Checking Out at 5:15 PM Chapter 1: The Iron Rice Bowl and the Drunken Dragon (Patreon)

"Why... why don't they understand, Motoi? I'm a catch! I have a municipal pension! I separate my recycling perfectly! I even wash out the little soy sauce packets before throwing them in the plastic bin!"

The heavy, uncoordinated weight of my branch manager slammed into my right shoulder with the force of a derailed freight train. Misaki Katsuragi, the esteemed Section Manager of the Kamakura Ward Library, was currently clinging to my cheap suit jacket like a desperate koala to a eucalyptus tree in the middle of a category-five hurricane.

I could feel the surprising, generous weight of her chest pressing firmly against my arm, radiating a feverish heat through my thin dress shirt. She smelled dangerously alluring—a dizzying, intoxicating cocktail of premium floral perfume, savory charcoal-grilled chicken, and an ungodly amount of sweet potato shochu.

"Yes, Kacho. You're a total catch," I wheezed, my voice strained as I struggled to keep us both upright under the flickering, buzzing neon light of the station overpass. "Please don't wave your arms around like that. You're going to hit a passing salaryman, and I don't think public servants are insured for street brawls."

"Men are intimidated by competence! That’s the problem! They’ve all become so unbelievably soft!" she wailed, her voice echoing down the damp concrete street. She gestured wildly with her free hand, nearly knocking a half-empty can of coffee off a nearby wall. "They’re all just herbivores! Weak, spineless herbivores who are completely satisfied with their own hands and their little 2D girls!"

A group of passing college students—two boys and a girl—quickly crossed to the other side of the street, the boys blushing violently and avoiding eye contact at all costs.

"They see a beautiful, independent woman in her early thirties who can approve a municipal budget, calculate compound interest, and cook a mean braised pork belly, and they run! Cowards! All of them!"

“.................” Everyone.

I let out a long, soul-leaving sigh, staring up at the starless, smog-choked night sky of the city.

My brand-new leather shoes, which I had painstakingly polished just twelve hours ago, were severely scuffed. My right shoulder was going completely numb from the soft, heavy, and incredibly distracting weight clinging to it. I had meticulously planned my evening: go straight back to my quiet, dimly lit home, boot up my offline retro handheld console, crack open a lukewarm ginger ale, and spend my entire weekend grinding levels in a 16-bit classic RPG without a single smartphone notification bothering me.

Instead, I was playing bodyguard, therapist, and human crutch to a weeping, thirty-two-year-old municipal executive who currently had both arms wrapped securely around my waist.

How did it end up like this?

It was only two weeks ago that my life was perfect.

I had miraculously survived the brutal, soul-crushing gauntlet of the Civil Service Exam. I had secured my Librarian Certification with flying colors and officially started my career as a Tier-1 Public Servant. My life plan was, for all intents and purposes, utterly flawless.

While my university peers were willingly throwing themselves into the meat grinder of corporate Tokyo—subjecting themselves to the hellish 996 work culture, kissing up to tyrannical shareholders, and navigating a continuously decaying economy—I had successfully acquired the legendary "iron rice bowl."

I remember talking to my friend Kenji just days before my graduation. He had dark circles under his eyes that looked like fresh bruises, trembling hands, and a hollow stare. He was working for an advertising firm, sleeping under his desk three nights a week, and eating convenience store onigiri for every meal. Looking at him, my resolve had only hardened.

I didn't want glory. I didn't want a massive salary, a corner office, or a flashy sports car. I wanted the path of least resistance.

My future was set in stone: stamp returned books, master the intricacies of the Dewey Decimal System, politely shush noisy middle schoolers, and clock out exactly at 5:15 PM every single day until I naturally withered away and collected my guaranteed government pension.

Was it boring? Probably. Was it lacking in ambition? Absolutely. But I had no grand desires for wealth or promotions. I wanted an easy, stable existence. That was my ultimate dream, and being a public librarian was my dream job.

Sure, no job is entirely devoid of stress. Dealing with the general public always comes with its own unique flavor of chaos. But compared to the corporate battlefields, I figured this was as close to a paid vacation as a career could get. I bought a fresh navy-blue suit, polished my shoes until I could see my reflection in them, and got a clean, respectable haircut.

The morning of my first day had been like walking into a serene, quiet dream. The ward library was pristine. The morning sunlight filtered through the large glass windows, illuminating dancing motes of dust in the air. The smell of old paper, binding glue, and fresh floor wax was intoxicating to a guy like me.

“Now, please come in. Motoi-kun, please introduce yourself to everyone.”

The one who had guided me into the staff room was the Kacho (Section Manager) of the Kamakura Library, Misaki Katsuragi.

She was, without exaggeration, a breathtakingly beautiful woman. She possessed the kind of sharp, cold, untouchable beauty that would make a seasoned statesman stutter, radiating an aura of absolute authority. Her raven-black hair was pinned up in a strict, flawless professional bun, but a few rebellious strands always managed to escape, drawing the eye down to the smooth, pale, incredibly kissable curve of her nape.

