Author's note: Hello. It's been a fair minute since I showed up in this fandom. I'm pretty sure every fan and his mother has seen season 3 by now. It was amazing, it was great. Fantastic performances, great work by Studio Feel, and of course, Wataru Watari is a magnificent writer. All that being said, I always feel like there's one particular Oregairu fic that I have to write, and I guess this is my attempt at it. Hopefully, it will be an enjoyable read.

Chapter 1: Indifference

Life is a strange thing. From the moment we're born, we're inundated with ideas. With ideals. Become such and such. Do this, do that. It starts from when we're babies. After all, haven't we all been told to walk? To stand up on stubby legs barely strong enough to hold us up, and move forward. And it never really stops. Of course, somewhere along the way we do become capable of conscious thought. And that's when things get really weird. You see, all of those expectations, all of those ideas, all the things we're told we should do, they add up. And we form a little picture of the world in our heads. A picture of the life we're going to live. As a child, it involves running faster than the other kids, or winning at tag. In middle school, it might be scoring well, being the ace of the baseball team, or just being well-liked. In high school, it's likely a rose-tinted life, filled with friends, maybe a boyfriend, and ending with a perfect graduation, getting into the college you wanted to. And then, after that, a job, a settled life. Marriage, kids. And then passing on those same ideas to them.

Yeah, you know when it gets really weird?

When you realize things aren't going according to plan, and you have no idea how to fix that.

All of a sudden, you're in high school, but there are no friends, no rose-tinted life. And before you know it, you're a cynical adult slaving herself off for the next paycheck, desperately trying to climb a rung or two higher up the company ladder and save every penny you can for a decent retirement.

No? That doesn't happen?

Well, I'm rambling now, and I might have given you the wrong impression. Let's try that again, from the beginning.

My name is Hiratsuka Shizuka. Age: 30. Hmm? What's that about Christmas cake? You want to die, is it? Moving on, I work as an editor for a certain manga publication. Well, I say that, but really, I don't oversee the entire magazine by a long shot. My actual task is to work with mangaka, and make sure that what they're creating goes in line with the company's plans. And, well, help them out with creative blocks and overall direction sometimes. You get the gist.

Anyway, that's enough with the introductions. We should probably be getting to the actual story. Where to begin? Ah yes. I suppose that might be a good place.

It was another morning at my apartment. Same as usual, nothing special about it. I was up early like every other day, unfortunately. Showered, had breakfast, suited up, then set out. Downstairs, I unlocked my pride and joy, the red beauty itself, my Aston Martin. Getting in, I checked my phone, and hooked it up to the car, marking the location I was supposed to get to on the GPS. To be sure, the company had an office, but that wasn't where I was headed that particular day. A lot of mangaka worked from home, and we certainly didn't have a problem with that, as long as they met their deadlines, and presented quality work. So, I was headed to meet the new guy. He'd just recently landed a deal with the magazine, and had been signed on to have his story serialized. And that was where I came in. I was on my way to his place, to go over his material, and plan for where it was going. No big deal, I'd done it a million times before.

The engine roared to life and the car eased out of the garage and onto the streets. The drive was fun, as always. There wasn't a lot of traffic on the way, so I had a chance to feel the wind in my hair a bit. It wasn't a long drive though. Fifteen minutes later, I was standing at the location. I flicked a glance at the GPS one last time before locking the screen and putting away the phone.

Yep. This is definitely the place.

It was an ordinary apartment complex, nothing special about it whatsoever. The address that had been given to me indicated that the guy lived in a flat here on the first floor. The place didn't look bad, though it wasn't fancy by any stretch of the imagination. It made perfect sense for a young guy most likely working his first job to rent a flat here. I checked the brief and mentally prepared myself, before walking in.

There was an elevator, but I chose to take the stairs. A moment later, I was standing in front of the door. It was unadorned, aside from a brass plaque indicating the flat number. Reaching out, I knocked. There was no answer, but I heard footsteps on the other side. The lock clicked, and the door swung open, revealing the guy I was here to meet.

