December 28, Akasaka Prince Hotel.
The wrap party for Winter Sunflower.
The banquet hall glittered with gold and crystal, and a towering pyramid of champagne glasses looked as though it might collapse at the slightest touch.
Japan’s bubble economy had not yet reached its most extravagant peak, but the television industry’s taste for excess was already impossible to miss.
Camera flashes burst nonstop around the center of the stage.
Kazuya Matsumoto had an arm around the female lead, grinning from ear to ear while representatives from the investors and senior television executives crowded around them.
Champagne glasses clinked, compliments flowed freely, and laughter rose above the music.
Shin Kitahara, meanwhile, stood half-hidden behind a pillar near the buffet tables, completely focused on a thick slice of roast beef on his plate.
Vanity fairs had their own laws of physics.
The spotlight always belonged to the people standing at center stage.
As the third male lead, forcing his way into that circle just to offer a toast would only make him look like someone who couldn’t read the room.
Better to use the opportunity to fill his stomach.
“Not going up front to show your face?”
A voice thick with alcohol came from beside him.
Shin lowered his fork, dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin, then turned and inclined his head politely.
“Producer Ishida.”
Executive producer Ishida stood there with half a cigar between his fingers.
His face was flushed red, and judging by the faint sway in his posture, he had already had quite a bit to drink.
He glanced at Shin, who had just been cutting another piece of roast beef.
“Director Suzuki mentioned you again a little while ago,” Ishida said casually.
“Called you the most ‘film-efficient’ newcomer he’s worked with in years.
No fuss, no babysitting, and useful whenever he needs you.”
Useful.
In the entertainment industry, it was one of the highest compliments a supporting actor could receive.
It was also one of the cruelest.
It meant you were cost-effective.
Reliable.
A tool that did exactly what the production needed without creating problems.
“That’s because Director Suzuki guided me well,” Shin replied smoothly.
“Save the polite nonsense for the reporters.”
Ishida flicked the ash from his cigar and leaned a little closer.
He didn’t even bother lowering his voice.
“That stubborn old man Suzuki wouldn’t leave me alone until I agreed to get you an opportunity.
NHK’s Taiga drama Kasuga no Tsubone starts production next year, and they’re still filling some smaller roles.
He wants you to audition for a young samurai named Masasada Inaba.”
Something stirred in Shin’s chest.
So Director Suzuki had been pushing for him behind the scenes.
“It’s not a major role,” Ishida continued, “but this is NHK we’re talking about.
Their standards are ridiculous.
Suzuki may be working as a second-unit director over there, but even he doesn’t have the authority to simply hand you the part.”
Ishida reached lazily into the inside pocket of his suit, pulled out a folded slip of paper, and tossed it onto Shin’s tray.
“That’s a pass for the casting department.
I’ve already put in a word, but that’s as far as I’m going.”
“Next Wednesday.
Ten in the morning.
NHK Broadcasting Center in Shibuya.”
Ishida looked at him without much expectation in his eyes.
His expression was closer to that of a man finishing an obligation he had reluctantly agreed to fulfill.
“Whether you get the role is entirely up to you.
And if you don’t, don’t go around telling people I recommended you.
I’ve still got a reputation to protect over there.”
That was Ishida’s philosophy of survival.
He was willing to do someone a favor when it cost him nothing.
But he would never take the risk with them.
If Shin succeeded, Ishida could say he had helped a promising junior.
If Shin failed, then the failure had absolutely nothing to do with him.
Shin folded the pass and put it away, his expression calm.
“Understood.
Getting through the door is already more than enough.
Thank you for arranging it.”
“Mm.”
Ishida gave a distracted grunt.
He lightly patted Shin’s shoulder, almost as if brushing dust from his clothes, then picked up his drink and disappeared back into the lively crowd.
…
Shin left before the party was over.
By the time he stepped outside the hotel, a bitter mixture of rain and sleet had begun falling over Tokyo.
He raised a hand and hailed a taxi.
“Nakano, please.”
The inside of the cab was wonderfully warm.
Shin leaned back against the seat and watched the blurred neon lights slide past the rain-streaked window.
Ishida’s attitude had been coldly practical.
But it was also honest.
In this industry, no one became your shield for no reason.
The casting pass was nothing more than a ticket through the front door.
Once he stepped inside, whether he survived or failed would depend entirely on his own ability.
Half an hour later, the taxi stopped outside a quiet apartment building in Nakano.
Shin took out his key and opened the door.
This was his new home.
He had only moved in yesterday.
Compared with the drafty old wooden apartment he had endured before, this place felt almost luxurious.
It was still only a modest one-room apartment, but it had its own bathroom and windows that actually kept the winter wind outside.
Shin walked into the bathroom and turned on the tap.
Steam slowly filled the room.
The moment he lowered himself into the bathtub, the hot water wrapped around his body.
For the first time in three exhausting months, the tension buried deep in his nerves finally began to loosen.
He reached toward the small shelf beside the tub, picked up a can of beer, and took a long drink.
Tomorrow, he would have to visit the library and look up everything he could find about Masasada Inaba.
He would also need to clean the Screenwriter’s Glasses.
After all…
Now that someone had handed him a ticket through the door, there was no chance in hell he intended to walk back out empty-handed.
“Haa…”
Shin released a long breath and closed his eyes, letting the rising steam blur the world around him.