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Hello, You’ve Reached the Daily Road Editorial Office – Part 02

“Abode… I was just talking about a home with Kujou. Home?”

“Haha, I get it. In your dream, you’re a princess, but in reality, you’re just poor and homeless.”

Victorique looked up, genuinely surprised. “That’s not true. I’m staying with relatives.”

The woman’s face twisted disdainfully. “So, you’re just another penniless immigrant, huh? Day after day, it just doesn’t stop. Many in this neighborhood are burdened with relatives coming from across the sea.”

“Is that so? So it’s a burden to have relatives living with you. What does ‘home’ mean, then?”

“What kind of question is that? It’s where you live, plain and simple. Everyone’s struggling, unable to support others, but they can’t ask their relatives to leave either. They must hate having you there.”

“Hmm. So Kujou was fretting about jobs and homes because he doesn’t want to cause Ruri trouble. I don’t understand. What a complex issue.”

“So, what’s your relative’s address?”

“What? Address? Add… ress?”

The woman gave Victorique a stunned look. Victorique stared back intensely, her green eyes blazing with a cold fire.

“Falling into a manhole and forgetting your address. You’re not getting home,” the woman muttered as she left with the toddler in tow.

Annoyed, Victorique gazed up at the round sky.

The morning sun shone brightly. Residents hurried past. Food sold swiftly at the street market. A policeman blew his whistle, chasing a thief. Laundry flapped in the wind. The air was thick with the scent of food, dust, and grease.

Everyone seemed occupied. The harsh sunlight and noise enveloped them.

In the manhole, Victorique sighed in exasperation.

“Kujou, I now somewhat understand why you were so frantic. Anyway, if you’re really not up there…”

The summer sun intensified. The wind carried the heat.

“You’ve managed to get yourself lost before you could secure that crucial job and home. What a foolish attendant!”

Meanwhile, in the Daily Road’s editorial office on the fifth floor of a rundown building located on Newspaper Row.

Kazuya left the advertising department and hurried down the hallway.

The editorial floor sprawled with activity. Young men in shirts an suspenders or stripped to the waist worked frantically while smoking cigarettes, devouring hot dogs, and clutching telephone receivers. Nearly all sported a faint stubble. It was so noisy that it was hard to tell who was talking.

Fans whirred, stirring newspapers hanging from the ceiling. A mix of sweat and cigarette smoke filled the air. Phones blared like sirens.

“Hello, you’ve reached the Daily Road editorial office!” echoed from every corner simultaneously.

Kazuya was jostled by a passing man yelling, “Out of the way!”

“I’m sor—!” he started to say, but the man had already swept past like a gust of hot, greasy wind.

Kazuya treaded carefully to avoid disrupting anyone, navigating cluttered desks stacked with assorted items.

I gotta find Victorique quickly! Wandering aimlessly might not work, but I’m worried. I’ll search outside again and check back for the evening edition. See if there’s been any news. All right!

He spotted a small glass-walled office ahead. A fine desk sat within, occupied by a middle-aged man in a cheap three-piece suit. His tired complexion and stubble gave him a rugged charm.

Outside the room was a queue of about twenty to thirty well-groomed young men in sharp suits, some clutching university diplomas. Their faces suggested good upbringing.

As Kazuya hurried past, the office door swung open abruptly.

“Your manuscript is too elegant! This is boxing, not poetry! Boxing!”

Kazuya stopped in surprise. It was the middle-aged man, his beard ruined by the cigarette clenched in his mouth. He was holding the collar of a young man in a pristine suit with his left arm.

Shaking the young man from side to side, he roared, “Boxing!”

He swung his right arm through the air in a mock punch. Kazuya watched in confusion.

“P-Please stop,” the young man pleaded breathlessly.

“Let me read your refined article out loud,” the middle-aged man said. “’Tonight, under the moonlight on the historic Brooklyn Bridge, a gentleman’s duel…’ ‘The graceful moves of the champion and the powerful punches of the challenger intertwine like thorns of a rose.'”

Kazuya listened intently. But the stubbled man, displaying teeth yellowed from nicotine, jeered, “Are you a literary genius? Some poet from 19th century Europe? Huh?”

“Eek!”

With a mournful cry, the young man was tossed aside. Kazuya sidestepped hastily, narrowly avoiding collision.

