1. The Mask Comes First
Michatsu put the mask on last.
Not because it was the most important piece—but because once it was on, there was no turning back.
The thin, disposable mouth mask looped over his ears with a soft snap, muffling his breath just enough to remind him it was there. He exhaled slowly, watching his reflection in the narrow mirror near the apartment entrance.
Cap.
Check.
Low, plain black. No logo. No character.
Thin-framed glasses—almost owlish, the kind that didn't scream fashion but didn't look cheap either. Beneath them, contact lenses dulled the sharpness of his natural gaze, changing the subtle shape of his eyes just enough that even someone who knew him casually might hesitate.
"…You look like a background character," he muttered.
Good.
That was the point.
He adjusted the cap lower, letting it cast a shadow over the top half of his face. With the mask covering the rest, only his eyes were visible—and even those felt borrowed.
Karma wasn't supposed to have a face.
Michatsu locked the door behind him and paused.
His hand lingered on the knob for a second longer than necessary.
"…Just a meeting," he told himself.
It didn't help.
2. The Train Ride Feels Longer
Public transport had never felt this loud.
Not in volume—people were quiet, absorbed in their phones, half-asleep—but in presence. Every movement felt amplified. Every cough. Every shift of weight.
Michatsu stood near the door, gripping the overhead strap loosely.
Do they know already?
Can anyone tell?
He glanced at the reflection in the window.
No.
Just another guy.
Cap. Mask. Glasses.
Anonymous.
The train lurched forward, station names blurring past. Normally, he'd tune out, count stops without thinking.
Today, he counted everything.
Seconds.
Breaths.
The distance between him and the exit.
When the announcement finally came—his stop—he moved before his nerves could argue.
3. The Building Is Too Clean
Manga Jump's building didn't loom.
It didn't need to.
It stood with quiet confidence—glass, steel, precise lines. Not flashy. Not imposing.
Just… established.
Michatsu stopped across the street, pretending to check his phone while staring at the entrance.
People came and went casually.
Editors. Assistants. Couriers.
They belong here, he thought.
He didn't.
Or at least, that's how it felt.
"…Anonymous author," he whispered to himself.
Karma.
Not Michatsu Kashimo.
He crossed the street.
4. The Lobby Smells Like Paper and Coffee
The moment he stepped inside, the smell hit him.
Paper.
Ink.
Coffee that had been reheated too many times.
It wasn't unpleasant.
If anything, it was comforting—familiar in a distant way.
This was where stories lived before they were born.
The receptionist glanced up.
"May I help you?"
Her eyes flicked briefly to his cap, then the mask.
Michatsu cleared his throat. His voice came out steadier than he felt.
"…I'm here for a scheduled meeting."
Name.
He hesitated for less than a second.
"Karma."
She typed.
Paused.
Then smiled politely.
"Please take a seat. Someone will be with you shortly."
No reaction.
No double take.
Just… procedure.
Michatsu nodded and moved to the seating area.
5. Sitting Is Worse Than Standing
The chair was too comfortable.
That was the problem.
He sat down, back straight, hands folded loosely in his lap.
And waited.
Waiting gave his thoughts room.
Too much room.
What if they ask why I chose anonymity?
What if they insist on verification?
What if they already know?
His fingers twitched.
He stopped them.
Across the lobby, people passed by, some glancing at him briefly, others not at all. No one lingered.
To them, he was just another visitor.
But to him—
This chair felt like a threshold.
Once crossed, there was no pretending this was casual anymore.
6. Editors Watch From Afar
From the second floor, behind a glass wall, Saito Haruka observed quietly.
"That's him?" Tanabe asked beside her.
"Presumably."
Saito leaned forward slightly.
Cap. Mask. Glasses.
Anonymous to the core.
"…He's serious about this," Tanabe murmured.
"Yes," Saito agreed. "Which means we need to be careful."
Down below, Karma sat perfectly still.
Waiting.
7. Michatsu Breathes
Michatsu focused on his breathing.
In.
Out.
Slow.
Controlled.
Don't fidget.
Don't overthink.
He'd written stories about curses, death, violence.
Yet this—
This was terrifying in a quieter way.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
He ignored it.
Right now, the world had narrowed to this lobby.
This moment.
This waiting.
8. A Door Opens
Footsteps approached.
Measured.
Unhurried.
Michatsu looked up.
A woman in her early thirties, sharp-eyed but not unkind, stopped in front of him.
"Karma?" she asked.
He stood immediately.
"Yes."
"Please come with me."
She turned.
Michatsu followed.
And just like that—
The meeting truly began.
***
9. The Hallway That Isn't Long Enough
The hallway wasn't long.
That was the first thing Michatsu noticed.
It should have been longer. Narrower. Something that gave him time to adjust, to mentally prepare, to rehearse lines he already knew he wouldn't use.
Instead, it was clean, softly lit, and painfully efficient.
White walls. Muted gray carpet. Framed manga covers spaced evenly apart, each one a quiet reminder of success that had already happened.
People walked these halls after they made it, he thought.
Not before.
