May 1989, Nerima Ward.
Toei Oizumi Studio.
The atmosphere here couldn’t have been more different from the solemn, stifling seriousness of NHK.
The air reeked of tobacco and sweat, charged with a rough, almost savage energy.
As one of the spiritual homes of Japan’s ninkyo films—its hard-boiled yakuza movies—the studio corridors were filled with extras sporting buzz cuts and loud floral shirts.
Every now and then, you could even spot a genuine underworld figure who had dropped by to watch the filming.
Outside Audition Room No.
4, however, the atmosphere was suffocating.
“Get the hell out!
You call that a yakuza?!
You’re a clown!
A loudmouthed punk pretending to be tough!”
An explosive roar thundered through the door, followed by the violent smack of a script hitting the floor.
A few seconds later, an action actor with some television recognition stumbled out looking thoroughly humiliated.
His face was burning red.
Whatever had happened inside, he’d clearly been torn apart.
The remaining actors in the waiting area exchanged uneasy glances and swallowed hard.
Because the man sitting inside was Kinji Fukasaku.
The legendary director, often associated with the raw, chaotic violence that defined modern yakuza cinema, had a temper every bit as explosive as his films.
And there was one thing he hated more than almost anything else:
Actors who looked like they were acting.
Especially the stereotypical kind—furrowed brows, bulging eyes, and endless shouting meant to scream, Look how dangerous I am.
“Next.
Ota Agency, Shin Kitahara.”
The casting assistant called his name without much enthusiasm.
Shin rose.
He wore the fitted black suit he’d prepared after his trip to Kabukicho.
The collar of his white shirt was open, with no tie.
There was no script in his hand.
Only a pair of black leather gloves.
He calmly straightened the front of his jacket, then pushed open the door.
…
The audition room was thick with cigarette smoke.
Kinji Fukasaku sat behind a table wearing a pocket-covered director’s vest and dark sunglasses, a cigarette clenched between his lips as his fingers tapped impatiently against the tabletop.
A producer and several assistant directors sat beside him, all looking equally exhausted.
“Shin Kitahara?”
Fukasaku glanced at the résumé and frowned even harder.
“You’re the kid from the Taiga drama?”
His gaze swept over Shin.
“I’m casting a bastard, not some samurai who sits in seiza drinking tea.
Tell me—do you even know how to kill someone?”
The question was deliberately confrontational, almost insulting.
Shin didn’t get angry.
Nor did he rush to defend himself.
He merely inclined his upper body in a small, respectful bow.
“Director Fukasaku, I’ve read the script.
I have my own interpretation of Sawada, so I’d like to perform a short piece my way.”
“Whatever.”
Fukasaku waved impatiently.
“For my sake or yours, I don’t care.
Just don’t waste my time.
Three minutes.”
Shin turned toward a young assistant director assigned to read opposite the auditioning actors.
The man stood with a prop IOU in his hand, looking only mildly interested.
After watching one supposedly intimidating actor after another get thrown out, he had little faith that this refined, handsome young man could portray the script’s so-called mad dog.
Shin took a slow breath.
But he didn’t begin immediately.
Instead, he lowered his head.
[Equipped: Debt Collector’s Black Leather Gloves]
[Special Trait Activated: Elegant Execution]
Slowly, he slipped his left hand into the first glove.
The black leather tightened around his long fingers with a faint, unpleasant whisper of friction.
Shin kept his head lowered as he carefully smoothed every wrinkle from the gloves.
His movements were elegant.
Unhurried.
Almost as though he were preparing himself for a formal dinner.
And yet, in that very moment, the air inside the audition room seemed to freeze.
Fukasaku’s tapping finger stopped.
His instincts immediately told him that something about the young man in front of him had changed.
Only seconds earlier, Shin had been a polite, mild-mannered junior actor.
Now…
There was something cold around him.
Something deeply unpleasant.
Not the obvious menace of a thug trying to look dangerous, but the quiet chill of someone who had done terrible things so often that they had become routine.
Shin raised his head.
There was no anger in his eyes.
No obvious killing intent.
Only a terrifying emptiness…
…and the faintest hint of amusement.
He walked toward the assistant director.
His footsteps were light.
Almost silent.
The assistant director instinctively sensed danger.
He tried to step backward, only to discover that his legs had inexplicably gone weak.
