this is an example introduction. feel free to customize it!
add more lines to make it personal.
My name is Adachi Rentaro. 27 years old, unemployed. Well, formerly unemployed, to be precise. Because yesterday, I was hit by a truck and died.
And now, I’m staring at a mirror in confusion. What’s reflected in the mirror is undoubtedly Donald Trump’s face. Orange-tinted skin, that distinctive blonde hair, and that expression everyone knows.
“What the hell…”
October afternoon. Despite being a weekday, Starbucks in Shibuya was overflowing with people. Sitting at a window seat with my MacBook Air open, I was once again racing against a deadline for a romance article. The blank Word document on my screen glowed white, as if accusing me.
“10 Things 25-Year-Old Women Should Know About Finding the Ideal Man”
Every time I looked at the title sent by my client, my stomach clenched with pain. Three years since I became an independent freelance writer. To make a living, I had to write twenty of these “mass-produced romance content” pieces every month. The knowledge I gained from studying socio-informatics at university, theories of gender studies and social psychology, all ended up becoming fodder for shallow articles consumed in the corners of the internet.
With my fingers resting on the keyboard, I let out a deep sigh. The ideal man? What was an ideal in the first place? What was love? Did we really understand the essence of romantic relationships?
“1. A stable profession with an annual income of over 6 million yen”
My fingers moved automatically, typing out a clichéd item. I felt disgusted with myself as I wrote. What was the point of such an article?
“Hikari-chan, you’re making that difficult face again.”
Suddenly called out to, I looked up. My university classmate Misaki had sat down in the previously empty seat next to me. She held a tall iced coffee. Her personality of choosing cold drinks even in autumn hadn’t changed since our student days.
“Misaki? What are you doing here?”
“I had a client meeting nearby. What a coincidence.”
She worked at a foreign consulting company and always seemed busy. Today too, she wore a navy suit with perfectly styled hair, looking every bit the capable businesswoman. She had been beautiful during our student days, but had become even more refined since becoming a working professional.
“Perfect timing. I wanted to ask you something.”
I turned my MacBook screen slightly toward her. The white document displayed only the lonely line I had just written: “Annual income of over 6 million yen.”
A true merchant thinks not only of his own prosperity, but also of others’ success
—From Ishida Baigan’s “Discourse Between Town and Country”
Kyōhō 19th year, autumn. In the hour when morning mist crawled across the surface of the Dojima River, Harimaya Inosuke tread the stone pavement toward the rice exchange. Though only twenty-two years old and already bearing responsibility for a wing of the family business, his heart harbored a quiet rebellion against the commercial methods passed down from his forefathers.
“Good morning, young master.”
The voice that called out from the foot of the stone bridge belonged to a clerk from Ōmiya, also heading to the rice exchange. Inosuke returned a light bow while observing the thickness of the ledgers carried on the man’s back. Evidence of steady commerce built by an established house, no doubt. Yet this very thing appeared antiquated to Inosuke.
Standing before the Dojima Rice Exchange, he could already feel the fervor of merchants preparing for the morning’s first transactions. This place held special significance even within Osaka, known as the nation’s kitchen. Here stood the clan warehouses where daimyo from various provinces converted their rice to currency, and here the rice prices for the entire country were determined. Most remarkably, this was where the world’s unusual “ledger rice” transactions took place—trades conducted without moving actual grain.
Inosuke’s eyes were transfixed by the intense gesticulations and shouting that unfolded in the depths of the exchange. This was the futures trading that his father Genemon frowned upon as “no better than gambling.” Yet to Inosuke, it appeared to be the very form of commerce for a new era.
Sss… sara… sara…
Your fingertips crawl across the white paper. The moment when the pen tip touches the paper surface—that microscopic friction sound.
Sss… sara… sara…
Mio Kitagawa faces the patient records, carving letters with the same rhythm as always. The hospital’s psychological counseling room is filled with afternoon sunlight, but her inner world is wrapped in a chilly silence.
“Tanaka Masahiko, 32 years old, recurrent nightmare syndrome…”
Sss… sara…
Every time the pen tip touches paper, faint vibrations travel to Mio’s eardrums. As an HSP—Highly Sensitive Person—she feels every sound through her skin. Colleagues’ footsteps, the whir of air conditioning, patients’ breathing. Everything directly stimulates her nervous system.
Tsu… tsu… tsu…
The wall clock’s second hand shaves away Mio’s consciousness one second at a time.
beep……beep……beep……
The alarm clock’s beeping sound pulls Mio’s consciousness back to reality.
6 AM. The usual time. The usual sound.
However, Mio’s body still carries the weight of last night’s dream. The sensation of the white corridor still lingers on the soles of her feet.
patter……patter……patter……
The sound of bare feet walking on cold flooring. Mio heads to the washroom. She stares at her own face in the mirror.
The dark circles under her eyes are the same color as those of Tanaka Masahiko.
hiss……hiss……hiss……
The sound of running water echoes in the bathroom. As Mio surrenders herself to the warm water flow, she ruminates on last night’s dream.