The next morning.
Nerima, Tokyo.
An aging apartment barely six tatami mats in size.
A headache that felt like a hangover dragged Shin Kitahara awake far earlier than he would have liked.
The rain had stopped sometime before dawn, and the sunlight slipping through the window carried the crisp chill of late autumn.
Bare-chested, he shuffled into the cramped bathroom and splashed a handful of icy water over his face.
When he raised his head, droplets rolled from his chin and fell into the sink.
A young, firm, slightly pale face stared back at him from the mirror.
By any normal standard, he was handsome: thick brows, a straight nose, and clean, well-defined features.
But this was an era ruled by idols.
His face was almost too perfectly conventional, and that very neatness made him…
forgettable.
Shin tried smiling at his reflection.
Bright.
Pleasant.
Perfectly practiced.
The kind of smile you’d see on a toothpaste commercial.
And that was exactly the problem.
There was nothing left behind once the smile disappeared.
One glance, and people forgot him.
After spending decades around film sets in his previous life, Shin knew better than anyone how deadly a lack of presence could be for an actor.
“So…
what about now?”
Shin drew a slow breath and focused his thoughts.
His consciousness sank into the translucent blue system interface.
Inside the equipment slot, [The Songstress’s Abandoned Silver Zippo] floated silently, surrounded by a faint purple glow.
“Equip.”
The moment the command left his mind, nothing flashy happened.
No burst of light.
No dramatic special effect.
Instead, Shin felt as though an invisible hand had gently squeezed his heart.
A strange ache spread through him—faintly bitter, painfully lonely, and impossible to put into words.
It was the despair and loneliness Akina Nakamori had felt for that brief moment last night.
Shin looked into the mirror again.
His features hadn’t changed.
Not even his hair was different.
But the man in the mirror no longer felt like the same person.
His once-clear yet somewhat empty eyes now seemed veiled by a thin mist.
Even without changing his expression, those eyes appeared to hold a thousand unspoken words.
He looked like a child abandoned alone in the pouring rain, yet at the same time like a weary wanderer who had already seen too much of how cruel the world could be.
There was something beautifully broken about him now.
If strangers passed him on the street, they would probably find themselves wondering without even realizing it:
What happened to this man?
Why does he look so sad?
“So this is…
presence.”
Shin touched his face thoughtfully.
With [Confession Behind the Mask] active, even the slightest curl of his lips no longer resembled that cheerful toothpaste-commercial smile.
Now it looked like someone forcing himself to smile despite the pain, a quiet bitterness that made the chest tighten just from watching it.
“And if I combine this with the acting skills from my previous life…”
Shin shut off the faucet.
A sharp glint flashed through his eyes.
* * *
10:00 a.m., Shibuya.
Tucked away in an unremarkable back alley was a weathered two-story building.
On the second floor hung a peeling sign that read: Ota Talent Agency.
It was the definition of a small-time operation, representing only a handful of actors who were hardly household names.
When Shin pushed open the door, his agent, Ota, was sitting behind his desk with a cigarette hanging from his lips, frowning as he sorted through a stack of faxes.
“Yo, Kitahara.” Ota glanced up.
“How’d playing a corpse go last night?”
“Not bad.
The director didn’t yell at me.”
Shin pulled out a chair and sat down.
He had already unequipped the Zippo’s effect, returning to his usual calm, mild-mannered self.
Maintaining that emotional state was surprisingly draining, and there was no reason to waste it around someone he already knew.
“If the director didn’t yell, that’s a win.” Ota sighed and pulled a crumpled sheet of paper from the pile.
“Good timing.
I’ve got something for you.
TBS is casting a new romance drama.
Auditions are at two this afternoon.”
He hesitated, then gave Shin a doubtful look.
“But…
this one’s tricky.”
Shin took the paper.
The drama was titled Winter Sunflower.
The role was the third male lead—a “mute genius painter.”
According to the character profile, childhood trauma had left him with psychogenic mutism.
He was deeply in love with the heroine, but unable to confess his feelings with words, so everything he couldn’t say came out through his paintings instead.
The character didn’t have a single line in the entire drama.
Everything had to be conveyed through his eyes and body language.
“Play it well, and he’s a tragic romantic,” Ota said, blowing out a ring of smoke.
“Play it badly, and you’ll look like a creepy guy staring at people without blinking.”
He clearly wasn’t expecting much.
“And I heard Johnny’s is sending someone too.
We’re basically there to fill a slot and get your face in front of the casting team.
Don’t get your hopes up.”
In this era, a character without dialogue usually meant a character without much screen time.
And competing for a role against talent pushed by one of the hottest idol agencies in the business was practically asking an egg to crack a rock.
“No dialogue?”
Shin studied the character sheet, his thumb slowly rubbing the edge of the paper.
No need to speak.
All he had to do was express love and pain with his eyes.
It was almost as if the role had been written specifically for the [Silver Zippo].
“I’ll do it.” Shin looked up, perfectly calm.
“Sign me up.”
* * *
2:00 p.m., Akasaka.
