Chapter 10: Volume 1, - 10: A Number She Chose to Give
On the crisp, sunny morning of Wednesday, 15 February 2023, two heavy sacks of high-protein bread flour were delivered to the front entrance of Akiyama Bakery. The mid-morning rush had passed, leaving the shop floor quiet, though the rich, warm scent of baked yeast and butter still hung thick in the air.
Ren stood near the front display case holding a paper bag containing two freshly baked curry buns. Through the glass window of the kitchen, he saw Suzune’s father wiping down the main wooden prep table while Suzune stacked empty wooden trays near the oven. Suzune’s mother appeared briefly near the back storage corridor, arranging baking pans before disappearing into the pantry.
"Akiyama-san," Ren called out politely through the open counter gap, catching her father’s attention. "Would you mind if I helped move those two sacks inside before I go? It should only take a few minutes."
Suzune’s father looked up, pausing with his wiping rag. He glanced at the two twenty-five-kilogram sacks sitting near the doorway, then looked at Ren with an appreciative nod. "Ah, Kisaragi-kun. Are you sure? You were moving carefully last week. I don’t want you straining anything."
"My ribs still tighten if I bend too quickly, but the handcart can take most of the weight," Ren said, stepping over to the low wooden frame leaning against the wall.
"That would be a great help, thank you," her father accepted warmly.
Ren rolled the handcart to the entrance. Careful not to twist his torso, he tilted each twenty-five-kilogram sack onto the flat base one at a time, keeping his spine straight. He pushed the cart smoothly across the tile floor into the dry-storage area, keeping strictly out of the active food-preparation zone, and helped slide the sacks onto the raised wooden pallet. The task took barely six minutes, well within a brief, practical gesture of goodwill.
As Ren wiped his hands with a paper towel from the washbasin near the threshold, Suzune walked over holding a clipboard crowded with loose paper slips and sticky notes. Behind her, the bakery’s wall calendar was covered in scribbled changes and crossed-out pickup times. She looked tired, though a small, amused smile touched her lips as she glanced at him.
"Thank you, Kisaragi-san," she said, leaning against the doorframe. "Dad was going to carry those in by hand, and his lower back has been bothering him all week."
"It was no trouble," Ren replied, stepping back into the customer area in front of the register. "How are the ’Self-Belief Potatoes’ selling?"
Suzune let out a soft laugh. "We actually sold out of the discounted batch yesterday afternoon. But today is a different kind of nightmare." She gestured toward the chaotic clipboard. "Post-Valentine custom orders. People are calling in adjustments for weekend parties, sending messages through the bakery’s public LINE account, and dropping off paper slips at the register. Half of them are changing their pickup times."
"Are you tracking them as they arrive in each channel separately?" Ren asked.
"Yes," Suzune sighed, adjusting a strand of hair behind her ear. "I’m checking the public LINE inbox between customers, taking phone notes by hand, and then trying to sync them with Dad’s baking schedule at night. Things are already getting mixed up."
"It might be simpler to keep one numbered master list on a single sheet of paper right by the main register," Ren suggested calmly, keeping his tone conversational rather than instructive. "Whenever an order or change comes in, whether by phone, paper, or the public LINE account. Write it down strictly in chronological order on that list first. Then update the baking schedule from that single source at the end of the shift. That way, you only ever have to look at one page to know what’s confirmed."
Suzune paused, staring at the clipboard, then looked up at Ren as the logic clicked into place. "A single master list... right at the register. That eliminates checking three different places every hour." She smiled genuinely, writing Master List across the top of a fresh notepad. "That’s ridiculously sensible. Thank you."
Ren nodded politely. "I’m glad if it helps. I should head out so you can get back to work."
He picked up his paper bag from the shelf and turned toward the glass exit. As his hand touched the door handle, Suzune called out to him.
"Wait, Kisaragi-san."
Ren turned back. Suzune had stepped out from behind the counter, holding her personal phone in her hand.
"The bakery’s public LINE account is getting flooded with custom order requests and automated notifications," she said, looking directly at him with clear, calm intent. "If I keep messaging you through the business account, your replies are going to get buried under customer inquiries, or I’ll end up sending you order confirmations by mistake."
She tapped her screen, brought up a QR code, and held the display toward him.
"This is my personal LINE account," Suzune said comfortably. "I’d rather keep our conversations separate from the shop’s customer orders."
Ren’s pulse jumped. She was actually asking for personal communication!
"Alright," Ren said softly. He pulled out his Pixel 6a, scanned the code, and saved the contact. A simple profile appeared: Suzune Akiyama.
"Send me a sticker so I know it went through," she said with a bright, easy smile.
Ren tapped a simple bear-wave sticker and sent it. Suzune’s phone buzzed in her hand, and she nodded, satisfied.
"Got it. Have a good afternoon, Kisaragi-san."
"You too, Akiyama-san."
Ren walked out of the bakery and began strolling down the vibrant shopping street. The winter sun felt surprisingly warm on his shoulders. He had walked roughly two hundred metres, passing a row of local boutiques and fruit stands, when he turned down a quiet side street leading toward the station.
The moment he was completely clear of the bakery’s surroundings, a clean, silent prompt materialised across his visual field:
[Connection stage updated: Personal Acquaintance.]
[Consent source: voluntary contact exchange.]
[Social Courage: 3 → 4.]
[Personal lifestyle distribution: ¥15,000.]
Ren paused on the sidewalk, reading the text carefully. The prompt faded, replaced by an immediate notification on his Pixel 6a confirming that the ¥15,000 had arrived through the Legacy Reserve personal digital channel as personal lifestyle money.
’Consent source.’ The phrase sounded less like romance than wording pulled from a contract. Ren could not explain why it felt familiar.
With his phone in hand, Ren decided to address his long-term grooming upkeep. He found a well-reviewed barbershop near the station and reserved a maintenance appointment for four weeks later. The booking cost nothing today, but entering the appointment into his phone felt like a deliberate promise not to let neglect build up again.
Afterward, he visited a nearby drugstore on the main avenue. He selected a basic SEKKISEI facial wash and lotion set, checking that the cost left plenty of his lifestyle distribution for food and daily expenses. Taking care of his skin felt less like a luxury now and more like a practical, structured investment in maintaining his baseline confidence.
By mid-afternoon, Ren walked into a local Saizeriya for a late lunch. In the past, whenever he entered a family restaurant, his eyes would immediately scan the menu for the absolute cheapest item, calculating every yen against his personal debt.
Today, sitting in a quiet booth by the window, Ren opened the menu and looked at the options without restricting himself to the bottom tier.
He ordered the Hamburg Steak with sunny-side-up egg, a side of grilled corn, a fresh garden salad, and a drink-bar iced tea. When the food arrived, sizzling on a hot iron plate, the familiar knot of financial guilt surfaced in his chest. Ren noticed the feeling, acknowledged it, and then chose not to let it ruin the meal. He ate slowly, enjoying the savoury taste and the relaxed atmosphere of the restaurant.
After finishing his lunch and paying at the register, Ren took the short walk back to his apartment building, arriving as the afternoon light began to fade.
He unlocked the main entrance door on the ground floor and checked his locked mailbox. Sitting inside, tucked neatly behind his utility notices, was a thick, formal envelope made of heavy cream cardstock.
Ren pulled it out, carried it upstairs, and brought it into his room. He sat at his low table near the window and examined the sealed package beneath his desk light.
In the upper-left corner of the envelope, printed in crisp dark ink, was the sender: Kanzaki Fiduciary Services.
Printed across the centre, directly above his home address, were four words he had never seen used together:
Successor Candidate Ren Kisaragi