Ochanomizu, Tokyo’s famous musical-instrument district.
The streets were lined with music shops, their windows and walls crowded with guitars and basses of every shape, color, and price.
Shin Kitahara had come here today with Sato, one of the drama’s veteran prop masters.
There was a scene in the script where the male lead had to play guitar, and the director had specifically requested an acoustic instrument that looked as though it had been around for years.
While Sato haggled with the shop owner over the rental price, Shin wandered around the store on his own.
The shop was called Woodstock, and one corner was piled high with secondhand instruments, spare parts, and old accessories.
Near the register sat a glass bowl filled with clearance items.
Shin casually reached inside and picked up a guitar pick.
It was plain white, with edges worn smooth and rounded from years of use.
[Equippable Item Detected – Common]
[Item: Wandering Singer’s Guitar Pick]
[Condition: Worn – Excellent Grip]
[Special Effect: Resonance of the Street – Your singing and guitar performances are more likely to draw listeners emotionally into the song.]
“It really does feel good in the hand.”
Shin rolled the pick between his fingers.
The subtle friction against his skin stirred an unexpected sense of nostalgia.
Back in his previous life, when he had been struggling in Hengdian and trying to qualify for better extra work, he had spent quite a while practicing guitar.
He had never become a master, but accompanying himself while singing an ordinary song was well within his ability.
Shin took out a fifty-yen coin and bought the worn pick without a second thought.
…
Two o’clock that afternoon, Studio 6.
The atmosphere was tense.
“Cut!
Again!”
The director was already struggling to keep his temper under control.
“Matsumoto-kun, that’s an F chord!
Did your index finger forget to eat breakfast?
Press the strings down properly.
Every note is coming out dead!”
In the middle of the studio, leading man Kazuya Matsumoto sat clutching the acoustic guitar they had just rented, sweat covering his forehead.
The scene was supposed to show his character playing a love song for the heroine in a park.
As a popular idol, Matsumoto had slung guitars over his shoulder onstage plenty of times.
But most of those performances had involved posing for the audience or playing over a backing track.
Now that the production needed clean live audio and close-up shots of his hands actually playing, those carefully maintained fingers immediately betrayed him.
“D-Director…”
Matsumoto grimaced and shook out his left hand.
Deep red marks from the strings had already appeared across his fingertips.
“These strings are really stiff.
And I’ve had so many appearances lately that I honestly haven’t had time to practice.
Maybe…
we should use a hand double?”
It was a smart suggestion.
Better to admit defeat and find a way out than continue humiliating himself in front of the entire crew.
The director raked a frustrated hand through his hair.
“Where am I supposed to find one right now?
By the time a professional gets through Tokyo traffic and reaches the studio, we’ll have lost two hours.
Today’s shooting schedule will be ruined.”
He checked his watch and began seriously considering cutting the close-up entirely and hiding the problem with a wide shot.
The production had reached an impasse.
Everyone knew Matsumoto couldn’t pull it off, but no one dared say so aloud.
At the edge of the set, Shin stood with the old white pick between his fingers.
He hesitated.
He hadn’t planned on getting involved.
But if they couldn’t finish the scene, the entire crew would be stuck working overtime tonight.
And more importantly…
This was a perfect opportunity to show that acting wasn’t the only thing he could do.
“Director.”
Shin stepped forward.
His voice wasn’t loud, but in the suddenly quiet studio, everyone heard him clearly.
“If you don’t mind, I can give it a try.”
Every head turned toward him.
The director blinked.
“You can play guitar?”
“I learned a little years ago.” Shin deliberately kept his answer modest.
“I’m fairly familiar with the chords in this song.”
Matsumoto looked as though someone had just thrown him a lifeline.
He immediately handed the guitar over, smiling with obvious relief.
“If Kitahara-kun wants to try, I’d really appreciate it.
These strings are rough on the fingers, though.
Be careful.”
At this point, he would have happily handed the troublesome instrument to anyone willing to take it.
Shin accepted the guitar and sat in the position originally meant for the male lead.
He adjusted his posture, then slipped the worn white pick between his thumb and index finger.
His left hand settled around the neck.
The familiar sensation traveled through his fingertips.
He didn’t need the system to tell him anything.
His body’s old muscle memory was already waking up.
He tested the instrument.
Strum.
A crisp, full E chord rang through the studio without a single buzz or muted string.
The crew members who had been whispering among themselves immediately fell silent.
That kind of clean tone was definitely not the work of someone who had merely “learned a little.”
“Camera, move in!
I want a close-up on the hands!
Sound, get ready!”
The slate snapped shut.
Shin’s fingers began moving across the strings.
He played Kanda River, one of the classic folk songs of the Showa era.
The arpeggios flowed smoothly from the guitar.
With the old pick’s effect subtly woven into the performance, the simple melody carried a faint sense of lived-in storytelling, as though a down-on-his-luck street musician were quietly singing to himself beneath the city lights long after midnight.
Matsumoto stood behind the monitor, staring at the long, nimble fingers moving confidently across the strings.
His mouth slowly fell open.
Then his face began to burn.
Compared with the smooth music coming from Shin’s hands, the tortured noises Matsumoto had produced earlier sounded like someone sawing through a plank of wood.
It felt like a public execution.
The song came to an end.
Its final notes lingered in the air.
“Excellent!”
The director shouted in delight.
“That’s perfect!
That’s exactly how I imagined the male lead’s hands should look!”
The moment the words left his mouth, he seemed to realize how badly they might bruise Matsumoto’s pride.
He hurriedly added, “Of course, Matsumoto-kun’s emotional delivery is excellent.
Instruments just take time to master.
Now that we’ve got the perfect hand double, let’s move on to the next shot!”
The crisis was over.
The production immediately came back to life.
Shin set the guitar down and slipped the pick back into his pocket.
“Kitahara-kun, you’ve been hiding quite a few talents.”
Sato came over to collect the instrument and discreetly gave Shin a thumbs-up.
“Just lucky.
I practiced a little more than most people back then.”
Shin smiled.
When filming wrapped for the day, the production manager personally came looking for him.
“Kitahara-san, this is your technical-performance allowance.”
He handed Shin a white envelope, treating him far more politely than before.
“The director approved it personally.
We’re paying you at the standard rate for a professional hand double – thirty thousand yen.
You really saved us today.”
Thirty thousand yen.
For five minutes of playing guitar.
Shin accepted the envelope and felt its thickness between his fingers.
That money alone was enough to cover an entire month’s gas and electricity bills.
“It really does pay to know a little of everything.”
Shin tucked the envelope safely away and left the studio in an excellent mood.