The hallway to the boss's office had always seemed longer than it really was. Today, however, each step was an echo that rumbled against the walls like the prelude to something I couldn't name but recognized in my stomach: that cold knot, that animal certainty that something bad was about to happen.
The door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open without making a sound.
The bastard boss, a middle-aged man with thinning hair and a permanent expression of contained exasperation, the perfect example of an idiot who doesn't know what's really happening beyond his own office, the type who finds it strange that productivity drops by 50 percent after holding two meetings a day about productivity with the general manager for three months without any concrete plan. Someone who wanted to be a Wall Street trader but ended up in charge of a video game tester group. He doesn't see employees; he sees friends, friends who do him favors, friends who pull him out of his excessive unpaid work to reach his bonus, and whoever isn't his friend is a problematic employee. Capable of being old while simultaneously having the professionalism and responsibility of a teenager, someone who is clearly his own curse.Was sitting behind his desk, reviewing something on his monitor. He didn't look up when I entered. He made me wait standing for a full minute, as if my time were worth nothing.
Perhaps, to him, it was worth nothing.
"César." His voice was flat, without nuance.
"Sit down."
I already had an idea of what was coming next. I took out a candy to have something to occupy myself with during whatever useless lesson in "adulting" had gotten him so far.
There was a long silence. He typed something. I waited. The computer fan hummed like a trapped insect.
"César."
"I don't think you're understanding me."
"I can't believe how much difficulty someone can have comprehending a point I'm explaining to them."
"Your demeanor is disruptive to this work environment."
His tone wasn't that of someone who wants to have a dialogue. It was the tone of someone who has already made a decision and is merely going through the motions of communicating it. He paused. His eyes—small, gray, devoid of any light—looked at me over his glasses.
"I have reports that female coworkers don't feel safe when you're around."
The knot in my stomach tightened.
Reports. Coworkers. Not safe.
The words floated in the air like toxic gas, and for a moment, everything around me became blurry. It wasn't the first time I'd heard something like that. It wasn't the first time someone had used those words—"not safe," "uncomfortable," "afraid"—without specifying what exactly I had done.
But it was the first time it came from a superior. The first time it had workplace consequences.
"I'm sorry, sir, but I really don't understand."
My voice sounded calmer than I felt; I have to be neutral and the adult in this room, because I'm the only adult present.
"I know this is a work environment and everyone is here to work. I know I don't get along with everyone, but we're not here to be best friends with everyone. I try to keep my personal relationships and work relationships separate. Just because I'm not super friends with someone doesn't mean I won't collaborate with them for work—work is still work."
I breathed.
"If by chance something I'm doing is bothersome, it was truly unintentional, but I really don't know what I did. Maybe if you could tell me a little about what they've told you that makes them feel that way, or what I said that perhaps wasn't appropriate..."
The boss looked at me as if my words were a personal insult.
"César, I really don't see why I should be more specific than I already have been." His tone was one of exasperation, like a father scolding a child who doesn't understand something obvious.
"It's up to you to know what it is you did."
"Sorry, sir, but I don't know." The words came out before I could stop them.
"I don't know what I did. That's why I'm asking. I don't care if it's harsh; you can tell me exactly as it was told to you. I won't get angry. I just... need to know what to correct."
Silence.
The boss took off his glasses. He cleaned them with a handkerchief he pulled from his pocket. He put them back on. Each gesture was slow, deliberate, as if he were losing patience with a particularly obtuse creature.
"I don't think you're understanding me, César, which is concerning." He shook his head.
"That tells me the same thing—how little you think about things."
"I'm sorry, sir, but you're right, I really don't understand." My voice, to my surprise, remained steady.
"That's exactly why I'm asking for help to know what I can correct."
Something changed in his expression. The contempt of someone who has decided you aren't worth it.
"I'm not going to explain it anymore." He closed the laptop with a sharp thud.
"You know very well what you're doing and who you're doing it with."
He stood up. The interview was over.
"And I thought I was talking to a functional adult."
I stood up. My legs were trembling slightly; I left the office without saying anything more. There was nothing to say.
The hallway back was a tunnel.
My footsteps echoed on the linoleum floor, and each echo returned the boss's words to me: "You know very well what you're doing." "They don't feel safe." "I thought I was talking to a functional adult."
I'm agitated. Nervous. My heart pounds in my temples like a war drum.
I'm afraid.
