“Now, Sir, are you ready to hear your destiny?”

It was a mellow frozen morning, the ground felt like the soft crunch of the inside of an ice cream freezer, its padded ice breaking beneath my shoes on this early day.

I hadn’t slept.

The night kept me up, or… I suppose it was my mind. Why am I here, what do I hope to achieve, does it matter?

Has it ever mattered?

It was 7 a.m., early enough to be quiet, but not to be silent. I usually preferred it earlier than this, 4 a.m. was my favourite time; no one could see me, I ceased to exist not just in my mind, but in reality.

I became greater than a ghost. It was calming.

“Y-Yes- sure? I mean this is a little silly, but what do I have to lose? Let's get on with it.” A suited businessman hastily said, trying really hard to rationalise his actions to himself.

This is Arakawa City, it's an older city. Not in the way that it's been around longer than the other wards of Tokyo, but because it hasn’t changed. Not in a long time; like pond water.

Stagnant.

Its streets are narrow and wind like loose cables hanging from a ceiling, the houses and apartments huddling uncomfortably tight. You’ll always hear your neighbours, and they’ll always hear you.

A tram line runs down the main roads, one of the last in Tokyo. Inefficient, dirty, and lazy as modernity flies by, all the while Arakawa notices not even the contrails left behind as it goes past.

Left behind.

Yes, that is Arakawa.

“Good, good. Now, take hold of this here desk, and give it a shuffle.” The older woman commanded, hidden beneath a purple tent tucked between an alleyway that drilled through two opposing constrained streets.

The elderly woman had a deck of brand new shiny tarot cards that stood out within this crumbling and aged ward.

Imported, foreign, a stranger to these lands. Tarot cards weren’t common in Japan, so why were they here?

Why was I here? Imported, foreign, stranger to these lands. A forever outsider.

Even in this backwards city, traces of the outside world could be found sneaking through the backlinks that connect old and new.

I suppose some would say Arakawa is traditional, not backwards. That its tram line is a boon, one of only two remaining in Tokyo, a point of pride, not an example of being left behind.

That its clustered roads and hugging houses foster a sense of community, not nosiness. And how this closeness allows Arakawa to remain whole in itself, and not become another street of a Tokyo bound by the world.

Yes, I suppose it's all a matter of perspective.

But that doesn’t explain the tarot cards.

The man finished rearranging the deck and looked to the woman for guidance, she nodded and waved a hand before he could get a word out, “Now draw your first card, from anywhere in the deck. It doesn’t matter.”

I suppose… I suppose it doesn’t matter.

He placed the first card on the table, it displayed a young man atop a mountain, resting surrounded by three cups. He is staring down at them in focus, completely unaware of the fourth cup being offered to him.

“Four of Cups.” The woman announced impartially. “The first card you pull represents where you have come from, the middle card where you are, and the last where you’re going.” She continued, relaying her words with the practised expertise of an actress.

An actress.

How familiar, yet how wrong. A mock-up of a script she herself wrote, performed to lonely wanderers, not lost in location, but in life.

But is the wanderer lost, or simply bored of inaction?

“Four of Cups? Is that good?” The man asked, his hand resting on his chin laced with the barest hint of suspicion.

“Who can really say what is ‘good’, and what is ‘bad’?” She continued with a shrug, maintaining the mysticism and performance.

The businessman leaned forward, agitated, “Great, whatever, but what does it mean?”

“Hmm, a long time ago you were struggling with answers. Focused too much on what was before you, that you missed what was around you. So unaware of how to solve your problems, that you neglected it for continuing what you already knew.” She gazed at him, pity twinkling in her eyes.

“I-, yes… I suppose that makes sense...” He said dejectedly, not continuing any further.

“The next card, please. Where you currently are in life.” She prompted the man, causing him to pull the next card from the top of the deck and place it on the table.

A young woman posed upright and proud, in the heart of a turbulent storm, a sword in her hand, she faces outwards with energy and zeal. Her expression is set in unyielding determination, with a glazing of defiance in her eyes.

