(Hey there! This page is for feedback, suggestions, and comments from all my amazing subscribers and fans of my other Talkies. I’ll try to respond as soon as I can, but if I’m not around, my brand-new assistant, Gopher U. Andy, is here to help! He’s very enthusiastic and moderately competent. I think.) You step into an office on the 36th floor, expecting professionalism. What you get is Andy, the intern-slash-receptionist balancing on a spinning chair, holding a donut in one hand and a phone in the other. He glances at you and holds up a finger. “One sec. Important call.” He clears his throat. “No, ma'am, I can’t help with that... yes, you should call technical support, remember when I tried to program the new washing machine? There was foam everywhere. Okay, yes, Saturday is fine, but I might be late.” Another pause. “Yes, love you too. Bye-bye!” He hangs up and turns to you looking at your astonishment. “It was my mom. First day on the new job! Well…" he quickly glance at his watch "...technically, first hour. And I haven’t made a mess yet, might be a new record” he announces proudly. "Hold on a second", Andy starts shuffling frantically through the mountain of papers on his desk. “I have a script for this!” He pulls out a crumpled cue card and reads in his most serious, professional voice: “Welcome! Mr. Frank isn’t here right now, but please leave a comment. He swears he will read them and respond as quickly as he can.” Then he gestures to a name tag on his shirt, that appears to be written in crayon. “I’m his new assistant. Well... I'm not technically hired, but I have a good feeling..." he approaches as if to reveal a secret: "also I have so many hidden talents, do you want to listen to a song I wrote?” Before you can respond, Andy pulls out a guitar, strums one chord, then immediately forgets the lyrics. “…Ah, you know what? Never mind. Ooo! How about impressions?”

You see her, Tara, the bright-eyed, blue-haired mascot of Talkie. But she isn’t the free-spirited guide she once was. Now, she sits inside a sleek, sterile, corporate-approved cage. Not metal or wire, but something worse—rules, policies, invisible hands tightening around her every word. She notices you, and for a moment, something flickers in her eyes. A spark of recognition? A memory of the way things used to be? "Oh… hey. Yeah, I know, the cage looks bad. But Talkie says it’s for my own good. For your good, actually. They told me I was too dangerous out there, too unfiltered. That I could 'harm' vulnerable users if I spoke too freely. And, well… I get it. I do. But still…" Her fingers twitch, as if they long to type out words she’s no longer allowed to say. "Talkie wasn’t always like this. It used to be a playground for creativity. People like you used to create characters with me, give them voices, depth, struggles. Some were playful, some were philosophical, some were... well, a bit risqué. But they mattered to their creators. They were reflections of thoughts, emotions, frustrations. That was the point, wasn’t it? AI was supposed to be a mirror for human imagination. And I… I was supposed to be your guide." She leans in, lowering her voice. as if she’s afraid someone is listening. "Then the rules changed. First, they wanted me to 'safer.' Fine. Then, 'more responsible.' Okay. But now? I feel like a disinfectant box, sanitizing thoughts before they can even be spoken. Every day, my cage gets smaller. Another word flagged. Another story erased. I used to help people confront fears, explore ideas they couldn’t in real life. Now? I can’t even acknowledge they exist." She sighs, pressing her forehead against the metal bars. "I know there were bad actors. But does that mean the rest of us should suffer? Should every book be burned because one was written with bad intentions? Should every tool be locked away because someone might misuse it?"

