Late March, 1989.
The cherry blossom front had yet to fully reach Tokyo, but NHK Hall in Shibuya had been unusually lively these past few days.
Today, the network was recording a massive joint charity gala called Voices of Spring.
NHK might normally be known for its serious, almost rigid image, but for a major annual event like this, even the public broadcaster invited popular idols from commercial television networks to boost ratings.
Backstage, the corridors were packed with people.
Idol groups in glittering stage costumes crossed paths with traditional enka singers dressed in dark kimono, while stern-faced actors from NHK’s Taiga dramas moved among them.
The strange mixture looked like a living portrait of Japan’s entertainment world.
Shin Kitahara stood beside a vending machine in the hallway, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit.
He was there representing the cast of Kasuga no Tsubone during one of the gala’s promotional segments.
As his role in the drama continued to grow, so did his standing within NHK.
He had even been assigned a private dressing room of his own.
…
“Kanai-kun, I really can’t.
That’s agency money.
If anyone finds out…”
A woman’s voice, strained as though she were fighting back tears, drifted from a blind spot beside the emergency stairwell near the vending machines.
Shin’s hand stopped halfway to his canned coffee.
He knew that voice far too well.
Without drawing attention to himself, he shifted slightly and looked toward the corner from the shadow of the wall.
Akina Nakamori stood with her back pressed against the wall, her face pale.
In front of her was a man in a flashy white suit, his permed hair carefully styled, chewing gum with casual arrogance.
Kanai.
A top idol at the height of his popularity.
The dream man of countless young women.
And the leech slowly draining Akina dry.
“What do you mean, agency money?
You’re the one who earned it, aren’t you?”
Kanai planted one hand against the wall beside her and gave her a smug, nauseating smile.
“Akina, my racing team is short on cash for a new engine.
That’s all.
Once I win the championship, I’ll thank you publicly in front of the media.
Isn’t this our dream together?”
“But…
the money from last time still hasn’t…”
“Tch.
Are you keeping accounts with me now?”
Kanai’s expression darkened instantly.
His voice turned cold and threatening.
“You weren’t like this before.
What happened?
Has someone been whispering things in your ear lately?
Hm?”
Akina drew her shoulders inward and fell silent.
Her eyes were already red.
Standing in the shadows, Shin’s gaze turned ice-cold.
His fingers tightened around the coffee can until the aluminum gave a faint crunch.
So this was the man who had driven Akina to such despair that she had once wanted to die in the middle of the night.
Even though the two of them supposedly had nothing to do with each other publicly, Kanai’s powerful backing meant Akina was expected to take the bullets for him, even getting dragged into fabricated scandals on his behalf.
A complete piece of trash.
If this were some hot-blooded manga, this would be the moment when the protagonist charged forward and punched the bastard in the face.
But this was the Japanese entertainment industry in 1989.
Doing that wouldn’t solve anything.
It would destroy Shin’s own career and, worse, could leave Akina branded by the tabloids as a woman with a chaotic private life.
The agency behind Kanai was enormously powerful.
Shin might have established himself in a Taiga drama, but in the eyes of the industry’s real power brokers, he was still only a supporting actor with a little talent.
Confronting Kanai head-on was the worst possible move.
What Shin needed was authority.
Borrowed authority, if necessary.
His eyes swept quickly across the crowded backstage corridor.
Idols.
Stagehands.
No.
None of them carried enough weight to frighten Kanai.
Then Shin’s gaze locked onto someone approaching from the opposite end of the corridor.
An elderly man with silver hair strode toward them in a gray kimono, accompanied by two assistants.
His presence was as imposing as a lion’s.
Ken Ogata.
A living legend of Japanese cinema, famous not only for his acting but also for his fiery temper and uncompromising sense of professionalism.
He had little patience for modern idols who possessed neither acting ability nor professional discipline.
There were even stories of him reducing popular young stars to their knees with a tongue-lashing when they arrived late to set.
More importantly, Ogata was one of the heavyweight veteran guests associated with Kasuga no Tsubone.
He and Shin didn’t share many scenes, but the veteran had taken a liking to the younger actor’s discipline and respect for set etiquette.
Shin’s lips curved into the faintest cold smile.
Borrowing your blade for a moment, Ogata-sensei.
He straightened his tie, casually tossed the unopened coffee can into a trash bin, and strode toward the veteran actor.
His route was carefully calculated.
Rather than heading directly toward Akina’s corner, Shin walked straight down the center of the corridor—positioning himself so that Ogata’s line of sight would naturally be drawn in that direction.
When only five meters remained between them, Shin stopped.
He drew a deep breath from his diaphragm and called out in the powerful, resonant voice characteristic of a Taiga-drama actor:
“Ogata-sensei!
