Fujino was silently mourning him inside, but the kids had focused on the fact that the man was a celebrity.
"Since he's famous, and such an experienced writer, he must live in a mansion, right?!"
"Then he must have his own personal chef at home!"
"And he'll definitely treat us to a lavish dinner!"
"Maybe there'll even be a magic show!"
Listening to the children's expectations, Fujino fell silent.
Did these kids have some bizarre fantasy about freelance writers?
Truly famous literary creators were authors and journalists.
What writer would call himself a freelance writer?
Even if they did, it was only modesty. If you believed it, you were an idiot.
To put it bluntly, freelance writers were no different from freelancers. It was just a label invented to boost employment statistics and give a little dignity to unsuccessful people making a living through odd writing jobs, so others would at least know what they did.
Maybe there really were rich guys among them.
But would a rich guy interview you kids?
Fujino saw through the man at a glance, but the children still held out hope.
Fujino could not bear to shatter their innocent fantasies.
Then a rundown apartment promptly crushed their dreams of freeloading.
This freelance writer lived in a six-tatami apartment, practically low-rent housing for working-class laborers. The average monthly rent was only twenty to thirty thousand yen—ridiculously cheap. In Tokyo, if there had been a murder there, the rent could even be cut in half, then cut in half again.
After all, a single trip to Tropical Land cost nearly ten thousand yen.
Rounded up, it was basically free housing.
"This place is way too small..."
"Wasn't he supposed to be famous? Why does he live in such a dump?"
"Looks like you prepared for nothing...