Chapter Text
A building made of four slabs of concrete joined together with cracked seams sits incongruously in the middle of the Minamiforuno district in Hokkaido, Japan. Winter welcomes unwanted chills through the blunt oblong windows on the outside; the restless northern winds pack snow in every corner of the town, from dog houses to schoolyards. The cold was practically inescapable.
No matter the weather, Shuichi Saihara was expected to continuously work diligently. On top of overtime, he was covering more shifts. The newest edition to the long-term residents in the dingy office were rats, stray cats, and himself.
Saihara was a writer at heart, nailing the job thanks to his parents connections, but his repertoire quickly expanded upon joining the company. He was quickly promoted to lead writer, and on top of that the head of advertising, manager of staff, communications officer, data analyst, and every role outside of what he was initially hired for: screenplays. Although the company was notorious for being short staffed, Shuichi wouldn't have imagined he would be running a one-man show. Though, the longer he works, he can’t help but think this arrangement is for the best. Shuichi never really enjoyed working in groups, and the chaos that would ensue if his coworkers congregated in one room was much more of a hassle than pulling all-nighters in a bleak office.
His coworkers were nothing short of certified psychopaths. Then again, psychopaths are the only type of people you can hire to script a horror game. It takes a special mix of creativity and lethality to come up with different types of murders to include, and present them to the board with the confidence of someone who got away with that exact crime. On the rare occasion of a team meeting, Shuichi struggles to write down every gruesome detail, every bone that needed to be snapped and every corresponding sound effect (sourced from a place he never wishes to know about).
“Is it even ethical to be discussing this?” he wonders, though even if he happened to utter the words aloud, it wouldn’t be heard over the cacophony of manic laughter.
“Oh, oh, maybe we should turn their blood into products! Like a pen!” the girl on his left chimed in, holding up a company issued ballpoint pen . This poor victim has already been tortured, dissected, and minced. Isn’t anything more unnecessary cruelty?
“Yes, I like that idea!” said no sane person ever, “We could turn their blood into ink, and dehydrate the skin to make the case!”
Shuichi felt a pit form in his stomach, lowering the pen he was using to take notes with. Suddenly, the deep red ink felt much more nefarious.
“No, no, it's too boring!” The head of the table concluded, “It's been done before.” By whom, Shuichi wishes to ask. For his own safety, he hopes that person is in jail, or deceased. Maybe it's bad to wish death on someone you don't even know, but even his morally ambiguous thoughts seemed eons more proper than anything his coworkers could muster.
“Well then, Ms. Enoshima, what do you suggest?” snides the first coworker, “Since you’re suddenly so full of ideas.”
Oh no.
“How dare you talk to your seniors in such a manner! I'll skin you alive!”
“And what, turn me into a pen case? I thought that idea was too boring for you.”
Discussion of the main plot was lost once again as they disrupted into a heated fight over how to effectively make use of someone’s remains. Shuichi has done this whole song and dance more times than he’d like to admit. He packed up his notes and left the meeting. A deep bow to say goodbye that was lost in the commotion of the screaming match. Meetings were the only days Shuichi managed to make it home, primarily because he didn’t want to run the risk of being left alone in their dingy office building with one of his coworkers; a certified recipe for disaster.
Although he was home, it didn’t mean he could take a break from work. Knowing his boss, a rough draft was bound to be due the next day.
He sighs, taking out his notes and going over the contents of the day’s meeting. His laptop comes to life with a broken whirr, the keyboard keys squeaking as they were pressed, begging for a moment of rest.
People turned into pens…bloody ink….where should he begin?