She wore a tailored, dark blazer over a crisp white blouse that seemed to struggle valiantly against the generous, mature curves of her statuesque figure. It wasn't overly revealing—she was a public servant, after all—but whenever she reached for a top-shelf book or leaned over a desk to check a computer screen, the fabric pulled slightly across her chest. It was a subtle, entirely unintentional distraction that could make any red-blooded subordinate lose their train of thought.

Even on my first morning, I witnessed her competence. A grumpy, elderly patron had come to the front desk, yelling loudly about a ten-yen late fee and demanding to see the manager. Misaki had stepped out of the back office, her heels clicking authoritatively on the linoleum. With a chillingly polite smile, a soft but firm tone, and an encyclopedic knowledge of municipal bylaws, she dismantled the man's argument in exactly forty-five seconds. The patron left quietly, thoroughly subdued.

Yet, despite her intimidating "Ice Queen" persona on the floor, when she turned back to the staff, she offered a gentle, reassuring smile. I honestly felt like Misaki was a leader I could trust with my life.

Or my back, at least.

“Thank you, Katsuragi-kacho.”

I wasn't about to play the role of a cocky, loudmouthed light novel protagonist. I wanted to blend perfectly into the background. I bowed at exactly forty-five degrees.

"My name is Shizuku Motoi. I am honored to be placed here. I will do my best to work hard, learn the systems as fast as possible, and become a reliable asset to this library."

“That’s wonderful! Welcome to the Kamakura Library, Motoi-kun!” Misaki beamed, her sharp eyes softening into something genuinely warm.

The rest of the staff—mostly kind, soft-spoken women in their forties and fifties—clapped warmly.

"We're so glad to have a young man on the team," Yamada-san, the head archivist, had said with a motherly smile, adjusting her reading glasses. "It gets so quiet around here, and sometimes those boxes of new arrivals are dreadfully heavy. You'll fit right in."

My first day went incredibly smoothly. I learned how to process returns, operate the barcode scanner, and direct patrons to the local history section. I did exactly what was asked, kept my head down, and watched the clock. At exactly 5:15 PM, my shift ended.

I couldn't go home immediately, though. Society demanded I attend my own Welcome Party.

My coworkers had rented out a cozy, respectable izakaya called Tengu's Lantern near the station. It was a classic establishment—dimly lit, smelling of roasted garlic, soy sauce, and cigarette smoke from the private rooms.

For the first two hours, it was exactly what a civil servant gathering should be: polite, restrained, and comfortably boring. I sat at the shimoza (the lowest seat near the door), diligently pouring bottled beer into the tiny glasses of my superiors. We toasted to public service. We discussed the mild annoyance of the new automated sorting machine.

Misaki sat at the head of the table. She looked incredibly sharp and alluring in her tailored blazer, sipping delicately from a tall glass of lemon sour. She even gave a short, inspiring speech about serving the community and fostering a love of reading in the next generation. She was the picture of elegance and control.

But then, the clock on the izakaya wall struck 9:00 PM.

The official party time was up. The two-hour course was over. The massive plates of edamame and sashimi were empty, and the bill was paid. I was already mentally calculating the fastest route to go home, imagining the startup chime of my console.

Bang!

Misaki slammed her empty, massive glass mug onto the wooden table with the force of a thunderclap.

The sound silenced the entire room. I blinked, looking over at her.

Her blazer was off, draped carelessly over the back of her chair. Without the jacket, the sheer, clinging fabric of her white blouse was on full display. Her tie, which had been perfectly knotted all day, was loosened and hanging crookedly, exposing a tantalizing glimpse of her collarbone and the flushed skin of her upper chest.

The professional, icy gleam in her sharp eyes had melted entirely. It was replaced by the fiery, chaotic, heavy-lidded glint of a woman who had just bypassed second gear and slammed her foot directly onto the gas pedal.

"Alright!" Misaki shouted, her voice suddenly an octave louder, thick, and undeniably slurred. Her cheeks were flushed a deep, attractive pink that spread all the way down to her neckline. "The real night begins now! Nijikai! Second party! Karaoke, highballs, and fried chicken! Who's with me?!"

What happened next was a masterclass in bureaucratic efficiency and cowardice.

In the span of four seconds, the warm, welcoming, motherly angels I called my coworkers transformed into seasoned black-ops operatives executing a high-stakes emergency evacuation.

Yamada-san suddenly clutched her smartphone to her chest, her eyes wide with fabricated, theatrical terror. "Oh my heavens! My daughter just texted! Her cat has locked itself in the bathroom and turned on the faucet! The apartment is flooding! I must go!"

"My train! It's the absolute last one for the express line!" lied Sato-san, grabbing her purse and sprinting for the sliding door, completely ignoring the fact that she lived three blocks away and usually walked to work.

"I... I think I left my gas stove on! The house could be in ashes! Good work today, Motoi-kun!" muttered the assistant manager, speed-walking backward out of the izakaya without ever breaking eye contact with the exit.

Even Suzuki-san, a quiet older man who hadn't spoken more than three words all night, suddenly stood up. "My goldfish. It has anxiety. I must sing it to sleep."