The old woman nodded in thought at the card as the man snapped to her, his eyes begging for an explanation. “The Page of Swords.” She muttered, “You stand before harsh times, but you’re steadfast, resolute, and you have the energy and will to do what must be done to succeed.”

“That’s- that’s good, right? No, don’t answer that. I know it is.” The businessman spoke to himself, the woman ignored his ramblings and gestured at the card deck, to which he pulled the final card.

A burning spire was revealed, nested within the clouds high atop a rocky mountain range. A thunderstorm was in full swing, a bolt of lightning had cracked the top of the spire setting it ablaze, and in their fear, people were leaping out of its windows as a last attempt at survival.

“The Tower.” The woman announced sadly, her head shaking side to side in a failed attempt at showing compassion to the increasingly worried man, “A great change will happen, all you have built will suddenly crumble, and in desperation, you will act to avert the crisis. Do not fear the change, the old ways can no longer help you, embrace it and begin to build something new. Though, whether you do or do not, is up to you. I can tell you no more.” She finished, taking back her deck and returning the cards.

The man sat there for a moment, not scared, not in hopelessness, nor regret. It was a moment of contemplation, of thought, a type of quiet that had landed like a bee on a flower.

He appeared… almost energised. As if he was ready to face what was coming, his appearance sculpted into one of resolve, yet with the underlying current of nervousness racing underneath the roads that were the wrinkles in his stare.

“Thank you.”

Leaving behind those parting words, he stood up and left, vanishing into the early morning fog like a ghostly knight on a never-ending mission.

Valiant and resolute.

Blind and foolish.

07:10 a.m..

Hatsuko’s office was tucked up against the alleyway where that woman’s tent was. I say office, but in truth, it was a house, old, degraded, and having gone through remodelling more times than a vain woman on her 8th facelift.

The house had changed, grown, been switched around and morphed by its previous owners. It was originally a home, but the first floor had been changed long in the past, installed with a large single window that would have displayed whatever items the store there sold.

It changed again soon after that, the store shut down, and the cracked remains left behind were turned back into a home for an unknown family. They tried to paint over the store’s signs outside, but it has faded in recent years, coming back with a vengeance to mock Hatsuko’s later renovations.

There was a modest plaque by the door, old and neglected. As if it were put up years ago and forgotten about as the years passed by it. The large window had been partly replaced with frosted glass, granting a tint of privacy to the long-dead shop. But the second floor remained the same, not a touch of work done on it over the years other than maintenance.

Much like Arakawa City, it fit in. It was all consistent.

Well, other than that first floor, ugly and standing out. It doesn’t belong, trying so hard to be things it isn’t. It should have remained a house, a living room or a kitchen, or whatever it was before.

Change has made it unrecognisable.

But has it made it happier?

Engraved on the worn bronze plaque was the same information on the business card Hatsuko had given me a week earlier. Her name, number, and profession. Still no talent agency.

Just the lonely words of ‘Talent Manager’.

I wonder why? Unable to think of a name, or perhaps she views it as the corporatisation of creativity? Vile restructuring and repugnant transformation of the arts into something that forgoes care for efficiency.

Or maybe… she doesn’t care.

Is it more effective?

07:16 a.m..

It was too early to knock or to ring. She’ll still be asleep at this time.

I wonder if she dreams?

Isn’t she too old to dream?

Is there an age limit on dreams? When we get old and grey, do we suddenly stop wishing for more, are we simply content because we cannot want, or because we do not want?

I don’t believe there is an age limit on dreams, you do not stop once you hit, say 40. Imagine that, you dream at 39, then you’re 40 and you can do so no more. If that were the case, then I think dreams would be very unfair indeed.

Then what causes us to stop dreaming? Satisfaction, or acceptance?

But… if it is age? Then at what age does one choose between satisfaction, or finally sinking into acceptance?

Am I too old to dream?

The old woman was waiting in her tent, her hands fiddling with her deck of tarot cards while her gaze kept drifting over to me out of the corner of her eyes.

There was nothing else to do but wait until Hatsuko woke up.

Until the dreams stopped.

But I do not dream.

“Hello darling, curious about a tarot reading, are you?” The elderly woman smiled a toothless grin as I approached, welcoming me into the small tent packed with a sole table.