How is it possible that they let a damn overgrown child reach a position like boss? How is it possible that someone like that has power over me?
Sometimes I wonder why I keep doing all this.
Why I wake up early. Why I endure? Why I breathe. Why do I get up every morning if at the end of the day there's always something—someone—waiting to remind me that I'm worth nothing?
He's a bastard. And yet he doesn't have the balls to fire me. Because in the end, even if he doesn't acknowledge it, even if he treats me like garbage, he knows I'm the one doing half the work. Always.
Damn it.
"Hey, César."
The voice comes from the side. A coworker. I don't remember her name right now. My mind is too busy processing other things.
"I need help with a couple of reports."
"They seem to be written wrong, and you know how to fix this part."
I can't look her in the eyes.
I can't.
Because if I look at her, what if she misinterprets it? What if my expression seems threatening to her? What if she thinks I'm a psychopath? What if she thinks I'm going to follow her after work? What if she's the one who filed the complaint? The one who said she didn't feel safe? The one who started the rumors?
I don't know. I can't know.
Because there's a real possibility that she's genuinely kind. That she just needs help with the reports. That she has nothing to do with the complaint. But there's also the possibility that she's a viper. One of those people who smile to your face and stab you in the back. Who wait for you to let your guard down to attack.
I need to stay away from her; I don't need to be near her. That's a problem. I need the money from this shithole of a place.
You can't trust. Not after what happened.
You can't trust the word of a human woman.
After all, to this world, I'm the problem.
"I'm sorry." My voice sounds flat, distant.
"Right now I don't have time. I have my own reports to work on."
I don't wait for her response. I turn and walk back to my cubicle, feeling her gaze on my back like a laser.
The best I can do in this purgatory is ignore everyone. Keep my head down. Do my work. Don't talk to anyone. Don't look at anyone. Don't exist more than strictly necessary.
The cubicle greets me with its familiar silence. I sit down in front of the monitor. I continue writing, what I always do, writing and writing, always moving my fingers, always ignoring others, always being ignored until that becomes a problem too.
......
I can't think of anything other than dragging myself home, lying down, hugging Tamamo and Rory, and staying there, doing nothing, never again, ever, just a very long hug......
The bus ride back was a blur of rain and streetlamp lights. I barely remember the journey. I remember Rory, in the backpack, silent for once. I guess she knew something was wrong. I guess Tamamo knew too. Neither said anything.
When I got to the apartment, the first thing I did was check the new lock. It was still in place. The security key worked. No one had entered. My sister hadn't come back—at least one good thing for today.
Back in the house, I sat down in front of the computer. I had to write. I hadn't published a new chapter in days. My posting rate was dropping considerably. The few real readers I had had probably already forgotten my novel existed again.
The screen lit up. The blank document waited for me, as always.
Chapter 358.
The words didn't come.
I stared at the cursor, that intermittent blinking that seemed to mock me. Before, writing was a refuge. It was the place where I could control what happened. Where I could create worlds better than this one. Where Tamamo didn't die, and Rory loved me, and things made sense.
Now, not even that.
I used to write a chapter every week. Now I go weeks without being able to type a single line. There are too many things in my head. Too much noise. I can't write unless I find inner peace, and inner peace is a luxury I can't afford.
I turn off the monitor.
In the darkness of the screen, I see my reflection.
That thing.
That face I don't recognize as mine. That jaw that's too square. Those eyes that are too sunken, dark, and always tired. That expression of permanent defeat, his disheveled hair he never has time to fix, it looks like he already has early signs of balding, a lazy body, that face that doesn't belong anywhere, next to no one, always alone. That repulsive being that follows me everywhere, that looks at me from mirrors, from windows, from darkened screens, always being a disappointment to everyone since the day it was born.
I hate seeing it.
I don't like it.
I don't know how long I sat in the darkness.
At some point, I felt a small weight on my shoulder. Rory. She had come out of her corner—probably from the shelf where she likes to nap—and had perched on me with the lightness of a bird.
She didn't say anything at first. She just stayed there, her tiny body leaning against my neck, her breathing keeping pace with mine.
And then:
"Tell me, Rory..."
My voice sounded strange. Hoarse. As if I hadn't used it in days.
"What... do you think would have happened if I had been born as a cute girl instead of... an ugly monster?"
Rory was still for a moment.
"You'd probably be a pretty girl. Big-boobed too."
