Smoke hung thick in the air inside Ota Agency.
Ota, Shin Kitahara’s manager, sat with a cigarette pinched between his fingers.
The ash had grown absurdly long, yet he had completely forgotten to flick it away.
His bloodshot eyes remained fixed on Shin, who had just walked through the door.
“You’re telling me…” Ota swallowed hard.
“TBS didn’t just cast you; they actually dropped the newcomer Johnny’s had lined up for the role…
and gave it to you instead?”
“That’s right.”
Shin pulled out a chair, sat down, and calmly poured himself a glass of water.
“Good God…” Ota slapped a hand against his forehead, sending cigarette ash all over his trousers.
“That’s a prime-time TBS drama!
You may only be the third male lead, but do you have any idea how many major agencies were fighting over that role?
You little bastard…
how the hell did you pull this off?”
Shin merely smiled and offered no explanation.
“What about the pay?
Have they settled it?”
“They have.” Ota immediately perked up and pulled a contract from his desk drawer.
“You’re still a newcomer, so it’s only fifty thousand yen per episode.
The drama should run for about ten episodes, which puts you at five hundred thousand in total.
TBS also promised a bonus if the ratings break twenty percent.”
Five hundred thousand yen.
In the middle of Japan’s bubble economy, that amount probably wouldn’t even cover a bottle of wine for some big shot spending the night in Ginza.
But for Shin, who was still surviving on discounted bento boxes, it was the first solid brick in the foundation of his acting career.
“Let’s sign it.”
Shin picked up the pen and signed his name without hesitation.
For a moment, memories of the decades he had spent struggling as a nameless actor in Hengdian flashed through his mind.
In his previous life, he had spent years begging for even a minor role with an actual name.
In this life, he had finally forced the door open.
…
Three days later,
Akasaka—TBS Television.
The costume and promotional photo shoot went smoothly.
Shin stood before the camera with slightly curled, shoulder-length hair and a loose linen shirt stained with paint.
The moment he activated the Zippo’s equipment effect, the lazy atmosphere inside the studio changed.
The photographer didn’t shout or make a scene.
He simply started pressing the shutter faster.
Click!
Click!
Click!
The almost frantic burst of camera shutters was praise enough.
Shin’s fragile, artistic aura was so striking that even the harsh studio flashes seemed to fade around him.
During a break in the shoot, Shin headed to the restroom.
The hallways were crowded with staff coming and going.
After splashing some water on his face, he started back toward the studio.
But as he passed the corner near a fire exit, a familiar figure stopped him in his tracks.
Akina Nakamori.
She seemed to be at TBS to record a music program that day, dressed in one of her signature glamorous gowns.
At the moment, however, a middle-aged man in a suit had cornered her near the stairwell.
The man had his back to Shin, and his voice was sharp with anger.
“What the hell is wrong with you?
Why wouldn’t you cooperate with Kanai-san’s press event?
Do you have any idea how much money the company spent keeping that story out of the papers?
And now you’re throwing a tantrum?
Who exactly are you trying to impress?”
Akina kept her head lowered.
Her fingers dug tightly into the lace of her skirt, but she said nothing.
Shin didn’t step forward.
He knew exactly where he stood.
He was a nobody who had only just landed his first real role.
Charging in and playing the hero would only embarrass Akina further, and it wouldn’t solve a damn thing.
Instead, he remained quietly in the shadow of the corner and took out a cigarette.
Click.
The crisp metallic snap of a Zippo opening cut clearly through the noise of the corridor.
The middle-aged man stopped mid-lecture and glanced over his shoulder.
A young man with long hair stood nearby, lighting a cigarette.
Shin still had the equipment effect active, and the cold, distant look in his eyes made it clear that he wasn’t someone looking for friendly conversation.
The man faltered beneath that unapproachable presence.
And since they were standing in the middle of a television station, he apparently decided that continuing to shout wasn’t worth the attention.
“Think about what you’ve done!
And don’t screw up when you go onstage later!”
He threw out the warning and hurried away.
Only Akina remained in the corner.
She slowly raised her head and looked toward Shin.
Her eyes were red, but there were no tears on her cheeks.
Spend long enough in this industry, and eventually you learned how to cry where no one could see it.
Shin said nothing either.
He simply closed the silver Zippo in his hand.
Click.
It was a sound she recognized.
Akina looked at the lighter, then at Shin.
Recognition flickered across her face.
He was the stranger from that rainy night a few days ago.
She glanced around to make sure no one was paying attention, gathered up the elaborate folds of her gown, and quickly walked over to him.
“Give me a light.”
Her voice was soft and slightly nasal from the scolding she had just endured.
Shin didn’t ask what had happened.
He didn’t shower her with concern or pretend to understand.
He simply flicked the lighter again.
An orange flame danced between them.
Akina had no intention of actually smoking.
She was about to go onstage, and she couldn’t afford to smell like cigarettes.
Instead, she stared at the little flame for several seconds, as though confirming something—or perhaps simply borrowing its warmth and light long enough to catch her breath.
“You fixed it?” she asked.
“Added some fuel.”
It was a ridiculously ordinary exchange, like two strangers making small talk while waiting for a traffic light to change.
“Good.”
Akina drew in a deep breath and straightened her skirt.
Then, almost effortlessly, the mask of Japan’s beloved songstress slipped back into place.
The vulnerability and humiliation from moments earlier disappeared beneath a composure she had clearly practiced countless times.
Before leaving, she glanced at the lighter in Shin’s hand.
“Keep it with you for now.”
She didn’t say she was giving it to him.
She didn’t ask him to keep it safe for her either.
She simply left him with that deliberately vague remark and turned toward the studio.
“I’m always losing it anyway.”
Shin watched her dazzling yet strangely lonely figure disappear around the corner.
The Zippo in his hand grew faintly warm.
[SYSTEM NOTICE: A bond has been formed with key figure “Akina Nakamori.”]
[New Status Acquired: The Songstress’s Gaze — Level 1]
[Note: She remembers you.
In this suffocating world of fame and ambition, you have become a slightly more memorable stranger in her eyes.]
Shin slipped the lighter back into his pocket and turned toward the photography studio.
It had only been a small interlude.
What mattered more to him right now was whether the producer would be satisfied with his promotional photos.
After all, his livelihood depended on it.