The streets of Shibuya were thick with night.
Shin had just wrapped the print shoot for the “Midnight” canned coffee campaign.
He politely turned down the brand executive’s invitation to celebrate with drinks in Ginza.
All he wanted was to go home and soak in a hot bath.
To match today’s “urban elite” ad theme, the stylist had paired him with a deep gray Burberry-style trench coat.
After the shoot, the brand department head had grandly gifted the coat to him as a “small present.” In this bubble economy, that single coat was worth two months’ salary for an average salaryman.
The cut was excellent.
Shin stood in front of a shop window on the street, adjusting the collar.
The glass reflected a tall, straight-backed man.
The regular schedule these past weeks had improved his complexion enough to carry the expensive outfit.
As he passed the entrance to the TBS underground parking garage, a burst of noisy commotion caught his attention.
Dozens of reporters with cameras swarmed a black van like sharks that had smelled blood.
Flashbulbs exploded, turning the dim garage bright as day.
“Ms.
Nakamori!
Is it true Mr.
Kanai met his new lover in Roppongi last night?” “What’s your response to the rumor that Mr.
Kanai embezzled funds from your agency?” “Ms.
Nakamori!
Look this way!
Please say something!” In the center of the crowd, the slender figure was being jostled back and forth.
Akina Nakamori kept her head down, sunglasses on, trying to push through with her manager and two security guards.
But there were too many reporters.
Microphones were shoved almost to her face.
Her face was pale, lips pressed tight.
She was clearly at the breaking point from this daily harassment.
The guards shouted “Make way!” at the top of their lungs, but their voices were drowned out.
Chaos reigned.
A stampede looked seconds away.
Shin stopped on the steps.
He stood at the outer edge, script bag still in hand.
Should he help her?
Before, he would have felt powerless.
But now, because of that lighter, his own situation had changed… Shin straightened the collar of his trench coat and pulled the Screenwriter’s Glasses from his pocket, slipping them on.
[Equip Activated: Focus +20%] He didn’t expect any magical boost.
He just wanted to stay calm and think clearly.
He adjusted the frames.
His mind sharpened instantly.
After years in the business he hadn’t eaten pork but he’d seen plenty of pigs run.
He knew exactly how to play the part of someone “holding the power of life and death” at the top.
The expensive coat on his back made for perfect camouflage.
He intended to use every inch of it.
He strode down the steps and went straight to the head of the security detail keeping order.
“You’re the shift supervisor here?” Shin’s voice was low, no extra emotion, just the right edge of irritation at a disrupted workflow.
“This chaos has gone on for five minutes.
Why hasn’t B exit been cleared yet?” The security chief blinked.
He looked at the man in the high-end trench coat and glasses, face cold and stern.
This “talk process, talk efficiency” aura was exactly like the hot-tempered senior producers inside the station.
Unconsciously the guard straightened his back.
“V-Very sorry!
There are too many reporters, we…” “I don’t want excuses.
If a stampede happens, can your security company handle the responsibility?” Shin frowned, glanced at his watch, then pointed to a gap on the left.
“Take three men and split off the two magazine crews on the left.
Tell the driver not to just stand there — back the car closer to the exit.
You’ve got two minutes.” “Yes!
Right away!” The security chief was startled by the word “responsibility.” He snapped a salute on reflex and turned to bark orders.
“Tanaka!
Sato!
With me to the left!
Move!” That shout, combined with the guards’ sudden burst of action to avoid blame, tore a hole in the previously airtight circle.
Shin didn’t stop.
He walked through the opening, still radiating that “I’m working, civilians stay back” energy.
The reporters saw this commanding figure enter and instinctively made way, whispering guesses about which big shot they’d never seen before.
Shin reached Akina.
She was hunched, like a frightened quail.
“The car’s at Exit 3.” Shin didn’t look at her.
He spoke to her manager, who was already panicking, in a calm tone like he was discussing tomorrow’s schedule.
“Don’t lower your head.
Walk faster.
Don’t let them catch you crying — that’ll only excite them more.” The manager snapped out of it and nodded rapidly.
“Yes!
Yes!” Akina jerked her head up.
Through the sunglasses she saw that familiar profile.
It’s you?!
Right now Shin, in his sharp trench coat, was blocking the densest flashbulbs, using professional skill to shield her from the greedy lenses.
“This way — bring the car over!” Shin waved at the driver.
The van finally slid forward.
The door opened.
Akina climbed in with her manager’s help.
In the last second before the door closed, she took off her sunglasses.
Her red, swollen eyes looked deeply at Shin standing outside.
Shin didn’t look back.
He was adjusting his cuffs, as if he’d just handled a minor set inconvenience.
“Bang.” The door shut.
The van drove off.
Left behind were reporters staring at each other, empty-handed.
“Who the hell was that?” “Some new TBS producer?” “Tch, what presence.
One look from him and I didn’t dare hit the shutter.” Shin ignored the chatter.
He took off the glasses, slipped them back into his pocket.
The oppressive cold sternness faded.
He was just a slightly tired actor again.
He tightened the trench coat and turned toward the subway station.
… Nine o’clock that night.
Shin sat at the low table in his apartment, flipping through a copy of Tokyo Real Estate Information.
A cup of hot tea sat on the table.
The fan heater hummed at his feet.
“Beep beep beep—” The black pager on the corner of the table suddenly went off.
He’d bought it recently to make it easier to receive work calls.
The number was only given to a few people — Ota and some directors.
Shin picked it up and looked at the screen.
An unfamiliar number, followed by a short line: [Thanks — A] A.
Akina.
Shin looked at the words.
In his mind he saw the embarrassed but stubborn eyes from the parking garage earlier.
She must have asked someone for his number.
For a top idol currently at the center of a media storm, taking the time to send even a single thank-you was already rare.
If he were a twenty-year-old kid, he’d probably be excited enough to call back right away or start spinning some epic romance in his head.
But Shin only smiled.
He didn’t dwell on it.
He set the pager back on the table.
He picked up the red pen and circled a photo of an apartment with a loft in the magazine.
“A place with a skylight wouldn’t be bad.
Should feel nice on rainy days.”