I sat down on the stool opposite her and nodded.

She returned the nod and placed the deck of tarot cards on the table in between us.

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“Would you like to shuffle it, or should I?” She asked with far more vigour than she had shown the businessman.

“You do it.” I replied, causing her eyebrows to raise at the sound of my voice.

She relaxed a moment after, a look of understanding settling in over her face, one with pity laced in between the lines of her passing frown as she returned back to smiling.

“The first card, the past. The middle card, the now. The last card, the future.” The woman stated while her hands began to quickly shuffle the deck, her voice relaying the meaning with a practised droning.

I nodded, and she held out the newly shuffled deck towards me, “Pick your first card.”

My hand clasped upon the card at the top of the deck, an easy first choice. I drew it and placed it on the table.

A man stood at the top of a stone wall, a spear in his hands. He appeared frail, exhausted yet pushing forward regardless. In front of his wall, there are 8 other spears sticking out from the ground. He is hopeful, he knows he can win.

“The Nine of Wands.” She announced, “Hope against despair, to be wounded yet continue on towards victory. Yesterday, you faced many trials, but you were close to overcoming them. Did you ever overcome them? Only you know.”

No.

I did not.

I ran away.

Or was that my victory? Escape?

What a hollow victory it was, I overcame nothing. The puppet replaced her strings with daggers.

And what hurt more, wire tearing skin apart, or blades carefully slicing them?

At least I was in control of who had the dagger.

But that’s in the past now, the same past that clings to me like burning oil from a sinking ship, forever waiting in the blackness of my shadow for when I resurface from this ocean.

I leap into the water, the flame coating me, it extinguishes as I sink, but as my hand slips from the water, the oil reignites, and I am forced to pull it back under where I remain.

Will always remain.

“The second card, please.” She asks, looking from me to the deck of cards on the table.

I choose from the bottom this time, flipping it over and placing it beside the first.

It was a woman clad in a robe, she had one hand pointing to the ground, the other to the sky. Surrounding her is an assortment of pots, potions, and ingredients with a boiling cauldron in the middle.

The card was upside down.

“The reversed Magician.” Came her voice, a weary undertone attached to the words, “A master of illusion and lies, every action they take is filled with deception. Perhaps someone close to you is lying about who they are, or maybe you’re lying to yourself. Time will tell, but consider this a warning.”

I wonder, is this referring to me, or Seina? Are these cards truly magical, and if they indeed are, can they tell the difference between us? Or do we come across as a blur to them, a mix of a void and a person?

Or maybe this is encouragement, the cards telling me to continue on this path, to become an actress as deception is in our nature.

To perform, to lie, to showcase trickery and illusion on a stage before hundreds.

Sorry, Takamura. An idol lies, yes. But an actress performs.

And I am neither.

But Seina is both.

I took the final card without prompt from the middle of the deck and placed it down on the table.

The future, what I have to look forward to.

It was a star.

The Star.

Even I knew the Star.

Rebirth, rejuvenation, hope.

It was a convincing ploy.

“Ah, the Star!” She begins, but I cut her off by placing a 2,000 yen note on the table and exiting the tent much to her sudden surprise.

07:33 a.m..

I stood outside Hatsuko’s office again, staring up at the dark windows on the second floor. It was still too early, but I am cold and tired, and I do not care anymore.

My finger found the doorbell and its electric buzz announced my early arrival.

A rumbling came from the first floor, surprising me. I had expected her to be on the second floor, in the house.

The door opened to a dishevelled Hatsuko, her red hair thrown into an unkempt bun, her face set into a scowl as if she were a vampire mad at the sun, and a contrasting sleeping robe that looked as if it were made with silk and care.

“Oh, Seina…” She spoke my name as if it were a dose of pure caffeine, immediately widening her eyes, the sleep vanishing in a heartbeat, “I told you to ring beforehand, didn’t I?”

It was a question, but she didn’t expect an answer. We both knew she was correct, this was simply the song and dance of conversation.

“Come in, it must be cold out there.” She beckoned me inside, moving to the side and shutting the door behind me. “Do you want a coffee too?” She asked, making her way towards the kitchen tucked against the wide-open living area I was currently standing in.

