While Akiyama was lost in thought, Kurokawa was still savoring the manga in her hands, flipping through it again and again.
Every time she looped back to earlier pages, she discovered something new.
So that was foreshadowing… right there…
Whoa—this detail…!
It wasn't until she felt the sharp gaze from across the table that she finally realized she was taking too long. Embarrassed, she gave a small, polite cough and stood up.
"Would you like something to drink?"
"An oolong tea."
"Alright."
A little while later, Kurokawa returned with the tea. After setting the cup down for Akiyama herself, she sat back down, took a deep breath, and gave her honest assessment.
"The script is fantastic… and the split-personality setup is really compelling!"
Kurokawa had to admit it—Akiyama, a mere trainee assistant, had exceeded her expectations by a wide margin. The manga's portrayal of truth and illusion looked chaotic at first, but once you learned the "answer" and reread it, everything held up. The details were solid—every piece earned its place.
If she had to nitpick, it would be the art. It was a little rough.
But compared to a story this airtight, that flaw felt minor. And honestly, for a first-time submitter, Akiyama's fundamentals were far better than any newcomer she'd worked with.
The manga itself had no real problem.
And yet…
"Akiyama-san… have you considered submitting to the Monthly Award?"
Kurokawa asked.
Right now, within Young Magazine, there were only two newcomer awards you could enter through open submissions.
One was the Monthly Award, judged once a month.
Winners didn't just get their name and work published as a "debut"—they also gained immediate attention from the editorial department, plus the credibility to apply to major mangaka studios as an assistant.
In the rigid hierarchy of the manga industry, the reason Akiyama still carried the title "trainee assistant" was exactly because he lacked that official "proof of debut."
Kurokawa assumed Akiyama's desperation to debut was largely because he wanted to become a full assistant at Yudai Uesugi's studio.
The second option was the Manga Grand Prize, held once every six months.
It was the magazine's most prestigious newcomer award—its equivalent of a top-tier industry prize. Anyone who won it would be treated as a rising star and receive widespread attention.
But because each editor had limited "slots" they could recommend, editors tended to favor creators with a proven track record.
That meant the Grand Prize had a long submission window, huge participation, and opponents on an entirely different level from the Monthly Award. The competition was brutal, and the win rate was low.
Sometimes, even a high-quality manga that could've been published ended up buried simply because it gambled everything on the Grand Prize and lost.
From Kurokawa's personal perspective, Perfect Blue was a rare gem.
But the subject matter was sharp-edged and unconventional—and Akiyama's background was blank. She couldn't honestly guarantee what would happen if they aimed straight for the Grand Prize.
"If you submit to the Monthly Award," Kurokawa said seriously, "then in my opinion… your work can absolutely make it in."
As an editor, saying something like that to an author was almost unheard of.
But she said it anyway.
Submit to the Monthly Award, and he'd very likely win—debut immediately.
Submit to the Grand Prize, and the future was a fog.
And as an editor, Kurokawa couldn't deny she felt protective of him. A talented young creator like this—if his very first work charged at the Grand Prize and failed, the blow could be crushing.
"But if it's the Monthly Award…" Akiyama asked. "Isn't that kind of… low-tier?"
"It's true a lot of newcomers misunderstand it that way…"
Kurokawa sounded a little tired.
Right—someone as young and hot-blooded as Akiyama would naturally want to debut on the biggest stage possible. That kind of story was the classic path…
"The real issue," Akiyama continued, "is that the Monthly Award doesn't pay much, right? Can I even earn back what I spent on manuscript paper?"
"…?"
So you only care about money?!
That was the Manga Grand Prize, you know!
What she didn't understand was—from Akiyama's point of view—
This was Perfect Blue.
If he wasn't going to cash in hard, then what was the point?
…
Perhaps hearing the stubborn edge in his voice, Kurokawa sighed. Looking down at the manga in her hands, she straightened her posture, her expression turning more serious.
Maybe it was because she'd been dealing with too many exhausting things lately—so many that she'd begun losing her passion for the job.
But for the sake of this manga, she decided she needed to speak clearly with him.
"This work is extremely interesting. But if you're asking whether it can make it into the Grand Prize…"
"Honestly—even as editors, it's hard for us to predict what will succeed. If we could, we wouldn't see freshly serialized series get canceled so quickly."
"In truth, editors are like manga artists. The work we do is gambling."
"Before a work actually hits the market, no one can guarantee what the outcome will be. All we can do is give it everything we've got—holding onto the mindset of a gambler: Even if we lose, we just start again."
What Kurokawa didn't say was—
In this gamble, when an editor loses, they lose everything.
Just like… her.
A shadow flickered across her eyes.
"Kurokawa-san… you're talking about yourself, aren't you?"
His words made her look up sharply, startled.
"Last month," Akiyama said, lifting his tea and taking a small sip, "the last series you were in charge of—Bird Prison—was canceled because its reader survey results were too poor."
"In the editorial department, having zero active serializations is terrifying, isn't it?"
"No survey rankings. No tankōbon sales. At the weekly editorial meetings, nothing you can report—at that point, you become someone the department 'doesn't need' anymore. You're basically standing on the edge of getting fired."
"And that's why, during work hours, you went out to the back entrance to smoke—because you were suffocating."
Kurokawa froze.
He recognized her?
He did—but only just now.
The polished, sharp, intellectual editor in front of him looked completely different from the woman smoking downstairs—the hairstyle, the aura, everything.
But the details matched.
The long, slender fingers—faintly stained with nicotine when she unconsciously held the pages.
And the flash of weary, world-hating emotion in her eyes when she said the word gambler.
He caught it all.
The truth was, Akiyama had come here specifically looking for "Editor Aoi Kurokawa" in the first place.
He'd just happened to bump into her at the back entrance earlier… and didn't realize it was her.
"Ah… sorry," Kurokawa said, rubbing her forehead and exhaling. Her expression turned bitter, the kind that said whatever—what's done is done.
"I wasn't trying to deceive you."
"But as the only female editor here… if I don't wear a mask, the disgusting things I have to deal with never end."
Akiyama nodded in understanding.
Workplace culture in 1990s Japan wasn't exactly kind to women—not the way it would be in the future.
"How did you find out about me…? Whatever. If you already know—then why come to me?"
Kurokawa's confusion deepened.
"Submitting to another editor would give you a better future than sticking with me."
In truth, her calmness about being pushed out wasn't because she didn't care about her job.
It was because—since the beginning—she'd prepared herself.
If you step into the wager, you accept the outcome.
As for being isolated by male coworkers, targeted by the deputy chief editor… to her, those weren't excuses for losing.
"Then aren't you the same?" Akiyama countered calmly. "A simple 'Monthly Award selection' isn't going to save your record at this point, right?"
"And yet you still recommended the Monthly Award to me."
"That's because—" Kurokawa began.
"Because even if you know your job can't last, you still don't want a work like Perfect Blue to be buried."
Akiyama's sentence cut cleanly into her throat. Her lips pressed together, and the words died before they could leave her mouth.
…Seriously.
This guy.
Kurokawa admitted it—she had underestimated this "little assistant" from the very start.
"And that," Akiyama said, "is exactly why I chose you."
"I believe only Kurokawa-san can give this work the place it deserves."
"So please—"
"For the sake of your career…"
"Take one more gamble with me."