His footsteps sounded louder than they should have, even though the carpet absorbed most of the noise. He matched the woman's pace without thinking, half a step behind, like a student following a teacher.
She didn't speak.
Neither did he.
The silence stretched—not awkward, but intentional. The kind of silence that suggested this is normal here. That meetings didn't begin with small talk. That anticipation was allowed to ferment on its own.
Michatsu's fingers brushed against the seam of his jacket.
Still there.
Mask secure.
Cap steady.
Glasses sitting perfectly on his nose.
Karma, he reminded himself.
You're Karma right now.
The woman stopped.
Room 3B.
She placed a hand on the handle but didn't open it immediately.
Instead, she turned slightly.
"Before we go in," she said calmly, "I want to make one thing clear."
Michatsu's spine straightened instinctively.
"This is not an interrogation," she continued. "It's a conversation."
A pause.
"But it is important."
He nodded once.
"Understood."
She studied him for half a second longer—long enough that he wondered if she could somehow see through the mask, through the lenses, through the carefully constructed anonymity.
Then she opened the door.
10. The Room Feels… Neutral
The meeting room was smaller than he expected.
Not cramped—but intimate.
A rectangular table. Six chairs. A wall-length window overlooking the city, sunlight diffused through sheer blinds. A whiteboard stood unused in the corner, spotless, as if waiting for something worth writing.
Three people were already seated.
They didn't look up immediately.
That, strangely, made it worse.
The woman gestured lightly. "Please, take a seat."
Michatsu walked to the chair closest to the door and sat.
The chair didn't creak.
Nothing betrayed him.
He folded his hands on the table again, same as before. The table was smooth, cool beneath his palms.
Only then did the others look up.
Not all at once.
One by one.
11. Faces Without Judgment
First was a man in his forties, salt-and-pepper hair neatly combed back, expression neutral but alert. His eyes flicked briefly to the mask, then the glasses, then settled—not curious, just observant.
Next, a younger woman, maybe late twenties, hair tied back, tablet resting on the table in front of her. Her gaze was sharper, but not unkind.
Last was Saito Haruka.
Michatsu recognized her immediately.
Not because he'd seen her face before—but because her presence carried weight. The kind of calm that didn't need to announce itself.
She smiled.
Not wide.
Not forced.
Professional.
"Karma," she said, voice even. "Thank you for coming."
"Thank you for having me," he replied.
His voice sounded distant to his own ears, filtered through the mask, steadier than his thoughts.
Good. Keep it boring.
Saito gestured lightly around the table.
"I'm Saito Haruka. Senior Editor."
She pointed to the man beside her.
"Tanabe Ryo. Editorial Director."
Then the younger woman.
"And this is Kuroda Emi. She oversees new author relations."
Each of them nodded in turn.
Michatsu inclined his head.
No handshakes.
No sudden movements.
Everything was… controlled.
12. The First Silence
No one spoke.
Not immediately.
It wasn't a mistake.
Michatsu realized that after a few seconds.
They were waiting.
Not for him to talk—but to see how he would sit in the silence.
He resisted the urge to fill it.
Instead, he breathed.
In.
Out.
They're testing temperament, he thought.
Not talent.
Finally, Saito spoke again.
"You've submitted seven chapters," she said. "All at once."
"Yes."
"That's uncommon."
"I was aware."
Tanabe leaned back slightly, fingers interlaced. "Most new authors submit one. Maybe two."
Michatsu didn't respond right away.
Then—
"I didn't want the story to be misunderstood," he said calmly. "Context matters."
A pause.
Kuroda glanced at her tablet.
"That aligns with what we saw," she said. "The pacing is… deliberate."
Michatsu resisted the urge to blink too much.
Deliberate, he repeated internally.
Good word.
13. Questions That Aren't Questions
Saito folded her hands.
"We won't discuss contracts today."
His shoulders relaxed a fraction.
"This meeting," she continued, "is to understand you. Your intent. Your boundaries."
She met his eyes directly.
"And your anonymity."
There it was.
The word landed softly—but it landed.
Michatsu didn't flinch.
"I believe anonymity protects the work," he said. "At least for now."
Tanabe raised an eyebrow. "From what?"
"Expectation," Michatsu replied. "Bias."
Silence again.
This time, it felt heavier.
Kuroda spoke gently. "You understand that complete anonymity complicates things."
"I do."
"And yet you insist."
"Yes."
Saito leaned back slightly, studying him.
"…Why?"
This time, Michatsu took longer.
Not because he didn't have an answer.
But because the real one couldn't be spoken.
Instead, he chose the truth that fit.
"Because I want the story judged on its own," he said. "Not on who I am."
Saito's smile returned—faint, thoughtful.
"…That's a familiar sentiment."
14. A Subtle Shift
Something in the room changed.
Not dramatically.
But perceptibly.
The tension eased—not gone, but redirected.
Tanabe uncrossed his fingers.
Kuroda made a note on her tablet.
Saito nodded once.
"Very well," she said. "Then let's proceed on that understanding."
Michatsu exhaled slowly.
He hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath.
15. Outside, the City Moves
Through the blinds, the city continued on.
Cars.
People.
Lives that had no idea what was happening in this room.
Michatsu glanced briefly toward the window.
I'm really here, he thought.
This isn't a system quest. This isn't a screen.
This was real.
And somehow—
He was still standing.
***
Probing the Core
The room settled again after that small shift—like a lake after someone had skimmed a stone across it.
No one reached for papers yet.
No one turned on a projector.
Saito Haruka was the first to speak, her voice measured, almost conversational.
"Let's talk about the work itself."
Michatsu's fingers twitched once under the table. He stilled them.
"This series," she continued, "has… a particular opening rhythm. Grounded, then sudden escalation. We'd like to hear how you understand it."
Tanabe nodded. "In your own words."
There it was.
Not a test of memory.
A test of ownership.
Michatsu inhaled slowly.
"The story," he said, "starts small on purpose."
They waited.
He continued.
"Yuji Itadori is introduced as someone physically exceptional—but emotionally… ordinary. He's not chasing ambition. He's not chasing greatness. He's running because he's good at it, not because he loves it."
Kuroda glanced up from her tablet.
"And the Occult Research Club?"
"That's the contrast," Michatsu replied. "It's meaningless on the surface. A joke club. But it represents choice. Yuji chooses where he spends his time."
He paused briefly, then added, "That choice matters later."
Saito's pen moved.
"Go on."
The Story, Slowly Unfolded
"When Yuji's grandfather is dying," Michatsu said, "the story introduces its real theme."
Tanabe leaned forward slightly.
"Death?"
"Responsibility," Michatsu corrected. "Legacy."
He spoke evenly, but inside, his thoughts moved faster.
Don't oversell. Don't summarize like a pitch deck. Talk like a writer.
"The grandfather's final words aren't instructions. They're a burden. 'Help others.' 'Die surrounded by people.' It's vague. Heavy. And Yuji doesn't know how to fulfill it."
Kuroda nodded faintly.
"That confusion comes through."
Michatsu continued.
"When Megumi Fushiguro enters the story, he represents the opposite end of that spectrum. He already lives in a world where responsibility is defined. Rules exist. Consequences are known."
"And cursed objects?" Saito asked.
"They're catalysts," Michatsu said. "Not metaphors—mechanisms. They force a choice."
He folded his hands tighter.
"When Yuji swallows the cursed object, it's not heroism. It's desperation. He doesn't do it because he wants power. He does it because someone has to."
The room was quiet.
Not empty quiet.
Listening quiet.
Inspiration, Carefully Answered
Saito looked up from her notes.
"What inspired this?"
Michatsu hesitated—just long enough to be human.
"Fear," he said simply.
That earned him their full attention.
"Fear of meaninglessness," he clarified. "Fear of dying without impact. Fear of being strong and still useless."
Tanabe's expression softened, just a fraction.
"And the supernatural elements?"
"They externalize internal conflict," Michatsu said. "Curses are emotions given shape. Regret. Hatred. Obsession. The things people don't resolve."
Kuroda typed something, then asked, "Is that why the violence feels… restrained?"
"Yes," he replied. "It's not spectacle-first. It's consequence-first."
No one interrupted him now.
Plans, Numbers, and the Weight of Them
Saito closed her notebook gently.
"How long do you see this running?"
Michatsu answered without hesitation.
"Around three hundred chapters."
The air shifted.
Tanabe blinked once.
Kuroda froze mid-typing.
Saito tilted her head.
"…Three hundred," she repeated.
"Yes."
"That's not a number authors usually give lightly," Tanabe said.
Michatsu nodded. "I know."
"And you're confident?" Kuroda asked.
"In the structure," he replied. "Yes."
Saito folded her hands again.
"Do you have the entire story planned?"
Michatsu didn't rush the answer.
"The first fifty chapters," he said, "are mapped clearly. Major arcs. Character trajectories. Stakes."
"And after that?"
"The story breathes," he said. "It reacts. But the ending is known."
That last part landed harder than he expected.
Saito's gaze sharpened.
"You know how it ends?"
"Yes."
Silence.
Longer this time.
Not skepticism.
Calculation.
Business Without Saying 'Business'
Tanabe spoke next.
"Three hundred chapters implies longevity. Reader retention. Escalation control."
"Yes."
"Merchandising potential," Kuroda added softly. "Adaptability."
Michatsu didn't smile.
"That depends on execution," he said. "I'm focused on consistency first."
Saito studied him for a long moment.
"You understand," she said, "that Jump doesn't invest in concepts alone."
"I understand," he replied. "That's why I submitted seven chapters."
That earned him a nod.
A Quiet Recognition
For the first time since the meeting began, Saito smiled—not professionally, but genuinely.
"You didn't come here unprepared."
Michatsu lowered his gaze briefly.
"I don't like wasting time," he said.
Tanabe exhaled through his nose. "That much is clear."
Outside, the city kept moving.
Inside, something had settled.
Not a deal.
Not yet.
But recognition.