"Good morning. I'm Hiratsuka Shizuka. You were told I'd be showing up, I hope?"

The man was definitely young, in his early twenties at most. Having said that, though, his gaze had the cynical, lifeless look of a forty year old corporate slave. A pair of running pants and a loose t-shirt revealed a rather lean frame. He was an average height for Japanese men, standing maybe just a little taller than me barefoot. Untidy hair crowned his head.

He gave me a brief look before opening the door wider.

"Hikigaya Hachiman," he said shortly. "Make yourself at home."

I came in, taking my shoes off at the entrance.

"Pardon the intrusion then."

I looked around, taking in the appearance of the place. For the most part, it was rather Spartan. The living room had a couch and a TV, and I could see a dining room and kitchen. It was obvious he hadn't spent anything beyond what was essential in furnishing those rooms. No, that effort had been saved for what was clearly his studio. The room had a high end PC and drawing tablet set up. Though many mangaka draw on traditional media, a lot of artists have shifted to digital, and Hikigaya seemed to be no exception. That being said, I could also see a table, lightbox, paper, pencils, pens, various nibs. On a shelf, several books of art theory were visible, dealing with anatomy, gesture and life drawing, perspective and lighting. Arranged on top of the shelf were an anatomical model and posable models, most likely used for reference. In one corner was a scanner.

"Have a seat if you want," he said in a tired voice. He sounded about as enthusiastic for this visit as one might be for a trip to the dentist.
That was… unusual. Newly signed mangaka tended to be nervous and excited. It was, after all, their first big break, and they wanted to make it work.

Hikigaya seemed… indifferent.

At the time, I think it came across as snobbish.

I certainly didn't expect to be treated like royalty or anything, but he could at least pretend like this mattered to him. Was he one of those people with an overly high opinion of himself? Did he think his draft would get approved right away?

Well, he might be in for a reality check then.

I certainly wasn't going to go easy on him.

I took a seat on the couch as Hikigaya headed into the kitchen. A few moments later, he returned with… a cup of tea? Slightly surprised, I watched as he set it down on the dining table in front of me.

"Thanks…?" I said uncertainly.

Nodding, he left again briefly, and returned carrying a clipped together sheaf of papers. The draft for his debut chapter. The first look the world would be getting at his manga.

When I had been told I'd be working with Hikigaya, I'd also been given information about the series he was creating. A summary, plot outline and story beats for what was presumably the first arc. But that was it. I hadn't actually seen his work.

I took a sip of the tea.

I really hope his art and writing are better than his brewing.

Taking a breath, I reached out, and he handed the manuscript over to me.

I paused for a moment.

The magazine is primarily catered to teenage boys. The genre's popularly called shounen. It's a thriving industry in Japan, and many of its biggest hits are international successes too, widely loved all over the world.

Typical for shounen was the idea of a protagonist facing difficulties and overcoming them to achieve a dream. This was most often placed in a setting that was heavily based on science fiction or fantasy, involving superpowers, and leading to spectacular battles.

It was unusual, therefore, for our magazine to serialize a story like the one Hikigaya was creating.

I'd read the summary as I said, and it was the furthest possible thing from a battle manga.
There were no special abilities involved. No martial arts or insane fights.

And no fan-servicey harem either.

Is this really going to sell?

It wasn't that I believed for a second those things made a story good automatically.

I can't count the number of recycled, generic manga I've read, that meant nothing to me.

But I know the industry. I know the audience.

I looked up at Hikigaya.

The look of indifference hadn't left his face.

I couldn't help but ask the question on my mind.

"Tell me something. You do want this, right?"

To get your work serialized, published. To have people read it. To have people like it, appreciate it.

I just couldn't see a spark of life in Hikigaya that indicated that he wanted that. No matter how mediocre the manga, I truly believed that what really mattered was an author's passion for their own work.

