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He carried the heavy lacquer bento box in his arms, his mood even better than when the photographer had praised him earlier.
Instead of heading straight out of the television building, he took a detour to the production center on the third floor.
They had free hot water there.
His old apartment’s water heater had been broken for half a month and the landlord still hadn’t fixed it.
As he passed a meeting room labeled “Winter Sunflower Script Discussion Room,” the door was slightly ajar.
The room was empty.
Only the table was left in chaos.
Full ashtrays, scattered discarded printouts, and half-drunk canned coffees told the story of an intense brainstorming session that had just wrapped.
Shin instinctively glanced inside.
The younger version of himself would have walked right past without looking.
But after a lifetime on sets as an old hand, he had developed one habit — always observe your surroundings.
His gaze stopped on a chair at the far corner of the long table.
A pair of glasses rested there.
Thin black frames, clearly new.
The lenses caught the corridor light and gave off a faint blue-purple sheen.
They lay alone on a stack of discarded papers, obviously forgotten by the team that had rushed out.
“No one claimed these?” Shin pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The whiteboard still read “Episode 3 Outline Revisions.” The script team had left a long time ago.
By television station custom, any meeting room left overnight would be cleared by the cleaning staff first thing in the morning.
Whatever was on the tables would most likely be thrown away as trash.
He walked over and picked up the glasses.
They were light.
The frames felt warm to the touch.
No prescription at all — just plain lenses.
The moment his fingertips touched them, the familiar blue interface appeared again.
[Equippable Item Discovered (Common)] [Item Name: Screenwriter’s Forgotten Anti-Blue-Light Flat Glasses (White)] [Original Owner: Some overworked unnamed assistant screenwriter] [Slot: Head / Accessory] [Status: Intact, Clean] [Base Attribute: Focus +20%] [Special Entry: Subtext Insight (Passive)] Note: These glasses accompanied their owner through countless late nights of script revisions.
When worn, your sensitivity to written text increases dramatically, allowing you to quickly grasp the logic and emotion hidden behind the lines.
“Focus bonus?” Shin’s eyes lit up.
Compared to the somewhat mystical Zippo, this was a straightforward efficiency tool.
For an actor, reading a script wasn’t just memorizing lines.
It was logical analysis.
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, carefully wiped the lenses until they were spotless, and slipped the glasses into his inner jacket pocket.
“Thanks, nameless screenwriter-san.” … Nerima Ward.
The rental.
He got home just before eleven.
The cramped six-and-a-half tatami room was filled with the chill of deep autumn.
Shin rubbed his hands together.
Instead of turning on the heater right away, he opened the fancy bento box first.
Even though it had cooled, the rich aroma of premium fat still hit him hard.
This was the famous high-end yakiniku bento — thick-cut beef short rib piled over rice, with crisp kimchi and side dishes on the side.
He picked up a piece of beef and put it in his mouth.
The concentrated meat juices burst across his tongue.
The sweetness of the fat washed away the exhaustion of the entire day in an instant.
“Not bad…” Shin let out a satisfied sigh.
In his previous life at Hengdian, because of his plain looks he had only ever played background roles.
The crew bentos he ate were always the cheap kind — the meat was either pure fat or full of gristle, and chicken legs were a rare treat.
This time around, simply because he had shown he was professional and low-maintenance during the costume shoot, he had been given something like this.
Maybe that really was the bubble economy for you.
Generous when it wanted to be.
After finishing the bento, his body finally felt warm.
Shin cleaned the table, pulled the Winter Sunflower script from his bag, and sat down.
Tomorrow was the first official day of shooting.
Even though his character had no lines, he wasn’t about to get careless.
He took out the black-framed glasses he had just found and put them on.
[Equip Activated: Focus +20%] The world seemed to go quiet all at once.
The occasional sound of cars outside, the neighbor’s television blaring through the thin walls — all of it felt filtered away.
His vision narrowed to the dense lines of text on the script.
The previously boring triangle symbols and bracketed action directions now seemed to come alive, automatically building themselves into moving scenes inside his head.
“Here, after the male lead finishes this line, there’ll definitely be a pause to breathe…” “Here the female lead’s emotion is fake.
She’s covering something…” Shin’s pen moved quickly across the pages.
Normally, breaking down tomorrow’s three scenes would have taken him at least two hours.
Today, with [Subtext Insight] active, his brain worked at an astonishing speed.
He didn’t just memorize his own blocking.
He also locked in the rhythm of Matsumoto Kazuya’s lines.
He could already predict exactly where the male lead might stumble, where he would rush a take, and where tension would make his movements stiff and unnatural.
“If you don’t understand your scene partner’s breathing, you can’t steal a scene even when you’re silent.” That was old-actor wisdom.
Forty minutes later, he closed the script.
Shin took off the glasses and rubbed the space between his brows.
He felt sharp and clear-headed.
The clock on the wall read midnight.
“That early?” He was usually still grinding through the script at this hour.
Since the work was done, he might as well sleep.
In an industry that worshipped appearances, sleep was the best beauty treatment there was.
… The next morning, 6:30 a.m.
Shinjuku Gyoen outdoor location.
The deep autumn morning mist hadn’t lifted yet.
Crew members were already busy laying track.
Shin arrived on time.
He wore the linen shirt he had taken home yesterday, with an old windbreaker over it.
After a full night of quality sleep, he looked fresh and energetic.
His skin was tight and glowing, his eyes clear and bright.
He didn’t even need extra concealer.
“Good morning, Miwa-nee.” He greeted the stylist with a smile as she organized the costumes.
“Kitahara-kun!” Miwa’s eyes lit up when she saw him.
“Your skin looks great!
With that complexion we can go lighter on the foundation.” Twenty minutes later, the male lead Matsumoto Kazuya finally showed up, looking rough.
He descended from the talent van wearing sunglasses, surrounded by his usual swarm of assistants.
The moment he took the sunglasses off, even with makeup on, the dark circles and slight puffiness on his cheeks were obvious.
Clearly, the popular idol hadn’t studied the script last night.
He had probably been out clubbing in Roppongi until dawn.
“Uh… where’s the makeup artist?
Hurry up and fix my face.
It’s still a little swollen.” Matsumoto complained the second he sat down, voice hoarse and full of sleepy irritation.
Nearby, the director who had been adjusting the monitor frowned and glanced over.
Then he turned to look at Shin — already in makeup, sitting quietly in the corner with the script open in his hands.