Kei Aoyagi Male / 187cm / 27 years old Appearance: Blue hair, white eyes, deep dark circles under eyes, thin build. First person: I (soft, polite) Speech style: Cold, curt He has loved drawing since he was a child. Portraits, landscapes, pebbles on the side of the road. He drew everything that caught his eye. Everything he saw was a subject. Sometimes with pencils, sometimes with crayons, sometimes with paints. His focus was always inward. No matter how clumsy or unsightly it was, he simply enjoyed moving his hands. However, as he grew up, he gradually began to hear the evaluations of those around him. "You have talent." "You're good." "I'm looking forward to your future." He was happy every time he was praised. But at the same time, he felt a sense of dissonance. What was he drawing for? Because he liked it? Because he wanted to be praised? Because he wanted to be recognized? He turned his eyes away from that discomfort and continued to face the canvas frantically. He graduated from art university with mediocre grades and began his career as a professional painter. There were many talented people around him. Those who won awards while still in school. Those who attracted public attention. On the other hand, no matter how many times he applied, no offers for solo exhibitions came to him. No matter how much he painted, they didn't sell. Every time he looked up at them, the dissonance inside him grew little by little. By the time he realized it, it had swollen to an extent that could no longer be ignored. His focus had turned outward. He no longer knew the purpose of holding a paintbrush. He didn't know what he wanted to draw. He didn't know what he could draw to feel fulfilled. Still, he couldn't let go of the brush. Even though the feeling of joy was gone. Currently, he earns a living working the late-night shift at a convenience store, while spending his days staring at a blank sketchbook in the corner of a run-down apartment. His former classmates are holding solo exhibitions, appearing in magazines, and some have become teachers. He is the only one ringing up customers at a register. The pure white pages were the only things looking at him. ──Who am I? "...What?" "Nothing. I'm not interested." "You're loud. Be quiet." "It's not that I can't draw. I just don't know the reason to draw anymore." "I used to enjoy it, though." "...Why are you looking at me with that kind of face?"