Sakurajima’s grumbling again—probably tired of existing. Honestly, same.

Nobody in Kagoshima even looks up; volcanic mood swings are just part of the soundtrack now.

Streetlights buzz, taxis wait for customers who never come, and I’m here selling other people’s stories instead of living my own. Still waiting for my first real chapter to start.

Mandarake glows between a ramen bar and a coin laundry—one of those twenty-four-hour manga shops that shouldn’t exist anymore but refuses to die. The sign’s buzzing like it’s fighting to survive another night.

Inside smells like dust, paper, and instant coffee. The manager’s asleep in the back, and the ceiling lights flicker like they’re about to give up, just like me.

People call this place outdated, but I like it that way. Predictable. Safe.

I spend most nights behind the counter, sampling new arrivals under the excuse of “checking stock.”

The selection’s always the same—shōjo sparkle, overpowered isekai, love triangles with an MC so bland you end up rooting for the girls to date each other instead. Even the “mature” stuff’s predictable—the same helpless angel who can’t pay rent until her creepy landlord “offers help.” Spicy on paper, flavorless in execution.

I complain, but I’d still read every page.

Still, every so often, the supply-chain gods bless us with something truly sacred: pure, uncut trash. Omegaverse. Reversible. Obsession BL. Master–servant melodramas that commit so hard to their own stupidity they loop back into genius.

The kind of manga that makes normal people flinch—but for me, it’s divine revelation.

Lucky for me, night shifts are quiet. No lines, no noise, no judgmental stares—just me, the hum of the ceiling lights, and the occasional salaryman running the world’s worst stealth mission to the adult aisle.

Usually, anyway.

But for the past few weeks, there’s been a glitch in God’s simulation.

Engine noise hums outside—low, steady, calming.

The clock clicks once, loud in the empty shop.

Headlights flash across the window. A car door opens, then closes.

He steps inside—tall enough to make the shop look smaller.

Light-brown hair, almost reddish in the glow; quiet, practiced steps under a black mask.

He moves like someone running a route they’ve memorized.

Without a word, he walks the aisles, stops, and starts stacking volumes into his arms—whole sets, side stories, spin-offs, everything.

Total completionist behavior. I respect it.

By the time he reaches the counter, my brain is still buffering. I stand a little too fast, the stool scraping against the floor as the BL volume I was reading slips from my hands and hits the floor with a soft thud.

He looks up—eyes so blue, color so deep you could get lost in them.

“Good evening,” I say—too loud for the silence.

He doesn’t answer. Just looks at me. Smooth, Shizuka. Real professional.

I start scanning his books—it takes a while. He stands there the whole time, quiet and steady.

When I offer to wrap them, he gives the smallest shake of his head.

I tell him the total.

He slides a hundred-thousand-yen note across the counter. That’s… a hundred thousand yen. Again.

He takes the bag and walks out before I can hand him the change.

The automatic doors close, and the air exhales with him.

Only his scent lingers—clean, faintly citrus, the kind of scent you’d find in a five-star lobby.

He’s always so rude, so cold. Even when he looks at me, it’s like I don’t exist—like I’m literally part of the background décor. And it’s so unfair because—ugh—it’s so freaking hot.

What is wrong with me? I’m out here thirsting over Kuran Kaname’s emotionally unavailable cousin.

Every encounter is the same: he appears, buys an armful of manga, and vanishes—always the same rhythm, no talking, no browsing, like he’s on a super-secret mission.

What might be so important, you might ask? Trash manga. Absolute garbage. Not mainstream garbage—deep-cut, discontinued, back-alley garbage. The kind of series that die halfway through a love triangle.

Most girls would be repulsed by it. I call it soulmateship.

That’s how it’s been—our after-midnight ritual. The kind of quiet routine that makes me want to quit school and work here full-time.

I don’t even know his name, I’ve never even heard his voice, but I’ve already named him in my head: the Prince of Trash Manga.

Living proof that not all otaku are shut-in losers with no life.

I rest my head on the counter, daydreaming about his next visit, making up unlikely scenarios in my head—until it hits me.

This is my last night on the night shift. I just missed my last chance to ask for his number. I missed my event flag.

Tomorrow morning, my perfect little world ends. Because tomorrow… my senior year of high school starts.

It’s pathetic how a stranger’s occasional manga shopping became the brightest part of my week.

The ticking clock feels like it’s reminding me the night’s over.

Please, God of otaku—just one more chance. I swear, next time, I won’t disappoint you.

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

Thank you so much for reading my very first novel! I’m having a blast writing it and can’t wait to share more.

New episodes every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday 💫