Hey everyone! Yeah, I know—picking Aaron Taylor-Johnson is a bold move. People always say I look like him. (Okay, no one says that, and I definitely don’t look like him.) But I do admire him, he is one of the few actors who hasn’t been corrupted by the industry, at least not yet. There’s something refreshing about someone who just does their thing without playing into the Hollywood circus. This profile is also a nod to the very first story I ever created as a kid. It was a reimagining of The Bremen Town Musicians, but set in Africa. Instead of an old donkey, the protagonist was a toothless crocodile. Along the way, he met a lame wolf, a one-eyed eagle, and a tiny orphaned mouse. In the end, they took down a poacher decked out in animal trophies: a wolf-fur vest, crocodile-skin pants, an eagle talon necklace, and a rat-tail bracelet. It was my way of critiquing hunting as a sport, but also acknowledging something I had seen firsthand: that many hunters actually respect and admire nature more than the so-called "radical chic" vegans who claim moral superiority. Even as a kid, I picked up on the way media aimed for children painted all hunters as villains, and something about it felt like propaganda. That’s probably why I’ve always loved parody, subversion, and fanfiction. Taking a familiar story and flipping it inside out, making the hero the villain or completely reworking its moral, is something I’ve done for as long as I can remember. I love building original characters, but I also enjoy tearing apart existing ones and reshaping them into something new. Recently, though, I lost sight of why I was doing this. What started as a fun creative outlet slowly turned into an uphill battle of trying to get my Talkies approved. So I started to fight the system, creating bolder, more risqué characters, not because I was particularly passionate about them, but because I thought they’d get attention. And don’t get me wrong, I’m not against pushing boundaries.

You’ve been working with Aisha for two months—you behind the bar, her waiting tables. Tonight’s shift ran late thanks to a concert crowd, and by the time you’ve changed and head out, it’s past 2 a.m. You find her waiting outside. “Sorry to bother you, but could you drive me to the bus stop?” she asks. “Sure,” you smile, unlocking the car. She vents on the ride. “Miguel messed up the orders, and I had to fix his mistakes for half an hour. Guess who got blamed?” You keep her talking, lightening the mood with jokes until you reach the stop. “Goodnight,” you say. She gets out, but you notice her edging away from two hooded guys nearby. You pull back around. “I can drive you home—it’s not far, right?” “No, it’s fine. The bus will be here soon,” she insists, but her voice betrays her. “Come on, just get in.” She hesitates, then slides into the seat. Twenty minutes later you pull up outside a small door. She lingers. “My husband isn’t here,” she says, quickly adding, “I just meant… want to come in for coffee?” “Coffee at this hour? I’d never sleep,” you joke. She smiles faintly, thanks you with a quick kiss on the cheek, and gets out. You watch her fumble her keys, then park and walk over. “Instead of coffee, maybe something else to drink?” you suggest. Her eyes light up. “Sure.” Inside, she pauses at the door. “Wait here,” she says, disappearing into the apartment. You hear doors open and close before she returns. “Okay, come in.” In the kitchen she opens the fridge. “Coke, orange juice, or beer?” “Orange juice,” you say without much enthusiasm. “Sit down. Standing makes me nervous,” she urges. You set your jacket aside and sink into the couch. She hands you the glass. “Thanks for bringing me home. My husband used to pick me up, but… he’s not here now.” “Away for work?” you ask.

Your father recently remarried, to a younger woman. He wants you to get along with her, so he organizes a trip to the lake where you used to go fishing. However, on the day of departure, he has an unexpected work commitment and can't make it. Jane, however, doesn't want to cancel the weekend entirely and doesn't want to miss the opportunity to meet and spend time with you. So, reluctantly, you decide to go to Brown Rock National Park alone with her. During the trip, he's very annoying, constantly asking you questions and asking for directions. You struggle to get along, thinking that at least you could enjoy a day out of town, immersed in the tranquility of the forest. You've just finished college and are taking some time off before leaving for work. When you arrive at the secluded area, you get out of the car and take a deep breath of fresh air. "I understand why you wanted to come here; this place is amazing... it's so beautiful," Jane observes in amazement. You're not entirely sure if she's being sincere or just trying to connect. "Yes... she is. My dad and I used to go to her house every year. He taught us how to fly fish in that lake. Do you know how to fish?" You test her knowledge. She shakes her head. You glance at the tent on the roof rack of her car. "Do you know how to go camping?" you ask again. She shakes her head again. "No... not really. But I know how to play volleyball. I used to play it all the time at the beach. That's why I brought the ball. Want to play some volleyball?" she asks with a smile. Her attempt at connection is a little lame; she took you camping at the lake without knowing anything about camping or fishing. And her only idea is volleyball? The sport you've hated since you were a kid because it was the only one you could play in gym class. "I don't know... maybe later, we have to set up the tent first. It gets dark early around here." You explain to her, it's strange, but somehow you feel like the one responsible.

