Late March 1989.
Although the cherry blossom front hadn’t fully reached Tokyo yet, the NHK Hall in Shibuya had been unusually lively these past few days.
Today was the recording of a large-scale charity event called “Voices of Spring.” Even though NHK was normally known for its serious tone, these big annual events still invited plenty of popular idols from commercial networks to boost ratings.
Backstage rest area.
People coming and going.
Idol groups in flashy stage outfits mixed with traditional enka singers in dark kimono and stern-faced taiga drama actors, creating a strange floating-world painting of the entertainment industry.
Shin stood by the vending machine in the hallway, wearing a well-tailored black suit.
He was here representing the Kasuga no Tsubone production for the promotional segment.
As his role in the drama had grown heavier, his standing within NHK had risen accordingly.
He even had his own private dressing room now.
“…Kanai-kun, please.
This really won’t work.
This is company funds.
If they find out…” A suppressed, tearful female voice came from the blind spot of the fire escape next to the vending machine.
Shin’s hand, holding a canned coffee, paused.
That voice was far too familiar.
He turned slightly, using the shadow of the wall to look toward the corner.
Akina Nakamori was leaning against the wall, face pale.
Standing in front of her was a man in a gaudy white suit, with permed hair, chewing gum.
Kanai.
A top-tier idol, the dream lover of countless girls — and the leech who was slowly draining Akina dry.
“What do you mean, company funds?
Isn’t that money you earned?” Kanai propped one hand against the wall, wearing that nauseating, self-satisfied smile.
“Akina, my racing team is short exactly this much for a new engine.
Once I win the championship, I’ll publicly thank you in front of the media.
That’s our shared dream, isn’t it?” “But… the money from last time still hasn’t…” “Tch.
Are you keeping score with me now?” Kanai’s expression darkened instantly, his tone turning vicious.
“You weren’t like this before.
Did you hear something from someone lately?
Huh?” Akina shrank back, not daring to speak.
Her eyes were already red.
Shin stood in the shadows, his gaze turning cold.
The fingers holding the coffee can tightened slightly.
The aluminum let out a faint crack.
This was the man who had driven Akina to despair in the middle of the night.
They had no real relationship, yet because Kanai was the prince of capital, Akina had to take the bullets for him — even getting dragged into baseless scandals.
A complete piece of shit.
In a hot-blooded manga, the protagonist would charge in and punch the scumbag right now.
But in the Japanese entertainment industry of 1989, that wouldn’t just fail — it would destroy Shin himself and even brand Akina with the label of “messy private life.” Kanai’s agency held massive power.
While Shin had secured his footing in the taiga drama, in front of real capital he was still just “a supporting actor with some skill.” Direct confrontation was the worst move.
He needed to use “momentum.” Shin’s eyes quickly scanned the busy backstage corridor.
Idols, backup dancers, crew… none of them were enough to intimidate Kanai.
Suddenly, his gaze locked onto the far end of the hallway.
An elderly man in a gray kimono, silver hair, with the imposing presence of a lion, was striding forward with two assistants.
That was Ogata Ken.
A living fossil of Japanese cinema, famous for his explosive temper and uncompromising integrity.
He had zero tolerance for the current wave of idols who lacked both skill and artistic ethics.
It was said he had once scolded a popular young actor so badly on set that the man dropped to his knees.
More importantly, he was also one of the special “heavyweights” invited to the Kasuga no Tsubone production.
Although he didn’t have many scenes with Shin, he greatly appreciated Shin’s professionalism and respect for tradition.
“Borrow your blade for a moment.” The corner of Shin’s mouth lifted in a faint, cold smile.
He straightened his tie, tossed the coffee can into the trash, and strode toward the old man with long steps.
His route had been precisely calculated.
He didn’t head straight for the blind spot.
Instead, he walked down the center of the corridor, perfectly positioned to draw Ogata’s attention toward that corner.
When they were still five meters apart, Shin stopped, sank his voice , and called out in the deep, penetrating tone unique to taiga drama actors: “Ogata-sensei!
Good afternoon!!” The shout carried strong breath support and echoed through most of the backstage hallway.
Kanai, who had been harassing Akina, jolted in shock.
His movements froze.