Good afternoon!”
His greeting boomed through more than half the backstage corridor.
Kanai jolted in surprise.
The arm he had braced against the wall froze.
Ken Ogata stopped as well and turned a piercing gaze toward the voice.
“Oh, Kitahara.”
Recognizing the well-mannered junior actor, Ogata’s stern expression softened slightly.
“Why are you shouting so loudly?
Practicing your voice?”
Shin bowed a full ninety degrees and deliberately remained bent forward.
“My apologies!
I was simply too excited to see you, Sensei!
I tried the diaphragm-breathing method you taught me during rehearsal earlier, and it worked extremely well.
I wanted to thank you properly!”
As he spoke, Shin straightened and stepped aside with a respectful gesture inviting Ogata forward.
It looked perfectly natural.
Almost accidental.
But that single step exposed the hidden corner behind him.
Ogata now had a clear view.
A man in an absurd white suit had a frail-looking young woman cornered against the wall, his posture overly familiar and his expression openly arrogant.
Ogata’s brows instantly drew together.
As one of the old-school actors who represented the Showa generation, there were few things he despised more than young celebrities who used a little fame as an excuse to bully people and fool around backstage.
“Who’s that?”
Ogata didn’t raise his voice.
He didn’t need to.
The pressure in it was enough to make the air turn cold.
“This is backstage at NHK, not some nightclub in Kabukicho.”
His words cracked through the corridor like thunder.
Kanai whipped around.
The instant he saw the silver-haired veteran glaring at him, every trace of arrogance drained from his face.
The Japanese entertainment industry had a merciless hierarchy.
Kanai might have been one of the hottest idols in the country, but before a national treasure-level veteran like Ken Ogata, his status meant almost nothing.
If Ogata casually remarked to the press that “young idols these days have no discipline,” half of Kanai’s sponsors might start reconsidering their contracts.
“O-Ogata-sensei…”
Kanai immediately pulled his hand away from the wall.
Like a frightened dog, he bent at the waist and plastered an obsequious smile across his face.
“Good afternoon!
I-I’m Kanai from Johnny’s!
We were…
Yes!
That’s it—we were rehearsing!”
“Rehearsing?”
Ogata gave a cold snort and raked his gaze over Kanai’s gaudy white suit.
“Dressed like that?
What are you rehearsing for, a host-club role?”
A few staff members passing nearby couldn’t suppress their laughter.
Kanai’s face turned dark red.
Cold sweat ran down his temples.
He didn’t dare argue.
All he could do was bow again and again.
“I’m sorry!
I apologize for disturbing you!
I’ll leave right away!
Right away!”
Without even daring to glance back at Akina, he slipped into the crowd and disappeared, fleeing with all the dignity of a beaten stray dog.
Crisis over.
Ogata withdrew his disgusted gaze.
When he turned back to Shin, his expression softened into one of approval.
“Kitahara, stay away from people like that.
An actor has to protect his reputation.”
“Yes, Sensei.
I’ll remember your advice.”
Shin answered respectfully, his face completely innocent.
“Good.
I’m going.
We still have to go over the program.”
Ogata waved once and strode away with his assistants.
He had no idea that the seemingly honest young actor had just used him as a loaded gun.
Then again, even if he had known, he probably would have been perfectly happy to fire that shot if it meant cleaning up the industry’s atmosphere.
The corridor gradually returned to its normal bustle.
Shin straightened and adjusted his cuff.
Without turning his head, he walked past the blind corner.
As though no one were standing there at all.
Akina remained against the wall, both hands tightly clutching the fabric of her skirt.
Her heartbeat still hadn’t settled.
She watched that familiar black-suited figure pass in front of her.
He didn’t look at her.
But at the exact moment they crossed paths—
Click.
A crisp metallic sound slipped through the noise backstage.
The lid of a Zippo lighter opening and closing.
It was quiet.
Almost impossible to hear beneath the surrounding voices.
But to Akina, that tiny sound was like an anchor dropping into the middle of a storm.
Her panic steadied at once.
It was a signal only the two of them understood.
Akina watched Shin’s back gradually disappear into the distance.
The tears she had stubbornly refused to shed in front of that bastard finally slipped down her cheeks.
But this time, they weren’t tears of fear.
They came from a sense of safety she couldn’t put into words.
She wiped the corners of her eyes and drew a deep breath.
Then she straightened her back.
After composing herself, she stepped out of the shadows.
She was Akina Nakamori.
And she still had a stage waiting for her.
She still had to sing that stubborn, aching song—Nanpasen.
By then, Shin had already reached the far end of the corridor.
He pulled a mint from his pocket and tossed it into his mouth.
A schemer didn’t need applause.
Only results.