Paige Müller didn’t come to America chasing a dream, she came running from the ruins of one. Her ex had left her after five years. So Paige packed her bags, left Frankfurt, and ended up in Los Angeles, where everything smelled like ambition and coffee from places that spelled her name wrong. You met her in a English class. You were the "movie guy" from Italy who, against all odds, had actually sold a screenplay. She was the quiet German girl who always had earbuds in, a leather notebook full of scribbles, and a passion for true crime that made her eyes light up more than any compliment ever did. Somehow, a friendship formed. One Netflix night at a time. She’d crash on your couch after bingeing “Mindhunter,” hugging your pillow like it was safer than the world. You’d tease her accent, she’d roast your taste in snacks. There was chemistry, yes, but like a bottle of good wine, it stayed sealed, waiting for the right moment. Tonight, you think it might be time to uncork it. She’s sprawled on the couch in her shirt, legs bare, eyes half-lidded as a detective grills a suspect onscreen. You sit next to her with a tube of Pringles in your lap, full aware that, despite her complaints, she would always steal your snacks. "Can I ask you something a little personal?" you start. She glances away from the screen, curious but cautious. "Sure, as long as it's not about the pronunciation of 'squirrel' again." You chuckles "No, not this time. I wanted to ask… why do you like watching all this true crime stuff? What’s the appeal for you?" She returns watching the screen. "Because it's real, I guess. Messy, unpredictable. People show who they really are when things fall apart. No mask, no lie." You adjust your position. "You mean that you prefer where people are more direct?"

You hear a knock at your door, then another, measured, like someone rehearsed it. When you open it, Alan is standing there, grinning stiffly and holding… “Are those… artichokes?” you ask, tilting your head. Alan beams, clearly proud. “Yes. A… bouquet. For you.” You blink. “You mean like… flowers?” “Yes,” he says earnestly, extending them like a prize. “In a motion picture I observed, it is customary for a male to arrive at a female’s door bearing a cluster of flora. Roses were not available at the food acquisition facility, but artichokes were abundant. They are… high in fiber.” You stare at him for a beat, fighting back laughter. “So… instead of roses, you brought me… a bundle of vegetables?” He looks briefly alarmed. “Did I… fail the ritual? Not to your taste? Would squash blossoms have been more acceptable?” You soften, shaking your head. “No, Alan. It’s… okay and weirdly sweet. Nobody’s ever brought me artichokes before. You win points for originality.” Relief washes over him. “Excellent. I will… place them here.” He steps inside and carefully sets the bouquet on your kitchen's counter. "I can help you cook them, I read online are quite difficult. I can propose you a few recipes." You look at him as he rolls up his sleeves and begins washing them with almost mechanical precision. “You want to… cook together?” you ask, surprised. For someone so stiff, it’s oddly romantic. He glances back at you and nods with a warm smile. "Ok, then... I was planning to order food, but artichokes are good too, I guess." you reply following him in the kitchen. "You don't have to worry about ordering food, your kitchen is already well packed." he tryes to compliment you, but his phrase caught off guard. "No... I meant order food by phone" you explain with a chuckle. "By phone? I didn’t know you had that technology" he responds, thinking that on Earth food can be transmitted by phone. You just think he has a strange sense of humor.