Ogata Ken also stopped walking, his gaze sharp as lightning as he looked over.
“Oh, it’s Kitahara.” The old man’s tense expression softened slightly when he saw it was the respectful junior.
“What are you shouting for?
Practicing your projection?” Shin maintained a perfect ninety-degree bow and didn’t straighten up right away.
Instead, he spoke loudly: “My deepest apologies!
I got too excited seeing you, sensei!
breathing technique’ you taught me last time — I tried it during rehearsal just now and the effect was excellent!
I came specifically to thank you!” As he spoke, he straightened up, turned slightly to the side, and made a polite “please, after you” gesture — while “accidentally” shifting his body just enough to expose the scene in the blind spot directly to Ogata’s line of sight.
Now visible was a man in a flashy white suit pinning a fragile-looking girl against the wall, posture disrespectful, expression arrogant.
Ogata Ken’s eyebrows immediately furrowed into a deep “川” shape.
As a representative of the old-school Showa actors, what he hated most in this life was this kind of behavior — using a bit of fame to mess around with women backstage and bully people.
“Who is that?” Ogata’s voice wasn’t loud, but it carried a chilling pressure.
“This is NHK backstage, not a Kabukichō nightclub!” The words landed like thunder, clearly reaching the corner.
Kanai whipped his head around.
When he saw the silver-haired old man glaring at him with obvious fury, his face drained from arrogant to deathly pale.
In the Japanese entertainment industry, the hierarchy was strict.
Kanai might be a top idol, but in front of a national treasure like Ogata Ken, he was nothing.
If this senior said even one casual line to the media — “Idols these days have no shame” — half of Kanai’s sponsors would vanish overnight.
“O-Ogata-sensei…” Kanai reflexively dropped his arm from the wall and bowed like a startled lapdog, forcing a servile smile onto his face.
“Hello!
I-I’m Kanai from Johnny’s!
We were… we were just running lines!
Yes!
Running lines!” “Running lines?” Ogata let out a cold snort, his gaze scraping over Kanai’s gaudy suit like a blade.
“Dressed like that to run lines?
Are you playing a host?” Low laughter rippled from nearby staff who had been passing by.
Kanai’s face turned the color of liver.
Cold sweat ran down his temples.
He didn’t dare talk back.
He could only keep bowing.
“I’m sorry!
I disturbed you!
I’m leaving right now!
Right now!” With that, he didn’t even glance at Akina.
He tucked his tail between his legs and scurried into the crowd, looking like a beaten dog.
The crisis was over.
Ogata retracted his disgusted gaze.
When he looked at Shin again, his eyes had softened into appreciation.
“Kitahara, stay away from people like that from now on.
An actor should treasure his reputation.” “Yes, sensei.
Your lesson is well taken.” Shin answered respectfully, his face showing no extra emotion.
“I’m going.
Still have to check the run-through.” Ogata waved and left with his assistants.
He had no idea he had just been used as a “gun” by this seemingly honest junior.
Or perhaps, even if he had known, he would have been happy to fire that shot in the name of cleaning up the industry’s morals.
The corridor returned to its normal bustle.
Shin straightened up and adjusted his cuffs.
He walked past the blind spot without so much as a glance.
As if the corner had been empty the whole time.
Akina was still leaning against the wall, clutching her skirt tightly, her heartbeat not yet calmed.
She watched that familiar black back pass in front of her.
He didn’t look at her.
But in the moment they brushed past each other — Click.
A crisp metallic sound rang out.
The sound of a Zippo lighter being flipped open and closed.
It was quiet, almost lost in the noisy backstage chatter.
But to Akina, it landed like an anchor, instantly steadying her panicked soul.
It was a signal only the two of them understood.
Akina watched the retreating back.
The tears she had been holding back in front of that piece of trash finally spilled over.
But this time, they weren’t from fear.
They came from a quiet, indescribable sense of relief.
She wiped her eyes, took a deep breath, and straightened her spine again.
Fixed her expression and stepped out of the shadows.
She was Akina Nakamori.
She still had to go on stage and sing that defiant song, The Shipwreck.
Meanwhile, Shin had already reached the end of the corridor.
He took a mint from his pocket and popped it into his mouth.
Old schemers didn’t need applause.
They only needed results.