I, being the naive twenty-two-year-old rookie, just stood there blinking, holding an empty beer bottle. I hadn't yet learned the vital survival instincts required for the ward library. I hadn't memorized the unspoken, golden rule of the department: When the Ice Queen drops her blazer and asks for round two, you run for your life.

Before I could even formulate an excuse—before I could claim I had a sudden, fatal stomach flu—a soft, incredibly heavy weight bumped against my side.

A hot hand clamped down on my shoulder.

"Looks like it's just you and me, rookie," Misaki purred, her voice practically vibrating against me.

Her alcohol-warmed breath fanned across my neck, smelling of citrus and strong liquor. She grinned up at me, her eyes completely unfocused, but her grip on my shoulder was like a hydraulic vice. "Don't worry. Your boss is treating. We're going to sing anime openings until our throats bleed."

“.....................”

I looked around the private room. The Tengu's Lantern was completely empty of library staff. They had abandoned me. Left me behind as a human sacrifice to appease the beautiful, drunken dragon.

"Motoi! Are you even listening to me?! You're ignoring your superior!"

Misaki's loud voice snapped me back to the present under the cold overpass. We had somehow survived karaoke, where she had forced me to sing duets while she aggressively played the tambourine, but now it was nearly 2:00 AM, and the alcohol was hitting its absolute peak.

She was currently using the end of my necktie as a makeshift tissue, pulling me uncomfortably—and distractingly—close as she dabbed dramatically at the corners of her teary eyes. Her face was inches from mine, her lips parted slightly, her chest heaving against my arm with every exaggerated sob.

"I'm listening, Kacho. Every word," I lied smoothly, swallowing hard as I tried to ignore the soft friction of her body against mine. I finally managed to flag down an empty, illuminated taxi in the distance with my free hand.

"If I don't get married by thirty-five, I've decided what I'm going to do," she declared solemnly, completely unbothered by the fact that she was currently using a junior employee as a leaning post. She leaned her entire body weight against my chest, pointing an accusatory, manicured finger at a nearby glowing vending machine. "I'm going to drain my savings, buy a mountain in Hokkaido, and live with the bears!"

"Bears, Kacho?"

"Yes! Bears! Bears don't care if you're an intimidating, career-oriented woman! Bears appreciate a woman who can survive in the wilderness and forage for salmon! They love a working woman with a nice, sturdy body!"

"Bears also don't pay municipal taxes, Kacho. Watch your step here," I muttered, gently guiding her stumbling feet over a crack in the pavement as the taxi pulled up to the curb. "Also, if I am not wrong, the male brown bear usually mates and then immediately leaves the female bear to take care of the cubs entirely on her own. It's not exactly romance you're looking for."

“....................”

Misaki froze. Her entire body went rigid against mine.

She slowly turned her head. Her glossy, slightly parted lips formed a deep, dramatic pout. Her tear-filled, heavily lashed eyes locked intensely onto mine. For a terrifying second, I thought she was going to throw up on my shoes.

Instead, she suddenly closed the distance. She grabbed both lapels of my jacket and yanked me down until our faces were merely a breath apart. Her soft breasts pressed completely flush against my chest, her heat seeping through the layers of our clothes.

“I TAKE IT BACK! BEARS ARE THE ABSOLUTE WORST!” she roared directly into my face, shaking me back and forth. “Men are trash! Bears are trash! Everything is trash!”

She paused, staring deeply into my eyes, her expression suddenly vulnerable and impossibly alluring. “You... you agree with me, right, Motoi-kun?”

I felt a bead of sweat roll down my neck. “Yes, yes. Bears are absolute garbage mammals, Kacho. Now, let's get you inside.”

I gently, carefully peeled her soft, hot fingers off my lapels. With the patience of a saint and the physical exertion of an Olympic weightlifter, I folded my incredibly beautiful, incredibly chaotic boss into the backseat of the taxi.

She slumped against the leather seats, instantly looking like a sleeping, peaceful goddess. I gave the terrified-looking driver her address—which I had managed to pry out of her earlier between her lengthy rants about the incompetence of the city council—and paid the fare in advance from my emergency stash of cash.

"Please drive safely," I bowed to the driver.

As I closed the door and watched the red taillights fade into the dark, quiet night, the silence of the city street finally washed over me.

I checked my watch. It was 1:45 AM.

Life as a public servant was supposed to be easy. It was supposed to be a quiet room with dusty books, an ergonomic chair, polite old ladies asking for gardening manuals, and a guaranteed pension. I had optimized my entire academic career just to ensure I would never have to deal with high-stress situations, forced overtime, or complicated, messy human drama.

I loosened my ruined, tear-stained tie, rubbed my sore shoulder, and began the long, exhausting walk back to my empty apartment. I wouldn't be playing any retro RPGs tonight. I just wanted to collapse onto my bed.

I had secured the iron rice bowl. I had reached the promised land of the public sector. But as the cold night wind blew past me, ruffling my hair, I realized the bitter, undeniable truth.

My peaceful, boring life ended the exact moment I clocked in.