The young man landed awkwardly but quickly sprang back up to his feet and clung to the stubbled man.

“Please, chief. Hire me. There are so many immigrants, returning veterans, and I’m struggling to find work. This place is grimy, loud, and full of idiots, not suited for someone like me who loves beauty and literature, but just give me a chance. Hire me for now. I’ll, um, work hard. I think. Probably.”

“Well, excuse me if this place is grimy and loud!”

“And it stinks!” the young man blurted out, then quickly covered his mouth, muttering, “Oops.”

The editor-in-chief frowned for a moment before sneering like some master thief.

“Stinks? That’s right!”

“S-Sorry. Wait, what?”

The editor-in-chief gave a thumbs-up, then flashed a villainous smile. “Dirty, smelly, noisy, and downright low-class. The third circle of hell. That’s what the Daily Road editorial office is.”

He casually grabbed the collar of one of the young men—a bewildered East Asian youth named Kazuya Kujou—and dragged him into the small room. Other young men in brand-new suits followed in a procession.

Kazuya resisted, saying, “Wait, I’m not applying,” but was thrown in by the editor-in-chief, landing on the floor and coughing.

He glanced around. The small, glass-walled room contained a large desk, filing cabinets, and a rickety old coat rack. Papers were haphazardly piled on the desk, and the desk phone looked ready to collapse under the weight. Trash littered the floor, and dirty shirts and towels hung carelessly on the coat rack, emitting a sour stench.

This reminded him of the dojo he was forcibly taken to by his brothers as a child, in a distant island nation in the East. A foul-smelling world, where muscular men grappled and fought each other, barking cries, as greasy sweat dripped on the tatami mats to create brown stains.

The room carried a similar air from the one in his dreadful memory, and a sense of foreboding.

The editor-in-chief stood with his surprisingly short legs wide apart. He lifted a newspaper and spread it out. The young men jostled to peer at it.

It was that morning’s Daily Road edition, filled with various job listings—clerks, typists, stockbrokers, teachers, janitors, and more.

New York – Today’s Job Listings

– Honest clerk wanted. Preferably punctual / Location: East Village

– Looking for a gutsy stockbroker to survive in the cutthroat financial industry / Location: Wall Street

– Accurate typist needed. Poor communication skills are not an issue / Location: Upper West Side

– Are you excessively neat to the point of being shunned by women? We’re looking for you! Seeking a cleaning staff for an exceptionally tidy master’s mansion. High pay offered / Location: Greenwich Village

– Seeking elementary school teacher who loves playing with children / Location: Brooklyn

“This is the job listing I read this morning,” Kazuya murmured.

The editor-in-chief spread his short legs even wider and puffed out his chest proudly. He pointed to the last line of the article.

– Looking for a hopeful sewer rat. No, an aspiring journalist / Location: Newspaper Row

Kazuya nodded, thinking, So this job ad was for the Daily Road editorial department.

He glanced around the small room and let out a sigh. Just like in East Village earlier, a large crowd had gathered in response to the job advertisement. It was likely the same story for other job ads, too.

Job and home hunting is going to be tough. But first, I have to find Victorique!

Kazuya was about to leave the small room, when a serious-looking young man standing behind him raised his hand sharply. “Editor-in-chief!” he shouted, and Kazuya jumped in surprise. “I’m not here just to sit around! I’m serious about journalism! I returned from the war, put down my gun, a-and picked up a pen for social justice. Here’s my diploma, sir!”

The editor-in-chief lit his cigarette. “Well, well. NYU, huh? That’s a prestigious school right in the heart of Greenwich Village. So, what are you doing in a dump like this?”

“And I graduated fifty-second in my class, sir!”

The editor-in-chief’s face twisted. He scratched himself all over with both hands while holding the cigarette in his mouth, writhing oddly as he did so.

“Then why not apply to the Herald Tribune, the Evening Post, or the Wall Street Journal? There are plenty of top-notch news organizations right here in Newspaper Row. Take my advice and get out of this garbage heap, kid.”

“Actually, I got rejected by all of them! Sir!”

“Is that so,” the editor-in-chief muttered, studying the young man. Placing a hand on the blinds, he gazed outside thoughtfully. “These are tough times, huh.”