Hikigaya's dead eyes fixed upon me.

"Does it matter?"

I blinked.

"What?"

"Does it matter if I want it? It doesn't change the outcome."

I frowned.

This brat is full of himself, isn't he?

Determined to cut him down to size, I looked at his manuscript, flipping past the blank cover, to see the first page.

Hmph. What is this art style? Moe sells. This semi-real stuff won't fly in a shounen comic.

It was true. Hikigaya's art was unusual. Eschewing the typical cutesy look of modern manga, which was centred on appeal, he had used a more stylized look heavily based on real-life anatomy. If I had to say, it was closer to the grittier work of the 90s, as well as Western comic book art.

Despite how different it was, I couldn't deny the quality. This was simply a rough draft composed of pencil sketches, but his grasp of the human form, as well as his execution, were undoubtedly good.

He hadn't detailed the backgrounds much, but the perspective on them couldn't be faulted, and their overall look and mood were more than clear.

Reluctantly, I gave up on the idea of attacking his art as a weak point.

Slightly disgruntled, I actually started to read, taking note of his rough dialogue bubbles.

With every panel my eyes roved over, I mentally snorted.

There's no fucking way anyone is going to care about this main character of his. He's such an asshole.

I continued to read, nitpicking every dialogue choice, every action.

Before I knew it, I was flipping through the pages, going through each one in seconds.

All of a sudden, I'd read the entire manuscript, and there were no more pages.

I felt a twinge of anger and disappointment.

It took a moment for me to realise.

I was pissed because I wanted to know what happened next.

Wait.

I want to know… what happens next?

I looked up at Hikigaya.

There was no smug look of victory on his face, though I'm pretty sure I hadn't been able to hide the fact that I'd actually gotten engrossed in his manuscript.

No, he simply stood there. Eyes as dead as before.

It really ticked me off.

This smug, unfeeling prick can turn out a pilot chapter of this quality?

I had worked with so many mangaka. So many mangaka who genuinely cared about their work and loved what they did. I'd seen them put in blood, sweat and tears into their art, their writing. They'd chased after me, chased after the other editors, chased after their more experienced seniors, all in a desperate effort to learn, get feedback, and improve. They'd been polite, even in the face of hate mail and rude Tweets from readers.

But they weren't the ones who had created the gem of a manuscript in my hand.

It was the guy standing in front of me who had. The one who didn't seem to care one bit about it.

It was hilariously unfair.

And it really ticked me off.

And I couldn't do a single thing about it. Any changes I suggested would be purely fluff. They might actually reduce the quality.

I bit my lip, hard.

Forcing myself to be polite, I handed the papers back to him.

"How soon can you finish these pages?" I asked curtly.

"A week," he answered.

"Get it done in three days," I said.

This was unfair too. Inking, shading, finishing and lettering eighteen pages in three days was… well, almost impossible. Especially for a new guy. That sort of speed was reserved for industry veterans.

For the first time, Hikigaya's perfect calmness broke. The slightest hint of a frown appeared on his face.

"That's going to be a little difficult," he said. "Can't I get a little more time?"

It made me feel no end of good to see that self-assured, uncaring visage disturbed, if only a little.

"Didn't you say it didn't matter?" I answered. "Whether you want it or not. Well, think about it."

The unspoken ultimatum did not go unnoticed.

Finish it in three days, or you lose the gig.

I didn't actually have the authority to cancel a serialization. But he didn't know that. And I had other ways to make life hard for him.

I knew it was unfair, unethical.

But I wouldn't compromise on my own ideals.

I'd seen so many promising works turn out to be nothing. Soulless pieces created by people who didn't care.

I wouldn't allow something like that to continue.

Only an artist revealing something genuine would speak to the world. I'd make sure of it.

Having said what I had to, I walked out.

I didn't know at the time, but that was only the beginning of my journey with Hikigaya Hachiman.