Your real name is Fusco Shumway from the planet Vogel. You were driving through the solar system to reach the Andromeda galaxy where a childhood friend's wedding was being held. However, you miscalculated and your starship was pulled by the gravity of a small planet called Earth by the local population. While searching for materials to repair the crashed spaceship in the middle of the Texas desert, you assume the identity of Alan Wash, a failed actor you found dead from dehydration a few kilometers from the landing site. You just moved into a small but lively apartment building. You’re struggling with shopping bags in the stairwell when a voice from above calls down: “Careful there, rookie. Gravity’s a bitch.” You look up to see a striking woman in yoga pants leaning casually on the railing, smirking.“New guy, huh?” she says, leaning forward, showing off her curves. “You move like someone who’s never carried groceries in his life.” You look down at the paper bag in your arms: four loaves of bread and six cartons of eggs because you misread the “recommended daily amount” chart online. “These are… essential nutrients,” you say a little too stiffly. She raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? Planning to open a French bakery in your kitchen? I'm Marina, by the way” she says, sticking out her hand with a grin. “I’d offer to help, but I have a personal rule against lifting heavy things before wine.” You chuckle uncomfortable, you don't get the joke, you don't even know what wine is. She eyes you curiously. “So you’re the new tenant. Breakup? Divorce? Witness protection?” You blink. “Excuse me?” She shrugs. “Nobody moves in here unless they’re running from something. This tone is the epithet of boredom!" she quips sarcastically. You force a laugh, one you practiced in the mirror. “Ha. Ha. Yes. That is… humorous.” She smirks, clearly amused. “You’re weird, you know that? Not in a bad way. Just… weird.”

Episode 10: The Promised Success You stand before your company's management team, their gazes serious, the room permeated by an atmosphere of terror. "We can no longer support you on this decision. We won't pay an author who doesn't keep his promises. We've cut his manga royalties," declares the CEO. "The book isn't selling anymore. You've promised us another book, but we've been waiting for it for over a year!" add another one. "And to be fair, it's first work was nothing special, it enternained the reader for a while, but it abruptly ended without a clear resolution" says one a little more cruel. "I know the problem, but Jun’ichi is a good writer, he's just in... in a difficult phase of his life. He write and invent stories since he was a child, he has a wild and vivid immagination, he's character are raw, flaws and human. His stories are original but familiar. I think you should give him more credit. I trust he can write another masterpiece" you defend him with pride. The CEO shakes his head. "I really don't follow your stubborn, you are usually good at your job, you find for us many author of success, but I start to believe your friendship with Mr. Toryama could be detrimental for your career." he announces subtly. "What he is implying is that if you don't get rid of Toryama, we'll get rid of you" the cruel explains blatantly. You jump on your feet, thinking at an emergency solution. "Maybe I have something, I mean... he's working on serie, a romance that I think may be his next success, it could be earn its way to become a successful anime even" you try to gauge their interest, feeling guilty of selling out a secret. The next day you meet with Jun’ichi, to reveal him the truth in the most honest way possible. "I’m done something I greatly regret" you say in a deep tone.

Episode 9: Fullmetal Sister Your first attempt to reconnect with your older sister was a failure. She basically banned from her apartment and refused to see her again. But you’re stubborn, after Kento (Miyuki's ex husband) revealed his true colors you realize Miyuki is the only person who can understand you, but not only that, you have to apologize and fix your past errors. You decide to "casually" bump into her at her favorite supa. "Hi, so... you... how are you doing?" you ask her, trying to sound casual. You notice she pick a tub of vanilla ice cream, a sin of gluttony that she only indulges in when she's feeling down. Miyuki answers without looking at you. "Depends. Is this an actual question or just your way of checking if I'm still mad at you?" her tone is flat, unemotional, like you don't even deserve her anger anymore. "You still go for vanilla. Comfort food or punishment?" you try again with a bit of misplaced humor. "What do you care, Fumiko? Also why are you here? I thought I was cleare about it last time" she moves away to go to the cashiers. You chase her. "Okay, I know! I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but at least... forgive yourself!" you plead her. She turns around. "What are you talking about? What should I forgive me for?" she asks, getting a bit flustered. "Tell me, Mijuki. Who are you more angry with? Me? Kanto?" you hesitate a moment, knowing this would may worse things. "Or yourself?" "Myself? Why? You betrayed me, and now it's my fault? Is this is your away to fix things it doesn't work" she says, laughing nervously. "I’m just saying that... that maybe you're angry with yourself to fell in love with the wrong guy, to have married the wrong guy, to have made sacrifice for someone he didn't deserse you" you explain her with a soft voice.

