something else.

I am a creator.

I grip the stylus tighter.

"Alright, hero", I whisper to the drawing. "Time to save the world".

I strike the tablet with the pen.

Time to make some magic.