TBS Television audition hall.
The corridor outside the audition room was packed with young male actors.
They looked like walking advertisements for bubble-era fashion: suits with absurdly broad shoulder pads, towering hairstyles sculpted into place, and enough hairspray and cologne in the air to make breathing feel optional.
Shin, meanwhile, wore nothing more than a plain white shirt and an old pair of jeans.
He sat quietly in one corner.
Several stylish young men nearby were chatting among themselves.
Their eyes briefly passed over Shin’s simple clothes, lingered for perhaps a second, then moved away as if he weren’t there.
There was no mockery.
No contempt.
That complete indifference was far crueler, and far more honest about how the entertainment industry worked.
He wasn’t even important enough for them to make fun of.
Shin didn’t so much as lift an eyelid.
He rested with his eyes closed, repeatedly reconstructing the painter’s state of mind inside his head.
“Next, Shin Kitahara.”
A staff member opened the door and called his name.
Shin rose to his feet.
As he took his first step, his fingers brushed the Zippo in his pocket.
[Equipped: The Songstress’s Abandoned Silver Zippo]
[Trait: Confession Behind the Mask — Activated]
In an instant, the noise around him seemed to recede into the distance.
A lonely chill settled over his entire body.
Shin opened the door and walked inside.
The director, screenwriter, and producer were seated behind a table.
All three looked exhausted.
They had already sat through more than a dozen energetic young idols, most of whom had either overacted every emotion or simply couldn’t stay still long enough to let a quiet scene breathe.
“Ota Talent Agency.
Shin Kitahara.”
Shin walked to the center of the room.
He didn’t bow deeply and belt out the usual enthusiastic greeting.
He simply inclined his upper body slightly and introduced himself in a soft voice.
The director frowned.
What’s with this kid?
No energy at all.
“Let’s begin.” The director waved a hand without much interest.
“Here’s the scene.
You’re painting when you see the woman you love accept another man’s marriage proposal.
You keep painting…
and then your hand stops.”
Utterly melodramatic.
And brutally difficult to perform well.
Shin said nothing.
He pulled over a chair and sat down.
There was no paintbrush in his hand, yet his fingers curved naturally around an invisible one.
Then he raised his head and looked toward someone who wasn’t there.
The director’s bored expression froze.
What kind of eyes were those?
It was as if an entire late-autumn night of cold rain had been trapped inside those dark pupils.
There was no heart-wrenching agony.
No jealous rage.
Only a tenderness that seemed to whisper:
As long as you’re happy…
it doesn’t matter if I’m the one who breaks.
[Charisma +15%] combined with [Confession Behind the Mask], magnifying that tragic beauty to its absolute limit.
Shin’s hand moved gently through the air, his wrist making small, precise strokes as though a real brush were gliding across a canvas.
Then, suddenly, his hand stopped.
He stared ahead.
The corner of his mouth twitched upward, as if he wanted to smile—to congratulate her, to show her that he was happy for her.
But the smile only made it halfway.
It froze.
The light in his eyes slowly faded, little by little, until nothing remained but a quiet emptiness.
Shin lowered his gaze.
Then, slowly…
almost reluctantly, he set down the paintbrush that didn’t exist.
The entire performance lasted less than a minute.
Not a single word.
Not even a sigh.
The audition room was deathly silent.
At some point, the female screenwriter had stopped looking through the résumés and raised her head.
Her pen hung motionless above the page.
Those eyes had struck her straight in the heart.
Wasn’t this him?
Wasn’t this the painter she had written—the man whose silent love was supposed to hurt the audience down to the bone?
“Good…”
It took the director several seconds to pull himself out of the scene.
Only then did he realize goosebumps had risen along his arms.
He had only wanted a handsome face to fill the role.
But this kid…
This kid had given him an artist with a soul.
“Your name is Shin Kitahara?”
The director sat up straight, his tone suddenly more serious than it had been all afternoon.
Shin unequipped the Zippo.
The heartbreaking weight surrounding him vanished almost instantly, and he returned to the calm, gentle young man who had first entered the room.
“Yes.”
“What have you acted in before?”
“Corpses.
Waiters.
Random passersby.”
The director stared at him for a moment.
Then he laughed, the sound carrying the unmistakable delight of a man who had just stumbled across a hidden treasure.
“Excellent.”
He drew a heavy circle around Shin’s name on the résumé.
“Your days as a background extra are over, Kitahara-kun.
Grow your hair out a little.
Come back next week for the costume and makeup fitting.”
Shin bowed, turned, and left the audition room.
Out in the corridor, the same fashionable young actors who had ignored him earlier were still fussing with one another’s hair and clothes.
When they saw how quickly Shin had come back out, one of them assumed he’d been rejected and let out a quiet chuckle.
Shin stopped and glanced at them.
There was no provocation in his eyes.
No anger.
Only the faint, almost indulgent patience of an adult watching children fool around.
He said nothing.
With both hands in his pockets, he turned and walked toward the elevator.
Inside his pocket, the cold silver Zippo seemed to be growing faintly warm.