May 1989.
Nerima Ward.
Toei Oizumi Studio.
The air here was nothing like the solemn, heavy atmosphere at NHK.
This place reeked of tobacco, sweat, and a kind of raw, almost feral energy.
As the home base of Japanese “ninkyo” (chivalry) films — yakuza pictures — the hallways were full of bit players with buzz cuts and loud floral shirts.
You could even spot a few actual gang higher-ups who had come to “visit the set.” Outside Audition Room 4, the tension in the corridor was suffocating.
“Get the hell out!
You call that playing a yakuza?
That’s a clown!
A loudmouthed punk who only knows how to posture!” A furious roar burst through the door, followed by the sound of a script being slammed onto the floor.
Seconds later, a moderately well-known action actor stumbled out, face flushed crimson.
He had clearly been torn apart.
In the waiting area, the remaining actors glanced at each other and swallowed hard.
Inside sat Kinji Fukasaku.
The man known as the “Godfather of Violent Cinema” had a temper as explosive as his movies.
What he hated most was actors who “acted” — especially the stiff, furrowed-brow, shouting kind of performance that relied on clichés.
“Next.
Ota Office.
Kitahara Shin.” The casting assistant called out, voice already lacking any real expectation.
Shin stood up.
He wore the black tailored suit he had bought in Kabukicho.
The white shirt was open at the collar.
In his hand he held the pair of black leather gloves instead of a script.
He adjusted his jacket once, then pushed the door open with a calm expression.
… The audition room was thick with cigarette smoke.
Kinji Fukasaku sat in a director’s vest covered in pockets, dark glasses on, a cigarette between his lips.
He was irritably tapping the table with his fingers.
Beside him sat the producer and several assistant directors, all looking exhausted.
“Kitahara Shin?” Fukasaku glanced at the résumé and his brow tightened further.
“You did a taiga drama?
I need a villain, not some samurai sitting seiza drinking tea.
Can you kill someone?” The question was blunt, almost insulting.
Shin didn’t get angry.
He didn’t rush to defend himself.
He simply bowed slightly and spoke with polite clarity.
“Director Fukasaku, I’ve read the script.
For the role of Sawada, I’d like to perform a short scene based on my own understanding.” “Whatever.” Fukasaku waved impatiently.
“For your sake or mine, let’s not waste time.
Three minutes.” Shin turned toward the young assistant director who had been assigned to read opposite him.
The assistant stood up holding a prop IOU, looking somewhat bored.
After watching so many “fierce” actors get torn apart, he didn’t expect this gentle-looking pretty boy to embody the “mad dog.” Shin took a deep breath.
He didn’t start acting right away.
Instead he lowered his head.
[Equipped: Debt Collector’s Black Leather Gloves (Currently Worn)] [Special Entry Activated: Elegant Execution] He slowly slid his left hand into one glove, then the right.
The black leather wrapped around his long fingers with a faint, teeth-gritting scritch.
Head bowed, he carefully smoothed every crease in the gloves with elegant, almost ceremonial movements — as if he were preparing for a formal dinner.
But in that instant the air inside the audition room seemed to freeze.
Fukasaku’s tapping fingers stopped.
He felt it immediately — the young man’s presence had changed.
Moments ago he had been a polite junior.
Now he radiated a cold, deeply uncomfortable aura.
Shin raised his head.
There was no rage in those eyes.
No killing intent.
Only an empty, chilling void… and a faint smile.
He stepped toward the assistant director.
His footsteps were light, almost silent.
The assistant instinctively sensed danger and tried to back away, but his legs felt strangely weak.
Shin stopped directly in front of him.
They were close enough to share breath.
He didn’t grab the man’s collar.
He didn’t slap him.
He didn’t shout like the previous actors.
Shin simply reached out with his gloved hand and gently, almost tenderly, straightened the assistant’s slightly crooked tie.
The motion was the same one used when dressing a corpse for a funeral.
Every hair on the assistant’s body stood on end.
He watched those black-gloved fingers moving near his throat and could only think one thing: He’s going to strangle me.
“I heard…” Shin spoke.
His voice was soft, almost a lover’s murmur, yet as cold as wind from an ice cellar.
He tilted his head slightly.
Those dead eyes stared straight into the assistant’s pupils.
“…you want to default on the debt?” Boom.
The assistant’s mind went blank.
This wasn’t acting.
This was something deeper — a primal, biological fear.
He felt like he was facing not an actor, but a genuine lunatic who might smile while driving a ballpoint pen into his eye socket at any second.
“I… I didn’t…” The assistant stammered, voice shaking.
The prop IOU slipped from his fingers and hit the floor with a soft pat.
His legs gave out.
He dropped heavily into the chair behind him, cold sweat instantly soaking through the back of his shirt.
The room fell into complete silence.
Shin didn’t break character because of the man’s collapse.
He kept the same faint smile, bent down, and used his gloved fingers to pick up the paper from the floor.
He gently brushed off the dust, then placed it on the trembling assistant’s knee.
“That’s better.” His voice was quiet.
“Don’t get your clothes dirty.
It’s hard to wash.” He straightened up, slowly removed the gloves, and the icy, oppressive aura vanished in an instant.
He was once again the polite young man.
“I’ve shown you something embarrassing, Director.” Shin turned and gave Kinji Fukasaku a small, respectful bow.
“…” Fukasaku didn’t speak.
The cigarette in his mouth had burned all the way down to the filter and was now scorching his lips, but he didn’t seem to notice.
A few seconds later— Bang!
Fukasaku slammed his hand on the table so hard the teacups jumped.
“That’s it!” The hot-tempered director yanked off his sunglasses.
His slightly clouded eyes burned with startling intensity as he pointed at Shin and roared, “That’s the look I wanted!
Not a beast roaring, but a demon smiling!
That is a mad dog!” He became so excited he walked around the table and stopped right in front of Shin, looking him up and down like he had just discovered raw, uncut jade.
“That glove thing you did just now — who came up with that?” “I did,” Shin answered.
“I felt that Sawada is the kind of man who has a cleanliness obsession.
To him, violence isn’t an outburst.
It’s work.
And when you’re working, you should be hygienic about it.” “Good!
Excellent!
‘Hygienic’ — I love it!” Fukasaku laughed loudly and turned to the still-stunned producer.
“Bring me the script!
Sawada’s scenes are too few.
I’m expanding them!
That scene where he kills someone in the rain — stretch it out!
And where’s the costume designer?
From now on, this kid’s look is exactly what he wore today.
Especially those gloves — weld them to his hands!” The producer wiped sweat from his forehead and nodded quickly, taking notes.
The assistant director who had collapsed into the chair finally came back to himself.
He was still staring at Shin with lingering fear in his eyes.
Shin held the leather gloves, feeling the lingering coolness against his palms.
“Kitahara, was it?” Fukasaku clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder.
“You start next week.
Be ready.
My set is hell.
If you can’t keep delivering that feeling once we’re rolling, I’ll kick you out without hesitation.” “Yes, Director.”