Instrument Street.
This was the area in Tokyo with the highest concentration of music stores.
Guitars and basses of every kind hung outside the shops along both sides of the street.
Shin had come out today with the prop master, Uncle Sato, to help the crew.
The script called for a scene where the male lead played guitar.
The director wanted a folk acoustic that “looked like it had some history.” While Uncle Sato haggled with the shop owner over the rental price, Shin wandered around inside.
The store was called “Woodstock.” In one corner, second-hand instrument accessories were piled up.
Shin casually picked up a used guitar pick sitting in a glass bowl on the counter.
It was pure white, the edges already rounded and smooth from use.
Clearly well-loved.
[Equippable Item Discovered (Common)] [Item Name: Wandering Singer’s Guitar Pick] [Status: Worn (Excellent Feel)] [Effect: Street Resonance — Your playing and singing more easily create a sense of immersion in listeners] “The feel really is good.” Shin pinched it between his fingers.
That perfect amount of friction brought back memories.
In his previous life at Hengdian, he had practiced guitar seriously for a while just to land special extra roles.
He was no master, but good enough to handle casual playing and singing without any problem.
He pulled out a fifty-yen coin and bought the pick on the spot.
… 2 p.m.
Back at Studio 6.
The atmosphere was tense.
“Cut!
Again!” The director’s voice carried barely contained frustration.
“Matsumoto-kun, that’s an F chord.
Is your index finger not getting enough to eat?
All I’m hearing are muffled notes.” In the center of the studio, male lead Matsumoto Kazuya held the newly rented guitar, sweat pouring down his face.
This scene had the male lead playing and singing a love song to the female lead in the park.
As a popular idol, Matsumoto was used to carrying a guitar on stage and looking cool.
That was usually just for show or with a backing track.
But now they needed real audio recording and tight close-ups of his hands.
His well-maintained, soft hands immediately gave him away.
“D-Director…” Matsumoto grimaced in pain and shook out his left hand, red marks already forming where the strings had cut into it.
“The strings are too hard, and I’ve had way too many schedules lately.
I really haven’t had time to practice… How about we just use a hand double?” He was smart.
Better to step down gracefully than keep embarrassing himself.
“A hand double?” The director irritably ran a hand through his hair.
“Where am I supposed to find one right now?
By the time a professional double gets here, traffic alone will eat up two hours.
Today’s entire shooting schedule will go to waste.” He checked his watch, already considering whether to drop the close-up and shoot it wide instead.
The set had reached a deadlock.
Everyone knew Matsumoto couldn’t do it, but no one dared say anything.
Shin stood at the side, the white pick he had just bought held between his fingers.
He hesitated for a moment.
He hadn’t wanted to get involved, but if this scene didn’t get finished, the entire crew would be stuck doing overtime tonight.
And this was genuinely a good chance to show he had more to offer.
“Director.” Shin stepped forward.
His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried clearly in the quiet studio.
“If you don’t mind, I can try.” Everyone turned to look at him.
The director blinked.
“You can play guitar?” “I learned a little before,” Shin said modestly.
“I’m familiar with the chords in this song.” Matsumoto looked like he had been granted a pardon.
He immediately handed over the guitar, face full of relief and smiles.
“Since Kitahara-kun wants to try, please go ahead.
The strings really do cut into your hands — be careful.” He was more than happy to pass the hot potato.
Shin took the guitar and sat down in the spot originally meant for the male lead.
He adjusted his posture and held the old white pick between his thumb and index finger.
His left hand found the neck.
That familiar sensation returned through his fingertips.
No system prompt was needed — his body’s muscle memory woke up on its own.
He tested the sound.
“Deng——” A clear, full E chord rang out in the studio with zero buzzing.
The crew members who had been whispering fell silent instantly.
That level of clean tone was definitely more than “learned a little.” The director’s eyes lit up.
He immediately waved his hand.
“Camera, push in for close-up!
Hand detail!
Sound, get ready!” The clapperboard dropped.
Shin’s fingers began moving across the strings.
He played the classic Showa-era folk song “Kanda-gawa.” The arpeggiated chords flowed like water.
With the old pick’s help, the simple melody carried a subtle narrative quality — like a down-on-his-luck singer softly crooning on a late-night street.
Matsumoto stood behind the monitor, watching the screen and those long, skilled fingers.
His mouth fell slightly open.
He suddenly felt a little embarrassed.
His earlier sawing-wood noise, compared to this smooth playing, felt like public humiliation.
The song ended.
The last notes lingered in the air.
“Good!” The director shouted with excitement.
“This hand double is perfect!
This is exactly the level I imagined for the male lead!” Then he seemed to realize the comment might wound Matsumoto’s pride and quickly added, “Uh… Matsumoto-kun’s emotional performance was also very good.
It’s just that the instrument part really takes practice.
Since we have a perfect hand double, let’s move on to the next setup!” The crisis was resolved.
The crew got back to work.
Shin put down the guitar and slipped the pick back into his pocket.
“Kitahara-kun, you’ve been hiding your talents.” Prop master Uncle Sato came over to collect the guitar and quietly gave him a thumbs-up.
“Just lucky.
I practiced more before.” Shin smiled.
When they wrapped for the day, the production manager specifically sought Shin out.
“Kitahara-san, this is your ‘technical allowance.'” He handed over a white envelope, noticeably more polite than usual.
“Approved by the director.
Standard rate for a professional hand double — thirty thousand yen total.
Thank you for saving the shoot today.” Thirty thousand yen.
For five minutes of playing guitar.
Shin took the envelope and felt its thickness.
It was enough to cover a month’s gas and electricity bills.
“Skills are never a burden.” He tucked the envelope away and walked out of the studio in a good mood.