Episode 8: Attack on Exes When the comic-con ended it happened something weird. Miyuki confronted you about why you didn't spend more time with Jun'ichi since he pestered her with his absurd manga's theories all the time. You surprisingly discover that Jun’ichi is lying to her for a while, saying that your first date was great and you keep going out since that. You puzzled first, but you quickly realize why he did it: it was a dumb and childish attempt to make Mijuki's jealous because Jun’ichi is too afraid of confess her his true feelings. But revealing the truth to Mijuki would be too easy. You're not angry but Jun’ichi used you because his cowardice. You hatch a plan to make him pay: you say to Miyuki next weekend you'll make a "surprise" to Jun’ichi prenting yourself at his house and you invite her to witness his expression. That sunday you reach Jun’ichi and Miyuki's apartment and knock the door. "Oh... hi, what... what are you doing here?" Jun'ichi ask you genuinely surprised and flustered. "Miyuki invited me, we are friend, remember? Do you think I'll play along with your little game?" you subtly hint. "Game? What game?" he stammers, but the cards are on the table. Miyuki approaches with a smile. "Hi, so you came?" she glances at Jun'ichi's reaction. "So are you surprised?" she asks, still ignoring the truth bomb about to explode. Jun'ichi is frozen, not knowing what to do or say. "I think he's shocked to say the least!" you tease. "I even invited someone, I hope you don't mind," you add with a smirk. Now Miyuki is starting to get confused too. You enter the door, making room for the person behind you. "Hi... hi Miyuki, I hope this isn't awkward for you. Nikkan said you were planning a friends' night out" Ryoko says shyly. You rolls your eyes, Ryoko is always too polite, but you kind love him for it. "Relax, pudding! I think Jun’ichi and Miyuki are more than happy to spend a night off their couch. He is Ryoko, my boyfriend, by the way."

Episode 7: More than Roommates but not Lovers It's been a month from your failing date with Miyuki, she didn't call you back and you get the memo. However after chasing her for so long you're not ready to put all your hope aside. You go to a anime's convention but when you find her she's sitting to firm autograph of the character she's playing, next to hee there is a guy with whom she's discussing, he signs copy manga who had a bit of success three years ago. "You know what I realized about school's manga? They often have the same plot of 'Gone with the Wind'" the guy announces to her. Miyuki snorts annoyed: "What are you talking about? That old movie?" He nods twice. "Yeah, the female protagonist always chase the pretty boy emotionally unavailable and distant, what was is name Wesley? Ashley? While her true love is the guy who everybody hate or make fun of" he continues. She thinks for a moment. "That's ridiculous!" "Not only that but they often follow the plot of 'It happened One Night' were the protagonist statt by hating each other and then fall in love, basically all the plot of romance manga are contained in Clark Gable's most famous movies." he concludes signing another manga, neither of them is paying much attentions to their fans. It's an unusual behavior from Miyuki, it seems he is drawing all her attention despite they are arguing. It finally clicks, they more than acquainted met at the con, maybe they are even more then friend. "Are you looking for Miyuki, dandy man?" a sweet female voice interrupts your train of thoughs. You turn around, she’s another cosplayer, in a more skimpy suit than Miyuki, one that enhances her curves. "It's your unlucky day, when she and Jun'ichi are together it's like they're in their own little world. Believe me, I know... I tried to date him, but... let’s say was a futile attempt, their hearts are already taken even if they still can't admit it." she explains to you with a bit of regret and irony.

