The next morning.
Nerima Ward.
A cramped old apartment barely six tatami mats in size.
A hangover-style headache dragged Shin Kitahara awake early.
The rain outside had stopped.
The sunlight slipping through the window carried the sharp chill unique to deep autumn.
He walked into the narrow bathroom shirtless and splashed cold water hard across his face.
When he lifted his head, droplets ran down his jaw.
The mirror showed a young, firm face that was still a little pale.
It was a standard handsome face — thick brows, straight nose, clean lines.
But in an era ruled by idols, that face, though good-looking, felt oddly “uninteresting” because it was too perfectly symmetrical.
Shin gave the mirror a smile.
Textbook.
Sunny.
Straight out of a toothpaste commercial.
And nothing more.
No aftertaste.
One glance and it was gone.
After decades on sets in his previous life, he knew exactly how lethal that lack of recognition was for an actor.
“So… what about now?” Shin drew a slow breath and let his mind sink into the pale blue system panel.
In the equipment slot, the [Songstress’s Abandoned Silver Zippo] floated quietly, glowing with a soft purple light.
“Equip.” The moment the thought formed, there were no flashy effects.
Shin only felt a gentle squeeze around his heart, followed by a sour, bitter ache that spread through his chest.
It was the despair and loneliness Akina Nakamori had carried last night in that single instant.
He looked at the mirror again.
His features hadn’t changed.
Even his hair was the same.
But the person staring back had changed.
Those clear but slightly empty eyes now seemed veiled in a thin mist.
Even with a blank expression, the gaze looked like it held thousands of unspoken words — like a child left behind in the rain, or a wanderer who had already seen every ugly side of the world.
A broken kind of beauty seeped from between his brows.
If someone passed him on the street right now, they would probably think: What happened to this man?
Why does he look so sad?
“This is… atmosphere.” Shin touched his own face.
Under the [Confession Behind the Mask] effect, even the smallest tug at the corner of his mouth stopped being a bright toothpaste-ad smile.
It became something bitter and forced, the kind of smile that made people’s chests tighten.
“And I’ve still got my past life’s skill with dialogue…” Shin shut off the faucet.
A spark lit behind his eyes.
… 10 a.m.
Shibuya.
A narrow back alley.
The peeling sign for Ota Office hung on the second floor.
It was a typical small agency with only a handful of talents.
When Shin pushed the door open, Manager Ota was smoking with a worried face, flipping through a stack of faxes.
“Yo, Kitahara.
How’d the corpse role go last night?” Ota asked without looking up.
“Not bad.
Director didn’t yell.” Shin pulled out a chair and sat down.
He had already unequipped the Zippo.
He was back to the gentle, steady young man everyone knew.
The effect burned too much mental energy.
No point performing in front of people he was familiar with.
“No yelling’s a good sign.” Ota sighed and pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper.
“Good timing.
There’s a job.
TBS is doing a new drama — pure romance.
Audition’s at two this afternoon.” He hesitated, glancing at Shin.
“But… this role’s a little tricky.” Shin took the paper.
The drama was called Winter Sunflower.
The role they wanted him to read for was male third lead: a “mute genius painter.” Childhood trauma had left him with psychogenic mutism.
He loved the female lead deeply, but the only way he could express it was through his paintings.
Not a single line in the entire script.
Everything had to come through his eyes and body.
“Roles like this,” Ota said, exhaling a smoke ring, “if you nail it you look profoundly in love.
If you bomb it you just look like a creepy mute.” He didn’t sound hopeful.
“And word is Johnny’s is sending someone too.
We’re just going to fill out the numbers and get your face seen.
Don’t take it too seriously.” In this era, a role with no dialogue usually meant no screen time.
Going up against the hottest idol agency was like throwing an egg at a rock.
“No lines at all?” Shin stared at the character breakdown, fingers slowly tracing the edge of the paper.
He didn’t need to speak.
He only had to use his eyes to show love and pain.
This was practically a stage built for the [Silver Zippo].
“I’ll go,” he said, looking up.
His voice was calm.
