December 28.
Akasaka Prince Hotel.
The wrap party for Winter Sunflower.
The banquet hall glittered with gold and crystal.
A champagne tower swayed dangerously high.
The bubble economy hadn’t reached its absolute peak yet, but the television station’s display already carried a clear whiff of extravagance.
On the central stage, flashbulbs kept popping.
Matsumoto Kazuya had his arm around the female lead, face flushed with wine and success.
Sponsors and network executives clustered around them, glasses clinking, compliments flowing.
Shin stood at the buffet with a plate in hand, tucked behind a pillar, methodically working through a thick slice of roast beef.
The entertainment world had its own physics: the spotlight only ever hit the center position.
As male third lead, pushing forward now to offer toasts would only mark him as someone who didn’t read the room.
Better to focus on filling his stomach while he could.
“Not going up front to show your face?” A slightly slurred voice spoke beside him.
Shin set down his fork, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and turned with a small bow.
“Producer Ishida.” Total producer Ishida held half a cigar between his fingers, face flushed red.
He’d clearly had quite a bit to drink.
He glanced at Shin still cutting his steak, tone casual.
“Director Suzuki mentioned you again just now.
He said you’re the most ‘film-saving’ newcomer he’s seen in years.
No fuss, easy to work with.” “Easy to work with.” In the industry that was the highest praise you could give a supporting actor — and also the most ruthless.
It meant high cost-performance ratio.
It meant strong tool value.
“All thanks to the director’s guidance,” Shin answered, professional as ever.
“Save the polite talk for the reporters.” Ishida flicked ash from his cigar and leaned in a step.
He didn’t even bother lowering his voice — no one in this corner was paying attention anyway.
“Suzuki’s an old stubborn bastard.
He insisted I give you a shot.
Says the NHK taiga drama Kasuga no Tsubone next year is short on people.
He wants you to test for the young samurai role — Inaba Masasada.” Shin’s heart gave a small jolt.
So Director Suzuki had pushed hard for him.
“It’s only a supporting role with limited scenes, but it’s NHK.
The threshold is terrifyingly high.
Even though Suzuki’s directing the B unit over there, he doesn’t have the authority to cast anyone directly.” Ishida reached into his inner jacket pocket without much enthusiasm and pulled out a folded slip of paper.
He tossed it onto Shin’s tray like he was completing an unavoidable favor.
“This is a pass from the casting group.
I’ve put in a word, but that’s all I’m doing.
Next Wednesday, ten in the morning, Shibuya NHK Broadcasting Center.” Ishida looked at him.
There wasn’t much expectation in his eyes — more like he was simply discharging a social obligation.
“Whether you get it or not is on you.
If you don’t make it, don’t mention my name.
I still have face to keep over there.” That was Ishida’s survival philosophy.
He was willing to do a favor that cost him nothing, but he would never take on risk.
If Shin succeeded, Ishida could claim he’d helped a junior.
If Shin failed, it had nothing to do with him.
Shin picked up the pass, expression calm.
“Understood.
Having this entry ticket is already more than enough.
Thank you for going through the trouble.” “Mm.” Ishida answered, his gaze already drifting toward a new advertising client who had just walked in.
He gave Shin’s shoulder a light pat — more like brushing dust off a coat — then turned with his wine glass and melted back into the lively crowd.
… The party was only halfway through when Shin left early.
Outside the hotel, cold rain mixed with sleet had begun to fall over Tokyo.
He raised his hand and hailed a taxi.
“Nakano.” The car’s heater was running strong.
Shin leaned back against the seat and watched the blurred neon lights slide past the window.
Ishida’s attitude just now had been realistic.
Clear-eyed.
In this circle, no one became your protective umbrella for free.
That pass was only an entry ticket.
Once inside, whether he lived or died depended entirely on his own ability.
Half an hour later.
Nakano Ward.
A quiet apartment building.
Shin took out his key and unlocked the door.
This was the new place he had moved into just yesterday.
Compared to the old drafty wooden apartment, this was only a one-room unit, but it had its own private bathroom and windows that didn’t leak.
He walked into the bathroom and turned on the tap.
Steam rose.
The moment he sank into the bathtub, the sense of security wrapped in hot water finally let the nerves that had been stretched tight for three months relax.
He reached for a can of beer on the rack beside him and took a long pull.
Tomorrow he needed to go to the library and look up information on “Inaba Masasada.” He should also give the [Screenwriter’s Glasses] a good cleaning.
Since he had the ticket in hand, there was no reason to come back empty-handed.
“Haa…” He let out a long breath, closed his eyes, and let the steam blur his vision.