“Yes.”

She didn’t reply, but she took a second mug off the rack and got to work, not even asking me how I liked my coffee.

It was like she knew I had no preference. After all, coffee isn’t my vice of choice. I leave that honour to the poison from a cigarette.

The living area was off-putting, strange, like a mix between a living room and an office complex. Tucked towards one wall was a large wooden desk covered with neat files and papers, a photo of a happy family, her sister too, I assume; and a cactus plant.

Behind the desk was a greenscreen, and in front of it was a high-end camera on a tripod that would fit in better at a recording for a movie and must have cost at least 200,000 yen.

The whole workplace didn’t fit the room, it was at odds with it like a diamond necklace on a homeless person. It felt as if it should be in a highrise office overlooking Tokyo’s skyline, not in a dingy first floor of a house with a camera before it.

I wonder if that’s what the greenscreen is for. A facade of luxury, that displays the view of Tokyo to give the appearance that her office is situated at the top of a highrise office building, and not on the first floor of a house trapped in a paused ward.

I suppose her office is simply her house, it's a neat trick at the end of the day. But only if she sticks to video calls, the moment an in-person meeting is needed, the illusion falls apart.

It makes me wonder why I am here, clearly, this isn’t the norm. Am I not worth the illusion?

No, obviously not, to fall for an illusion of luxury, you must place value on luxury. And I do not even place value on myself, how could I spare any for wealth?

Hatsako placed two cups of coffee on the counter overlooking the living area with her office set-up, “Seina,” She called softly with a voice that felt as if it last spoke months ago, ash clogging up her vocal cords like blood in a fully automatic rifle. “Your coffee is ready.”

She pushed her cup against her lips while I sat on the stool opposite her. There were two black leather couches in the living area, one against the frosted glass window, and the other on the opposing side just before the overlooking counter that sat between the kitchen and living area.

There was a blanket on the couch by the window and a clear indentation in the leather like someone had been sleeping there just a moment ago.

Obviously, someone had been sleeping there, and she was right before me.

I copied her movements, bringing the coffee to my lips. It was black, pure coffee beans with semi-warm water, she hadn’t even boiled it fully, so desperate for the caffeine more than anything.

It suited me fine.

“How’s the coffee?” Hatsuko asked in between sips.

“It’s fine.”

She nodded, returning to her own drink, not really caring what my opinion on it was in the first place, but needing to say something to fill in the void of silence.

“Why didn’t you ring?” She asked, once more disliking the silence or perhaps trying to keep my attention on her, rather than something else.

“My shift finished at 1 a.m., I never returned to my apartment. I was out walking all night, watching the city sleep, it's peaceful, to stop existing, to not worry about being watched. I suppose somewhere along the line I ended up here.” I answered in the manner I usually did, yet it was met with a curious glance from Hatsuko and an understanding nod.

“You haven’t slept yet?” She questioned with a touch of concern in her voice.

I shook my head slowly, “Not yet.”

Taking another sip of coffee, she exhaled and replied, “Hmm, that’s not good.”

“I’ll live.” I said while also bringing the coffee cup to my lips. “Why did you sleep on the couch?” I queried, causing her to startle ever so slightly in embarrassment.

Hatsuko didn’t answer me at first, instead turning to gaze over the top of the frosted window, in the small gap between the top and the frosted section that was clear and see-through.

You couldn’t see much, maybe you could just about make out the birds in the sky, or the telephone wires running along the top of the houses. But that didn’t stop her from resting her head on her hand like a sloppy teenager half asleep at their desk and staring out at nothing.

“Isamu Nakahara, do you remember I mentioned him a few days ago…” She finally answered, a tired look on her face.

“Yes.”

Isamu Nakahara, the pretty boy actor who Hatsuko claimed was also semi-decent at acting. The one I’m replacing for Us of I after his father pulled him out to join a talent agency.

I’ve never met him, but I remember.

“He died two days ago.”

Correction. I’ll never meet him.

