Atsushi Shirakawa never dreamed that the president of a company would actually show up at his home just hours after receiving a phone call that morning.
He lived in a cramped apartment of less than 30 square meters, the place a complete mess. The only thing remotely tidy was an electronic organ; everywhere else, there was barely a square foot of space to set foot.
After Aoki Haruhi entered, Atsushi Shirakawa, trembling with anxiety, hastily cleared a patch of floor and brewed some tea for both of them.
Though Japanese homes might not have much, they usually had some tea.
"I'm sorry to have troubled you," Atsushi said.
Aoki Haruhi cradled his teacup, silently observing Atsushi Shirakawa.
This was a man with a small, round face and a short stature, like most Japanese men. If you saw him in a crowd, you wouldn't notice him at first glance.
A meme from Aoki Haruhi's past life seemed to capture the situation perfectly:
Fake Game Musician: Trendy, meticulously styled hair; sunglasses hiding their eyes; a sharp jawline; a rugged, handsome profile; flashy, avant-garde cyberpunk clothing; no belly fat, just eight-pack abs; a designer watch; hands tucked into pockets, exuding an untamed aura.
Real Game Musician: Messy, tousled hair; a round face; a plain black t-shirt; determined, deep-set eyes; a slight belly; strong, capable hands; an unpretentious, down-to-earth aura.
As Aoki Haruhi observed him, Atsushi Shirakawa was quietly assessing the President before him.
He's handsome and striking. With looks and physique like that, he could easily become a star. Why would he choose to make games?
In this era, it was truly surprising to find a President willing to visit in person.
Aoki Haruhi briefly introduced Pokeni, himself, and his purpose for visiting, then sincerely invited, "If Shirakawa-san were to join our company, we would offer you top-tier compensation."
Atsushi Shirakawa kept his head down, not immediately accepting.
Or perhaps the opposite was true; Aoki's words caused him to frown.
"But why me? I mean, I don't consider myself particularly talented, and I'm a complete newcomer with no notable works. Why would the President think of me for your company's game soundtrack?"
After all, there were countless unemployed musicians out there, many with far more experience and qualifications than me. Why didn't President Qing approach them instead of me?
"That's because..."
Atsushi Shirakawa was still a complete newcomer with no notable works. Aoki Haruhi searched his memory but couldn't find even a single flattering word to say.
I can't exactly say it's because I can predict the future and know you'll achieve great success in film scoring, becoming Makoto Shinkai's go-to composer and rivaling Joe Hisaishi, can I?
Even Tenmon's most famous work, "Cherry Blossom Chronicle," won't be created until 2007.
"That's because I've seen your resume," Aoki Haruhi sighed. "Before this, we actually conducted a thorough background check on you. We know your preferred musical styles and your strengths: you're the kind of creator who can make players' hearts settle, finding healing and solace in your pure, flawless music. And our company's new project desperately needs exactly that kind of score. You're the perfect fit we've been looking for."
Nani?!
Ayase Akane, listening nearby, was stunned. President, you're such a good liar! When did we ever run a background check on Shirakawa-san?
And how would we know his musical preferences?
Isn't it too risky for the President to be so direct?
But when Ayase Akane observed the subtle changes in Atsushi Shirakawa's expression, she was secretly surprised.
Huh?!
Is he really falling for this?!
It was obvious that when Shirakawa heard Aoki Haruhi's words, his eyes held a deep shock, as if his soul had been struck by a direct hit.
This was actually inevitable. At the time, due to hardware limitations, the popular game music on the market couldn't achieve the rich, layered arrangements that would become common later. Games primarily focused on electronic and rock music.
In his previous life, before meeting Makoto Shinkai, Atsushi Shirakawa hadn't discovered his true talent for healing-type music. Instead, he followed the crowd, composing ordinary game soundtracks without even developing his own distinct style.
Yet deep down, he still cherished clean, pure, and soul-stirring music like that of Joe Hisaishi.
He just hadn't found the right medium to express it.
Aoki Haruhi's words had clearly struck a chord with him.
"I..."
Shirakawa opened his mouth, but before he could utter a sound, a lump formed in his throat.
He cleared his throat, steadied his emotions, and sighed. "Thank you, President, for your high regard, but I really don't have much confidence in my ability to compose game music."
Atsushi Shirakawa was speaking the truth. As a newcomer who had never composed game music before, being asked to take on the main soundtrack for an entire game naturally made him anxious.
Imagine asking a recent college graduate to immediately become a project manager—would you dare, let alone would they dare?
"Shirakawa-san, why don't you give it a try?" Aoki Haruhi encouraged. "No one is born at the top of the pyramid. But how will you know you can't do it if you don't even try?"
Some things truly depend on innate talent.
And music is one of those things.
"Hmm..." Shirakawa tilted his head in thought. "I still think, given my age and experience, it would be better for me to learn from others first."
Damn it.
Is this guy made of stone?
He was tough on the outside but deeply insecure on the inside.
"How about this," Aoki Haruhi said, placing the game proposal on the coffee table and sliding it toward Shirakawa. "Take a look at our game proposal. I'm sure you'll find this project interesting."
Shirakawa nodded. "Alright."
Atsushi Shirakawa took the proposal and politely said to Aoki Haruhi, "President, I will read it thoroughly."
In truth, this was already a polite way of saying, That's enough for today, or Give me some time to consider. But out of courtesy, Shirakawa couldn't bring himself to say, You can leave now.
Yet Aoki Haruhi showed no signs of leaving.
Hey!
Even the HR representative beside him was growing anxious for his president.
President, the air! The air!
Can't you read the room?!
Reading the atmosphere was a skill honed since childhood in Japan, and not burdening others was considered a virtue. But this president seemed utterly oblivious to these unspoken rules.
Aoki Haruhi had no intention of leaving, silently waiting in the hope that Atsushi Shirakawa would carefully read the proposal.
Atsushi Shirakawa had no choice but to brace himself and start reading.
At first, he was somewhat reluctant, but as he read more carefully, he gradually became engrossed.
Before he knew it, vivid images were forming in his mind—romantic Onmyōji, stories of humans and yokai...
A melody began to resonate in his heart.