Shin stopped directly in front of him.
They were so close they could hear each other breathe.
Unlike the previous actors, Shin didn’t grab him by the collar.
He didn’t slap him.
He didn’t shout.
Instead, one black-gloved hand rose toward the assistant director’s throat.
Gently—almost tenderly—Shin straightened the man’s slightly crooked tie.
The gesture looked less like fixing someone’s clothes…
…and more like arranging a dead man’s burial garments before the coffin was closed.
Every hair on the assistant director’s body stood on end.
He watched those black leather fingers moving near his throat, and a single thought screamed through his mind:
He’s going to strangle me.
“I heard…”
Shin finally spoke.
His voice was soft.
Almost intimate, like a lover whispering into someone’s ear.
But beneath that gentleness was a coldness sharp enough to freeze the blood.
He tilted his head slightly.
Those dead, smiling eyes stared straight into the assistant director’s pupils.
“…you’re planning to skip out on your debt?”
The assistant director’s mind went blank.
This wasn’t merely the fear produced by good acting.
It was something primal.
Instinctive.
For one horrifying second, he no longer felt as though an actor were standing in front of him.
He felt as though he were facing a genuine lunatic who might smile pleasantly while driving a ballpoint pen through his eye.
“I…
I didn’t…”
The assistant director’s answer came out as a stammer.
Clatter.
The prop IOU slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor.
His knees gave out.
He collapsed backward into the chair behind him, cold sweat soaking through his shirt almost instantly.
The room fell dead silent.
Shin didn’t break character.
The same faint smile remained on his face.
He bent down, picked up the fallen IOU with his gloved fingers, and gently brushed the dust from it.
Then he placed it neatly on the assistant director’s trembling knees.
“That’s better.” This chapter is updated first at g.com.
His voice remained soft.
“Try not to get your clothes dirty.
Stains are such a pain to wash out.”
Then Shin straightened.
He slowly removed the gloves.
And just like that, the suffocating chill vanished.
The monster disappeared.
In its place stood the same courteous young actor who had entered the room a few minutes earlier.
Shin turned toward Fukasaku and bowed slightly.
“Thank you for watching, Director.”
…
Fukasaku said nothing.
The cigarette between his lips had burned almost all the way down to the filter, close enough to sting him, yet he didn’t seem to notice.
Several seconds passed.
Bang!
Fukasaku suddenly slammed both hands onto the table and shot to his feet, knocking over a teacup with the force of it.
“That’s it!”
He ripped off his sunglasses.
His weathered eyes were blazing as he pointed at Shin.
“That’s the look I want!
Not some animal roaring and showing its teeth—a demon smiling at you!”
His voice shook with excitement.
“That’s a mad dog!”
Fukasaku stormed around the table and stopped in front of Shin, looking him up and down as though he’d just discovered an uncut gemstone.
“Who came up with that bit with the gloves?”
“I did,” Shin replied.
“The way I understand Sawada, he’s obsessed with cleanliness.
Violence isn’t an emotional release for him.
It’s work.”
Shin glanced at the gloves in his hand.
“And if you’re going to work, you should keep things clean.”
For half a second, Fukasaku stared at him.
Then he burst out laughing.
“Good!
That’s damn good!
Keep things clean!”
He spun toward the producer, who was still recovering from the audition.
“Get me the script!
Sawada doesn’t have enough scenes.
I’m giving him more!”
Fukasaku was already firing off ideas.
“Expand the killing scene in the rain!
And where’s wardrobe?
From now on, this kid looks exactly like this.
The suit, the shirt—everything!”
He jabbed a finger toward the gloves.
“Especially those!
If I could weld the damn things to his hands, I would!”
The producer wiped sweat from his forehead and hurriedly began taking notes.
The assistant director, still slumped in the chair, had finally recovered enough to breathe normally.
But when he looked at Shin, there was still a trace of fear in his eyes.
Shin curled his fingers around the leather gloves, feeling the lingering cold against his palm.
“Kitahara, right?”
Fukasaku slapped him heavily on the shoulder.
“Report to the production next week.
And prepare yourself—my sets are hell.”
His expression hardened.
“If you show up and can’t give me what you just gave me today, I’ll throw you out myself.”
Shin met the director’s gaze without flinching.
Then he bowed.
“Understood, Director.”