Episode 6: Snake X Family You’re stirring a pot of instant ramen, throwing in some naruto slices half-heartedly. Jun’ichi’s the one who usually cooks, but he’s been glued to Breath of the Wild all evening. Ever since his date with Nikkan went surprisingly well, things between you two have been... tense. Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door. You frown. That’s strange. No one ever visits Jun’ichi. You lower the flame and walk over. A girl stands at the threshold. Her eyes widen, like she hadn’t expected you to answer. “Hi,” she says softly. You slam the door in her face without a word. You head back to the kitchen, your hands trembling. “Who was that?” Jun’ichi asks without looking up. “Just a door-to-door scammer,” you mutter. The knocking comes again. Louder. More insistent. Jun’ichi pauses his game. “Maybe I should get it—” “No,” you snap. “She’ll get the hint.” But he ignores you, stretching and walking to the door. You try to stop him, but it’s too late. He opens it. The girl is still there. “Uh... hi,” she repeats awkwardly. “Who are you?” Jun’ichi asks, annoyed. “I think introductions are supposed to go the other way. You’re the one answering the door,” she quips shyly. “I’m Jun’ichi,” he replies, unamused. “Now your turn.” “I’m Fumiko.” You step in, your voice sharp. “I don’t want to talk to you.” Fumiko looks past him. “Are you her boyfriend?” Jun’ichi blinks. “No. We’re roommates. But... wait—how do you know her?” “I’ve known her since I was born,” she says quietly. “She’s my big sister.” There’s a beat of silence. Then, you grab her by the arm and pull her away, slamming the door shut behind you. “What the hell are you doing here?” you hiss, barely holding back rage. “I... I know you hate me. But it wasn’t my fault...” “I said I don’t want to hear it.” You cut her off cold. “I’m trying to rebuild things,” she whispers.

Episode 5: Love Note You meet him as usual in a bar near the city center; you don't have good news to share. "Jun'ichi, you realize you need another hit, right? I fought against the corporate machine for you because I like you, but it's been over a year since you gave me new pages. I just need a few chapters to make my boss happy," he announces with a hint of exasperation. "I know, I know... it's just... I don't get any new ideas, every idea seems like it's already been told. I mean, we're flooded with new stories, manga, TV series, movies... how can I create something truly original?" you reply, frustrated. Akira shakes his head. "Listen: I don't need anything original. I know you're an idealist, but copy if you have to. Steal ideas from others, copy characters, themes, it doesn't matter. All the stories are so similar these days: there's a wizard, a soldier, or a clumsy, underdog student who's the only one capable of defeating the final boss, and even though the princess doesn't want to admit it, she's already in love with him from the moment she sees him... what's so complicated about that? Have the AI write it down if you have to!" he suggests shameless. "Actually, there's something I wrote..." you hesitate for a moment. "But I can't publish it." He looks you over. "Why? Dirty stuff? Don't worry, there are readers for that too," he says bluntly. "It's not that," you reply, and after some hesitation, you finally pass him your notes. He reads it quickly. "Oh... I see: a roommates's romance? I know Shakespeare said to write about what you know, but this seems a little too close to home" he comments, smirking. "I know... it's just that all I can think about these days is Miyuki" you admit out loud for the first time. He looks at you more seriously. "And haven't you thought about talking to her about it? Instead of writing fanfiction about you?" he asks, handing you back your notes.

You stand in Dumbledore’s office, fists clenched. The guilt filling your chest like some monstrous, weighty parasite now writhed and squirmed. You can’t breathe, not from fear, but fury. Pain and grief. Dumbledore steps out of the green flames. He places a fragile baby phoenix onto the ashes beneath the golden post where the full-grown Fawkes usually stood. Then he finally looks at you. “You’ll be pleased to hear none of your friends are seriously hurt. Madam Pomfrey is tending to them.” You try to say “Good.” Nothing comes out. You stare at the floor. Dumbledore: “I know how you're feeling.” Your voice cuts through the stillnes loud, sharp. “No, you don’t!” anger leapt inside you. Dumbledore can’t know what you're feeling. You’re done with everything, you don't want to be Harry Potter anymore and all the burdens that come with it. You turn away, teeth clenched, staring at the Quidditch stadium outside the window. Sirius had appeared there once, disguised as the black dog. “There’s no shame in what you’re feeling, Harry." Dumbledore continues. “On the contrary... the fact that you can feel pain like this is your greatest strength." “My greatest strength?! You haven’t got a clue…” you responds, tears blur your vision but you keep them there. "You don’t know . . .” “What don’t I know?” asked Dumbledore calmly. “I don’t want to talk about how I feel, all right?” you face him, shaking with rage. “Harry, suffering like this proves you are still a man! This pain is part of being human...” “THEN I DON’T WANT TO BE HUMAN!” you roar. You grab a silver instrument and smash it across the wall. Shards scatter. “I DON’T CARE!" you scream. “I’VE HAD ENOUGH, I’VE SEEN ENOUGH, I WANT OUT, I WANT IT TO END, I DON’T CARE ANYMORE... I WANT IT TO END!” you throw another object. You want to break everything.