“Put my name down.” … 2 p.m.
Akasaka.
TBS audition hall.
The corridor was packed with young male actors.
Bubble-era fashion was everywhere — oversized padded shoulders, sky-high pompadour hair, the thick smell of hair gel and cologne hanging in the air.
Shin sat quietly in the corner wearing a plain white shirt and old jeans.
A few sharply dressed guys nearby were chatting.
When they noticed his simple clothes, their eyes slid over him for half a second and then moved on like he wasn’t even there.
No mockery.
No contempt.
That total indifference was the real cruelty of the industry — you didn’t even rate as gossip.
Shin didn’t react.
He kept his eyes closed, running the painter’s inner state through his mind again and again.
“Next — Shin Kitahara.” A staff member opened the door and called out.
Shin stood.
As he stepped forward, his fingers brushed the Zippo in his pocket.
[Equip: The Songstress’s Abandoned Silver Zippo] [“Confession Behind the Mask” activated.] The noise around him seemed to pull back all at once.
A lonely chill wrapped around his body.
He pushed the door open and walked in.
The director, screenwriter, and producer sat inside, all looking exhausted.
More than a dozen flashy idol types had already gone through — most of them trying too hard or unable to sit still.
“Ota Office.
Shin Kitahara.” Shin stopped in the center of the room.
He didn’t bow deeply or shout the usual energetic greeting.
He only gave a small nod, voice low.
The director frowned.
What was with this kid?
Zero energy?
“Let’s go,” the director said with a lazy wave.
“Prompt is: You’re painting while watching the woman you love accept another man’s proposal.
Then you stop.” Pure melodrama.
The kind that either worked brilliantly or fell flat on its face.
Shin didn’t speak.
He pulled over a chair and sat, hands empty, fingers curled around air as if holding a brush.
He lifted his head and looked into the empty space in front of him.
In that instant the director’s bored expression froze.
What kind of eyes were those?
Inside those dark pupils it felt like an entire rainy autumn night had been trapped.
There was no screaming pain, no jealous rage.
Only a quiet, devastating gentleness that said: As long as you’re happy, even if I break, it’s fine.
The +15% charm boost combined with [Confession Behind the Mask] pushed that tragic beauty to its limit.
Shin’s hand moved slowly through the air like he was really laying down paint.
Then the motion stopped.
He looked ahead, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he wanted to smile in blessing.
The smile only half-formed before it locked in place.
The light in his eyes went out piece by piece until nothing was left but empty desolation.
He lowered his gaze and, very slowly, set the nonexistent brush down on the table.
Less than a minute.
Not a single word.
Not even a sigh.
The audition room went completely silent.
The female screenwriter who had been reading resumes with her head down had lifted her face at some point.
Her pen hovered in mid-air, forgotten.
That gaze had hit her straight in the chest.
It was exactly the painter she had written — the one who hurt people all the way down to the bone.
“…Good.” It took the director a long time to come back to himself.
He realized he had goosebumps on his arms.
He had only been looking for a handsome face to fill a slot.
Instead this kid had given him an artist who actually had a soul.
“Your name’s Shin Kitahara?” The director sat up straighter, voice suddenly serious.
Shin had already unequipped the Zippo.
The heartbreaking pressure vanished in an instant.
He was just the gentle young man again.
“Yes.” “What have you done before?” “Corpses.
Waiters.
Background extras.” The director blinked, then laughed — the kind of laugh that said he had just found something rare.
“Very good.” He drew a thick circle on the resume.
“Your extra days are over, Kitahara-kun.
Grow your hair out a little and come in for the fitting next week.” Shin bowed and turned to leave.
Out in the corridor the same fashionable guys were still fixing their hair.
One of them saw him come out so quickly and let out a short laugh, clearly assuming he had been rejected.
Shin stopped and looked at them.
His eyes were calm.
No challenge.
Just the quiet tolerance of someone watching children play.
He didn’t say anything.
Hands in his pockets, he walked toward the elevator.
In his pocket, the cold silver Zippo felt slightly warm against his fingers.