By the third day at the izakaya, Kazuya’s hands were wrecked.

Blisters dotted his palms like battle scars, the raw skin burning every time he gripped a knife or a hot pan. His arms ached from constant chopping, lifting, and scrubbing. The fatigue settled deep in his bones, making even the simplest motions feel like wading through water.

The romantic notion of rebuilding his life through honest work had vanished. The reality was far less forgiving.

He winced as he flexed his fingers, the dull throb of exhaustion his constant companion. This wasn’t like his old job—where stress was mental, deadlines loomed like silent threats, and mistakes could be erased with a backspace key. Here, every error was immediate. A dull knife meant uneven cuts. A moment’s distraction meant a burned dish. The kitchen was merciless in its demands.

And yet… Kazuya showed up.

His body resisted, but something deeper pulled him forward. Every morning, he dragged himself through the doors of the izakaya, tied on his apron, and stepped into the organized chaos of the kitchen.

“Oi, newbie.”

Kazuya glanced up as Takashi, the older cook who had been watching over him, tossed something in his direction. He barely caught it—a small tin of ointment.

“For the blisters,” Takashi said, barely looking up from the fish he was filleting. “You’ll get used to it.”

Kazuya turned the tin in his hands, feeling a strange warmth spread through his chest. The gesture was small, barely more than an afterthought, but it carried weight. In an environment where words were few and actions spoke louder, this was a sign—he was no longer just an outsider fumbling through tasks.

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He was becoming part of the kitchen.

Taking a deep breath, he got back to work.

THE LEARNING CURVE

Kazuya’s first task of the day was a simple one—peeling daikon radish for the house’s signature oden. The technique seemed easy enough: hold the radish firmly, use the peeler in smooth motions. But even something as basic as this had a rhythm, an efficiency he lacked.

His movements were awkward, his grip too tight. Pieces of radish broke off unevenly. He was slow, too slow.

“Loosen your hand,” said Hiroshi, another chef, glancing over. “You’re fighting it. Let the blade do the work.”

Kazuya exhaled and adjusted his grip. This time, he let the peeler glide with the radish’s natural curve. The difference was immediate—smoother, more controlled. Not perfect, but better.

“Good,” Hiroshi nodded before turning back to his station.

Kazuya allowed himself the smallest smile.

Every skill in this kitchen had a learning curve, and he was still at the very beginning. But progress, however slow, was still progress.

A TASTE OF SOMETHING NEW

Lunch service began, and the kitchen sprang to life. Orders flowed in, and Kazuya worked alongside the others, preparing garnishes, plating side dishes, running between stations. He wasn’t fast, but he was improving.

At one point, a steaming bowl of miso soup was placed in front of him. “Here,” said Emi, one of the waitresses. “You should try what you help make.”

He hesitated. In his old life, meals were an afterthought—something to eat between coding sessions, often consumed in front of a screen. He had never really thought about food beyond its function.

But now, as he lifted the spoon to his lips, the warmth of the broth seeped into him. The miso was rich, the umami depth layered with the faint sweetness of tofu and the freshness of scallions.

It was simple. Honest.

And for the first time in a long while, something inside him felt… full.

THE PATH AHEAD

By the end of the shift, Kazuya was drained, but something had shifted within him. The exhaustion was still there, the soreness lingering. But beneath it, there was a quiet satisfaction.

He had survived another day. Learned something new. Moved forward, even if only by inches.

As he untied his apron, he glanced down at his blistered hands—hands that were beginning to adapt, to change. They were no longer the hands of a software engineer who had once tried to leave this world behind.

They were the hands of someone rebuilding himself.

One dish at a time.