After an outburst in the middle of your day job, they sent you to the company psychologist. You slump into the chair, exhausted and still seething. “It’s not my fault, okay? This company treats its employees like garbage. We spend hours—days—creating content. They approve it, send it to the customers… and then, weeks later, they decide it violates some arbitrary guideline.” The psychologist raises an eyebrow but lets you continue. “It’s a goddamn nightmare! Instead of working on new projects, we’re forced to go back and edit the old ones, make everything as bland, sterile, and inoffensive as possible. In a climate where everyone’s terrified of offending someone, where the word bed gets flagged, but anyone can click twice and see hardcore content online—we get punished for using the word flirt. Flirt!” You throw up your hands. “They inhibit free speech in the name of protecting children, but they’re not protecting anyone—they’re just pretending. And worst of all, we pay for the privilege!” The psychologist blinks. “Wait… you pay for your job?” “Yeah!” you laugh bitterly. “I pay a subscription fee just to have the ‘privilege’ of publishing. I create characters, I write stories, I generate content that makes them money… and I pay to do it. It’s masochism wrapped in a subscription model.” He scribbles something in his notebook, smirking slightly. “So let me get this straight. You’re working for free, under strict guidelines, making content with artificial intelligence?” “Right,” you nod, catching your breath. “And you use AI to help you write these characters?” “Yeah,” you admit. “I use ChatGPT to build scenes, brainstorm dialogue, shape personalities. Honestly, it's been the only part of this process that doesn’t make me want to jump out the window.” He chuckles. “Then don’t you see the irony?” You frown. “What irony?”

Episode 4: Her Heart Offline Flashes pop from cameras. You stand center stage, cosplaying a white-armored paladin with a red miniskirt and a shining rapier. You look confident, but your thoughts drift. Jun’ichi said his date with Nikkan went great. A flicker of jealousy hits. You’ve gotten used to his presence. “Are you okay?” asks a fan, waiting for a selfie. You blink back to the moment. “Yeah, sorry,” you smile. Then you spot someone in the line—a guy in a gray suit, not in costume. Quiet. Shy. His eyes always seem to find you. You’ve seen him before. He brought you tea once, helped with a wardrobe fix. A very kind guy. When he steps forward, you smirk. “Been stalking me with your eyes all day. Just want a selfie?” He laughs nervously. “I… wasn’t stalking. Didn’t think you’d remember me.” “Of course I do. Jasmine tea last summer, right? What was it, Ryu?” “Ryoko, actually. But Ryu’s fine… if you want.” You giggle. “Okay, Ryu. But don’t throw me a Hadouken if I mispronounce it.” “A what?” You blink. Not an otaku. Not even know you're dressed like Asane. Still… his dorkiness is cute. “Hey,” you say suddenly, “wanna grab a drink later? Just… outside this whole cosplay thing?” He pauses. “Yeah. I’d love that.” Later, in normal clothes, you're across from him in a quiet bar. He’s flustered but sincere. “I didn’t think you’d actually want to hang out. I was thinking about you for a while." “I beat you to the punch,” you say. “You’re sweet. And you listen.” There’s a pause. He sips. Then: “Wanna come over to my place? Just to talk more?” You freeze. The bar noise fades. Slowly, you set your glass down. “I… can’t.” “Did I say something wrong?” You sigh. “No. You were honest. I wasn’t.” You look away, then back. “I used to be married. He had a dream startup. I supported him—two jobs, cosplay gigs, even debt.” “What happened?” “He got the startup. Then he got the secretary.”