A silence.
I stayed silent for a moment, processing Rory's response. Even in the darkness of the room, with only the dim glow of the lava lamp filtering through the slightly open door, I could imagine her expression: that mischievous smile, those red eyes shining with a mix of amusement and the truth of her love.
I stayed quiet. Not because I had nothing to say, but because I had too much. The words piled up in my throat like stones, and none of them wanted to come out first.
Rory hopped from my shoulder to the desk. Her small boots landed on the wood with a barely audible "toc." She turned toward me, hands on her hips, that posture of hers that said "I have an idea and I'm not going to let you escape it."
"Tell me, César..."
"How would you feel if one day... I don't know... you wore pretty clothes? And looked like me?"
I blinked.
"A Rory cosplay? Yes, that!" Her red eyes sparkled with that chaotic enthusiasm I knew so well.
"You have the height. Well, more or less. I'm shorter, but we can make adjustments."
"You could put on a gothic dress like mine, and I'll put a bow on you. A huge bow! The size of your head. And boots with heels. Stiletto heels. The kind that go clack clack clack when you walk like mine."
"And with lace. And stockings. You'd be a life-sized Rory Gremory. It'd be amazing!"
"You as Rory, me as Rory! Two Rorys! We'd be adorable. Well, me more, obviously, but you too."
"Then we are going to take pictures; it will look like identical twins"
The image formed in my mind before I could stop it.
"No."
"No? Why not? It would be fun!"
"Because..." The words cost me.
"Because I don't want to tarnish your image that way."
Rory tilted her head.
"Tarnish?"
"Your dress. Your style. Your... you." I gripped the edge of the desk with both hands, as if I needed something solid to hold onto.
"You're beautiful, Rory. You're perfect. Every detail of your design was meant to be beautiful; you are literally a piece of art that someone worked for months"
"You're everything I would have wanted to be. Strong. Decisive. Pretty. And I am... I am... Me."
"There's no dress that can fix this. There's no makeup that can cover what I am. Because even if I wore the prettiest clothes in the world, even if I got the most expensive surgery, even if somehow I managed to look like you... I'd still be me. A man. Someone who will never be a real girl. Someone who would only be playing at being something they're not."
"So what? Would that be so bad?"
"What?"
"That you were a man trapped in a girl's body." She tilted her head, like a curious bird.
"Or a girl trapped in a man's body. Or any other combination. Would that be so bad?"
"Rory, it's not that simple..."
"I just wasn't that lucky."
"Why not?" She crossed her arms.
"I mean", she said slowly,
"That you have a man's mind in a man's body, but you want to be a woman."
"Something like that."
"But maybe what you want is to be a man trapped in a woman's body."
"?????"
"Sorry, but I think I got lost with what you just said."
"What if being a man trapped in a girl's body were... I don't know... something good?" She shrugged, a minimal gesture in her tiny figure. "What would happen?"
"What?"
"Being a man trapped in a woman's body. Would it be so bad? I mean..." She made a vague gesture with her hand.
"You'd still be you. But with boobs. Isn't that better than being you without boobs?"
"Just think about it, your own giant melons to massage all day!"
"But inside it's still the same César as always, I'll still call you husband, and darling, and my idiot, in masculine."
"Or, my princess, my beautiful wife, my beloved girl, and telling you 'she' to your face all the time, then saying 'well done, my handsome powerful knight and gallant gentleman husband right after.'"
"While also I teach you how to keep your hair long and smooth, or find a way to steal Luna's secret method for her drill-like hair."
"We sneak into her house in the darkness, we sneak into her bathroom, we photograph every product, no shampoo will go unregistered! No curling iron left unexamined!"
"Rory..."
"It's a legitimate question!"
"So, tell me how you would see a male, Rory?"
"Never, because I wouldn't like it... because my dear giant husband wouldn't like it either."
"But I know the disaster of a husband I married, and I know where some things stand with you."
"But even though I don't like what I am... I'm still a man." The words hurt coming out, as if each one had thorns.
"My body is a man's. My face is a man's. My mind... is too."
Rory tilted her head.
"So?"
Rory took another step forward. She was now right at the edge of the desk, close enough that I could see the ruby gleam in her eyes even in the darkness.
"Tell me, César," she said, and her voice was softer than I'd ever heard it.
"What do you feel, then?"
The question pierced me like an arrow.
What did I feel?
