TBS Television, Studio 6.
The air carried a restless tension.
“Hair — the bangs still need more volume!
That last angle made my face look wide!” In the center of the studio, the male lead — Matsumoto Kazuya, the fresh idol from Johnny’s — fussed over his hairstyle in front of the makeup mirror.
Three assistants hovered around him.
One held a mirror, one gripped a comb, and the third stood ready with hairspray like the world was ending.
Tanaka, the photographer in charge of the costume stills, tapped his fingers impatiently against the shutter housing of his camera.
He had already been working six straight hours.
His nicotine craving was kicking in hard, but this idol — barely in his early twenties and riding the peak of his popularity — wasn’t someone he could snap at.
“Matsumoto-san, the lighting’s already set.
Could we maybe—” Tanaka tried carefully.
“Just a moment.
The sideburns still aren’t symmetrical.” Matsumoto didn’t even glance at the photographer.
His eyes stayed locked on the mirror.
Shin Kitahara sat quietly on a folding chair in the corner, watching the scene.
He was already in costume — a high-quality off-white linen shirt with the sleeves casually rolled up, paired with worn corduroy trousers.
This was the standard look for the “mute painter” in the drama.
In his previous life at Hengdian, he had seen far worse displays of diva behavior.
Compared to those, Matsumoto Kazuya’s obsessive anxiety over his own image felt almost childish.
Twenty more minutes passed before Matsumoto finally looked satisfied.
He struck his signature idol poses in front of the lens — flashing V-signs, dramatically running a hand through his hair.
The shutter clicked rapidly, but Tanaka’s expression stayed blank.
These photos had no soul.
They existed only to fill idol magazine pages and sell dreams to teenage girls.
“All right, thank you!
Next!” Tanaka lowered the camera and let out a long breath.
He grabbed the towel around his neck and wiped his face, voice heavy with exhaustion and barely concealed irritation.
“The one playing the painter — Kitahara, right?
Your turn.
Come on.” Matsumoto swept out surrounded by his assistants, passing right by Shin without so much as a glance.
Shin stood up.
Instead of walking straight to the backdrop, he first looked up at the lighting rig.
Main light at forty-five degrees from the front left.
Rim light from the right rear, meant to catch the edges of his hair.
It was a classic setup, but one that demanded precise positioning.
Move even a little and the face would either blow out or turn into a dark blob.
He walked over to the round stool in front of the easel.
Instead of sitting right away, he used the toe of his shoe to nudge the stool five centimeters to the left.
Tanaka, who had been about to direct him, paused.
Those five centimeters landed him exactly in the softest, most flattering pool of the main light — the so-called “sweet spot.” “Not bad,” Tanaka muttered.
“Kid actually knows a thing or two.” His furrowed brow eased slightly.
“You’ve got five minutes.
Strike a moody pose or whatever.
Just don’t block your face.” “Understood.
Thank you.” Shin nodded politely.
The moment he sat down, his hand slipped into his pocket and brushed the cold metal shell.
[Equip: The Songstress’s Abandoned Silver Zippo] For still photographs, he didn’t need raw, gut-wrenching emotion.
That would read as trying too hard.
What he needed was just the right atmosphere.
He turned slightly, letting his weight settle lower.
He picked up the dry brush that served as a prop.
Then he lowered his head, gaze resting on the tip of the brush.
In that instant, the noisy background sounds seemed to cut off behind an invisible wall.
Under the lights, his slightly wavy long hair shadowed half his face, leaving only the clean, pale line of his jaw visible.
Those eyes weren’t looking at the camera, yet the quiet stillness in them felt like an old oil painting sealed away by time.
Lonely, but not broken.
Like a dusty volume of poetry tucked in the corner of a secondhand bookstore.
Click.
Tanaka’s finger pressed the shutter on pure instinct.
“Chin up two millimeters.” Shin made the tiny adjustment.
Click.
“Look toward your left shoulder.” Shin’s eyelids lifted a fraction.
His gaze stayed unfocused, holding that same distant quality.
Click-click-click.
The shutter grew light and rhythmic.
Tanaka shot more and more smoothly.
This felt good.
The model knew exactly where the lens was, where the light fell, even how to control his breathing so his body stayed perfectly still between frames.
Tanaka didn’t have to coach him like a child.
The full hour originally allotted for the third male lead was over in ten minutes.
“Perfect!
That’s it!” Tanaka lowered the camera, wearing the first genuine smile of the day.
“These negatives are excellent.
We can use them straight out of the developer.” The producer, who had been chatting with the coordinator nearby, looked over in surprise.
“Already finished?” “Finished.
Almost zero waste shots.” Tanaka pointed at the Polaroids spitting out of the camera and praised without hesitation.
“This kid’s got great camera sense.
Saved me a ton of film.” The producer took the samples, glanced at them, and nodded thoughtfully before drawing a circle next to Shin’s name.
In this efficiency-obsessed industry machine, being “easy to work with,” “cost-saving,” and “no trouble” often impressed the money people more than anything else.
Shin stood up, unequipped the Zippo, and returned to being the gentle, humble newcomer.
“Thank you, everyone.
Great work.” He bowed to the crew, then headed toward the changing area.
The wardrobe stylist, a woman in her mid-thirties named Miwa, had been watching the entire session.
When Shin approached and started to unbutton the linen shirt, she suddenly reached out and stopped him.
“Hey, wait.” Miwa looked him up and down with clear appreciation.
“This shirt’s just a sample the production bought.
It never even made it into inventory.
Looks better on you than it did on that… ahem, plastic mannequin.” She lowered her voice and winked.
“Just take it with you.
Wear it as regular clothes.
Once it goes into storage it’ll just sit there collecting dust anyway.
Such a waste.” The fabric was pure linen — not cheap in this era.
At least twenty thousand yen a piece.
Shin blinked, then gave her a genuine smile.
“Really?
Thank you so much, Miwa-nee.
I was actually missing a good transitional shirt.” The natural “Miwa-nee” clearly pleased her.
In a much better mood, she turned and grabbed a fancy multi-tiered bento box from a nearby table.
“And take this too.” “What is it?” “It was prepared for Matsumoto-kun.
Premium yakiniku bento from that high-end place.
He said it was too greasy and didn’t touch it — trying to keep his figure.” Miwa clicked her tongue and pressed the still-warm box into Shin’s arms.
“Throwing it away would be stupid.
You’re still growing, and you’re new here.
Eat some real meat.” A premium bento like that cost three thousand yen.
For Shin, who was still surviving on discount onigiri, it felt like unimaginable luxury.
The bento gave off a rich, savory aroma.
The linen shirt felt soft and comfortable against his skin.
Carrying the box and wearing the shirt, Shin walked out of the studio.
The rain had stopped.
For once, a few stars were visible in the Tokyo night sky.
They were only two small things — a shirt and a meal.
But in this industry, you didn’t need dramatic face-slapping or big gestures.
If you lived cleanly, kept your mouth shut, and made other people’s jobs easier, someone would eventually show you a little kindness without being asked.
“Still,” Shin thought as he walked briskly toward the station, “having actual meat for dinner feels pretty damn good.” This was his first proper meal in this bubble-era world.