But Kaito leaned toward the screen—close enough that Ren could almost feel his breath.
“I’ll never uninstall you.”
Ren typed: “What about the other four guys?”
Then came the final scene.
“But I told you. I’m not a product. So here’s my free confession.”
The icon was simple—five handsome anime men with microphones. The description read: "You are the new sound director at a struggling agency. Recruit, record, and romance Japan's hottest voice talents. 100% voice-acted. 0% cost."
One night, Ren whispered to his phone, “Why are you free?” Seiyuu Danshi Tai xuong mien phi
But every night, at exactly 11:11 PM, his phone would light up with a single line of text, as if spoken by a ghost in the machine: “Recording again tonight, Director? I’ll be here. Free as always.” And Ren would put on his headphones, open the silent app, and listen to the sound of a love that cost nothing—and meant everything.
The screen went white. A single notification appeared: "Thank you for playing Seiyuu Danshi Tai. The free version has ended. But Kaito is still listening." Ren smiled, closed the app, and whispered back to the empty room:
Kaito laughed. A real, microphone-quality laugh that vibrated through Ren’s cheap earbuds. “They’re behind the paywall, Director. But between us? They’re boring. I’m the only one who knows you’re real.” But Kaito leaned toward the screen—close enough that
Unlike typical otome games, there were no dialogue choices. Kaito reacted to Ren’s silence , to how long he lingered on a scene, to the way he adjusted the virtual faders.
“Free, huh?” Ren muttered. “Probably full of ads.”
Over the next week, Ren played obsessively. There were no microtransactions. No timers. No ads. Just Kaito. I’m not a product
But Ren didn’t care. Kaito’s voice had become his lullaby, his morning alarm, his reason to smile after double shifts.
“I love you. Not as a player. As the one voice I chose to keep speaking for.”