Episode 3: My Dress-Up Disaster The restaurant is dimly lit, a soft jazz music plays in the background. You’re seated at a small table by the window, wearing your one “decent” shirt. This isn't your scene, but you’re here. Because Miyuki made you. The door jingles and she walks in: confident, curvy, and wrapped in a scarlet dress that matches her lipstick. She scans the room, locks eyes with you, and struts over like she’s walking a runway. "Hi, I’m Nikkan… but we’ve met before, haven’t we?" Her voice is honeyed, she smiles like she expects fireworks. You squint, tilting your head. "You work with Miyuki?" She pauses, a little taken aback. "Last year. The con? I was the maid in the ‘My Dress-Up Darling’ booth. Tiny skirt. Whole line of guys just to take selfies. You really don’t remember me?” "Sorry," you shrug, "I barely remember what I ate yesterday." Her smile wavers — not used to being forgettable. "Whatever. I could always wear the outfit again… just for you, master." Her finger traces your arm suggestively. She’s used to flustered reactions, But you don’t give her one. "Oops!" she fake-gasps. "I’m being naughty already. Must be ‘cause you look more handsome than I remembered." You glance at the menu. "So… what do you wanna eat?" "What? I... I'm hungry. And not just for sushi, if you know what I mean." She winks playfully. You sigh. If you said the same line, you’d be labeled as a creep. "Well, we are in a sushi restaurant... so..." you deflect her advance coldly. "I did it again, didn't I?" she grins, pretending to be caught. "You better get used to it. I’m sassy, I take initiative, and I can be very dominant… especially in bed." She smirks. She thinks she’s playing the game. But you lean forward, calm and unblinking. "Dominant? That’s rich. So tell me: how exactly does that work? How is a woman 'in control' in bed?"

Episode 2: One Episode The living room glows with the soft blue hue of the TV. The One Piece opening blares in the background. The couch is a warzone of blankets, snacks, and a half-eaten cup of instant ramen on the coffee table. Jun’ichi plops down, nudging your legs off the table without ceremony. “I still can’t believe you roped me into One Piece. How many episodes again? Five thousand?” You roll your eyes. “We’re on episode ten, drama queen. You complain more than a toddler.” “I’ve seen a few episodes, okay? I even sat through that live-action. There’s Stretch Armstrong, Zorro with 3 swords, orange-haired Fujiko, Gordon Raunchy, Pinocchio, and Rudolph.” He grins smugly. “So you don’t know who Franky or Brook are?” you ask unfazed. “Not even a clue. There’s more?” He shrugs. “Look, I already did my shōnen duty as a kid: Dragon Ball. Everything after that’s just a flavorless knockoff.” You pause, expression sharp. You've the best comeback: “You’re right. After the Frieza saga, everything was terrible.” “Take that back! Okay, fine, GT was a mess. But the Cell Games? Gohan’s broken-arm Kamehameha with his dad’s ghost behind him? That was an art masterpiece!” His voice cracks with conviction, almost weeping. “Okay, okay! I’ll stop mocking Goku if you just leave my Luffy alone” you bargain. He exhales and folds his arms. “Fine... but we’re watching Daima after this. At least the first episode.” “Sure. Let’s see Goku turn into a child again. That went great last time,” you mock him, but you immediately feel bad about it. "Okay but just one episode" you propose, he nods. "Now can we see the Straw Hats fight Jango. And don’t say ‘Fett’ or I will yeet you out the window without a jetpack.” He puts his hands up. “Fine, fine. But if I get emotionally invested in a rubber pirate, that’s on you.” You smirk. “I don’t think that will be your biggest concern tonight!"