I opened my mouth. I closed it. The words were still stones, but this time, one by one, they began to move.
"What do I feel?"
"Yes. All of it. The work stuff. Your sister stuff. The mirror stuff. The being a man stuff. The wanting to be a cute stuff. All of it." She sat on the edge of the desk, letting her legs dangle over the abyss of the table.
"Tell me. No filters. No, trying to make it sound pretty."
"It's like..." I began, and the words came slowly, crawling like wounded animals.
"Like I'm the villain of a series. Of a story. Of a novel."
Rory blinked.
"The villain?"
"Of a series. Of a story. Of a novel." My eyes fixed on an empty point on the wall.
"Like I'm the antagonist. The one who's there for the hero to defeat. The one who exists only to lose."
Rory said nothing. She waited.
"And sometimes..." My voice cracked a little.
"Sometimes I wish for my own defeat. So the good ending can happen. So the bad guy is defeated, and everyone can be happy."
The silence that followed was absolute. Not even the lava lamp made a sound. Not even the refrigerator hummed in the kitchen. As if the whole world held its breath. Or perhaps I had disconnected so much from the world that I could no longer hear anything except my own voice.
"César..." Rory's voice was barely a whisper.
"Do you think there's a name for that?" I asked.
"Yes, I think..." she said.
"Maybe...."
"It's called pain," she said.
"I will no want to tell you that you're not the first to feel it and you won't be the last."
"But this one is clearly yours, and has been a bad thing to happen too"
She stood up. She walked to the edge of the desk, approaching my hand. With both tiny hands, she took one of my fingers and held it against her chest.
"But let me tell you something, César. Something I learned in a thousand years of existing." Her red eyes stared at me intently.
"Villains don't cry at night because they don't want to hurt anyone. Villains don't worry about whether they're making others uncomfortable. Villains don't wish for their own defeat."
She squeezed my finger a little tighter.
"Villains aren't like that. You are. So you're not a villain."
"Besides," Rory continued,
"If you were the villain, Tamamo and I wouldn't be here. Goddesses don't stay with villains. Well, some do, but they're evil goddesses. Dark goddesses. I'm a good goddess. Well, more or less, I am technically a devil goddess in the pantheon of my anime now that I think about it. But Depends on the day. The point is I wouldn't stay with a villain."
"So what am I?"
"You're a wounded man," she said, with a simplicity that hurt more than any accusation.
"And I don't want to hear you say the world would be better without you again. Because it's not true." Her voice cracked a little, something that almost never happened.
"My world wouldn't be better without you. Tamamo's world wouldn't be better without you. This tiny, crappy apartment wouldn't be better without you."
"Besides, Tamamo is waiting. She fell asleep on the pillow with a cup of tea next to her. She looks very cute. You should see her."
"She made tea?"
"For you. But since you took so long, she fell asleep waiting." Rory rolled her eyes, but fondly.
"She's too good for this world. And for you. And for me. But here we are."
"Together."
I got up from the desk. My legs trembled a little, as if I had run a marathon without moving from the spot.
"And you know what, César?"
"What?"
"Villains don't usually ask themselves if they're villains. Real villains believe they're the heroes. The fact that you ask that question... means you're not the villain of this story."
I stayed silent, feeling the tiny weight of her body against my skin.
"Perhaps," said Rory,
"You're the protagonist. Just that your story hasn't reached the part where things get better yet. Perhaps we're in the chapter where everything seems lost. The chapter right before the twist."
"The protagonist. Of a story you haven't written yet. Of a chapter that hasn't arrived yet."
"Rory, life isn't a novel."
"Well, mine was until I came here."
"And sold enough to have an anime"
"What if there's no twist?"
"Then we create it." Her voice regained some of its usual edge.
"I'm a goddess of war. Creating twists is literally my job."
I couldn't help a small laugh. Again. The second in a night that seemed to have no room for laughter.
"Thank you, Rory."
"Don't thank me yet. The twist hasn't arrived."
"But when it does, you're going to cry. And I'm going to say 'I told you so.' And you're going to have to put up with me gloating for at least a week."
"Rory..."
"What?"
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me." She turned toward the door, walking with that tiny dignity that only she could have.
"Just... promise me something."
"Anything."
"That you'll still be here." She stopped in the doorway, her silhouette outlined against the dim light of the lava lamp.
"Tomorrow."
"And the time that comes after..."
"Please, Resist."