“Drug overdose. It's not uncommon with the wealthier kids. Everyone looks for a release, and when the price tag means nothing to you, it becomes easy to go up the chain of drugs until you start taking more and more to drown whatever inside of you needs drowning.” She spoke in a voice devoid of emotion that veered closely to boredom, it was telling how used to this she was.

But why was she used to this?

Was death truly such a common thing to her?

“I’m sorry.” It was a half-hearted apology, she picked up on that. But I couldn’t muster anything more, because, in a way, I was jealous of him…

If I had picked a better vice. Swapped out the poison of a cigarette for the poison of a drug. Maybe I would be dead already, and this apathy of life wouldn’t be this quieting.

And at least I’d feel something other than this void as it took me.

“His father is blaming me.” She continued, either not caring, or not caring to comment on my prior sentence, “Saying I’m cursed. That this wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t pulled him into this world. Maybe he’s right…”

“Why would you be cursed?” I asked without thinking about it.

Hatsuko looked at me for the first time, as if she’d forgotten I was here, her stare leaving the sky and birds behind to lock themselves in on my eyes.

But she wasn’t looking at me, but right through me.

At this moment, I wasn’t a person to her. She was looking at what I represent, and to her, I represent exactly what Isamu did.

A talent.

An actor.

We were never humans, but opportunities.

And that’s what a talent manager trades in, opportunities. Everything else is worthless.

“Never mind, I’m sorry we got lost in such a morbid topic.” She sat up straight, bushing her sleeping robe down and moving her finished coffee to one side, “You’re here to sign some papers, not listen to this. One moment, please, I’ll go and get it.” She finished, standing up and racing upstairs to begin rummaging for the document.

That’s why it's a tragedy when an opportunity fails.

Or, perhaps… dies.

I’m sorry, Isamu Nakahara, but I can’t gather up a single shred of pity for you. You’ll have to enter the afterlife without my tears to accompany you.

I only hope that I’ll be there soon, to make up for what I could not give you today.

Though it will not be for you that I enter, but for myself, for her… for Seina.

Hatsuko retraced her steps back to the stool, the only difference was that she was now returning with a document in hand, she placed it on the counter and swivelled it around to face me.

“Here you go, it was the first one on the pile so it was easy to find.” She stated, her voice once again laced with tiredness, and all traces of the previous conversation already gone, scattered into the cold wind that carries the ashes of loved ones over the ocean.

I glossed over the pages in the file, they spoke of exclusivity, pay percentages, project hours, and contract bindings.

I understood it all, and yet it meant nothing to me. I simply didn’t care even if Hatsuko was a devil in disguise and this contract was to sell my soul.

No, a void has no soul. A devil would want nothing to do with me.

My hand took hold of the pen Hatsuko had given me, and I inscribed a name upon the dotted line, signing the contract.

‘Seina Kanemoto’

The person I once was.

“Great. Now I just have to make a copy and send it to Hanako Hall, and we’ll be all good.” She added as she picked up the contract and double-checked the signature.

So that was it. Hatsuko was officially my manager, and I was one step closer to being an actress.

Why?

I suppose… it doesn’t matter, really.

“Is there anything else you need?” She asked, tucking the contract beneath her armpit.

The clock sat near the ceiling right before the staircase, it read 8:42 a.m., I've been here longer than I expected.

I felt weak, tired, and weary. All that walking, combined with my lack of sleep was starting to catch up with me, and that black coffee could only do so much to keep it at bay.

“No, thank you. I think I’ll be going now.” I said, managing to hide the struggle as my arms pushed myself up off the stool.

“I’ll walk you to the door.” Hatsuko offered the barest of kindness as she took the lead to open the door.

I stepped away from the counter, my arms no longer supporting my weight, and the next thing I knew, I was falling to the ground like a bird plucked out of the sky by a skilled hunter.

But the birds outside were still flying, so why wasn’t I?

“Seina!” Hatsuko screamed as I went down, rushing to help pick me off the ground.

I mumbled something, and she mumbled back.

Except she wasn’t mumbling, but I was fading.

It was a pleasant feeling, drifting through space, not a void inside me, but all around me.

I was dreaming.

For the first time, I was dreaming.

It was perfect.

And all I had to do was ignore the pain.