TBS Television, Studio 6.
A restless tension hung in the air.
“The hair!
Make the bangs a little fuller here!
That last angle made my face look too wide!”
At the center of the studio, the drama’s male lead, a rising young idol named Kazuya Matsumoto from Johnny’s, was fussing over his hairstyle in front of the makeup mirror.
Three assistants hovered around him.
One held up a mirror, another worked a comb through his hair, while the third clutched a can of hairspray as though the fate of the entire production depended on it.
Tanaka, the photographer responsible for the cast’s promotional portraits, impatiently tapped a finger against the body of his camera.
He had already been working for six straight hours and badly wanted a cigarette.
Unfortunately, the idol in front of him was barely in his twenties and currently one of the agency’s hottest prospects.
Losing his temper wasn’t an option.
“Matsumoto-san, the lighting is ready.
Could we maybe—” Tanaka ventured.
“Give me another minute.
The sideburns still aren’t even.” Matsumoto didn’t so much as glance at him, his eyes still glued to the mirror.
Shin Kitahara sat quietly on a folding chair in the corner, watching the entire scene unfold.
He was already in costume: a high-quality cream-colored linen shirt with the sleeves casually rolled up, paired with a worn-looking pair of corduroy trousers.
It was the signature look of the drama’s mute painter.
In his previous life at Hengdian, Shin had witnessed stars throw tantrums far worse than this.
Compared with them, Kazuya Matsumoto’s behavior was almost childish.
The young idol wasn’t deliberately trying to make life difficult for anyone; he was simply obsessively anxious about his appearance.
Another twenty minutes passed before Matsumoto was finally satisfied.
Once in front of the camera, he immediately switched on his trademark idol smile, flashing peace signs at the lens one moment and running a hand dramatically through his hair the next.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Tanaka kept shooting, but his expression remained numb.
There was no texture to the photographs, no character, no story.
They were perfectly serviceable idol shots, the kind printed across glossy magazine spreads to make teenage girls squeal.
“All right, good work!
Next!”
Tanaka lowered his camera with a long sigh and wiped the sweat from his neck with a towel.
Fatigue and impatience were obvious in his voice.
“You…
the guy playing the painter.
Kitahara, right?
Come on over.”
Matsumoto left, surrounded by his assistants.
As he passed Shin, he didn’t even bother looking at him.
Shin rose from his chair.
Instead of immediately walking to the center of the backdrop, however, he first glanced at the lighting setup overhead.
The key light was positioned forty-five degrees to the front-left, while a rim light from the rear-right outlined the hair.
It was a classic setup, but one that demanded precise positioning.
Miss the mark by even a little and the face would either wash out under the key light or sink into ugly shadow.
Shin walked toward the stool beside the easel.
Before sitting down, he nudged it five centimeters to the left with the tip of his shoe.
Tanaka, who had been about to tell him where to position himself, paused.
Those five centimeters placed Shin directly in the softest part of the key light—the sweet spot.
“Huh.
You actually know your way around a set.” Tanaka’s knitted brows loosened slightly.
“You’ve got five minutes.
Give me something melancholic.
Just don’t cover your face.”
“Of course.
Thank you.”
Shin nodded politely.
As he sat, one hand slipped into his pocket and his fingertips brushed against the cold metal casing inside.
[Equipped: The Songstress’s Abandoned Silver Zippo]
A promotional portrait didn’t need the kind of heartbreaking performance he had delivered during the audition.
That would be too much—forced and theatrical.
All he needed was the right atmosphere.
Just a touch.
Shin turned slightly sideways and let his weight settle naturally.
He picked up a dry, worn paintbrush that had been prepared as a prop.
Then he lowered his head and let his gaze rest on the tip of the brush.
In that instant, the bustle of the studio seemed to disappear behind an invisible wall.
Under the softened lights, his slightly curled long hair fell across half his brow and eyes, leaving only the clean, pale line of his jaw exposed.
He wasn’t looking at the camera.
Yet the quiet emotion lingering around his eyes made him resemble an old oil painting forgotten beneath decades of dust.
Lonely, but never pitiful.
Like a forgotten book of poetry gathering dust in the corner of an old bookstore.
Click.
Tanaka’s finger pressed the shutter almost on instinct.
“Raise your chin two millimeters.”
Shin adjusted by the smallest degree.
Click.
“Eyes toward your left shoulder.”
Shin lifted his gaze slightly, but kept his eyes unfocused, preserving that distant, detached quality.
Click.
Click.
Click.
The shutter began firing in a quick, effortless rhythm.
Tanaka found himself enjoying the shoot more with every frame.
This was what working with someone who understood the camera felt like.
Shin knew exactly where the lens was.
He knew where the light fell.
He even controlled his breathing at the instant the shutter fired so that his body remained perfectly still.
Tanaka didn’t have to coax him through poses like a child.
An entire hour had been reserved for the third male lead’s promotional shoot.
Only ten minutes had passed.
“Good!
Perfect!”
Tanaka lowered the camera, and for the first time that day, a genuine smile appeared on his face.
“These negatives are excellent.
We could develop them as-is and use them immediately.”
Not far away, the producer had been chatting with a production coordinator.
Hearing the commotion, he turned in surprise.
“You’re finished already?”
“Finished.
Almost every frame is usable.
Practically no wasted shots.” Tanaka pointed toward the instant proofs coming out of the Polaroid, praising Shin without reservation.
“The kid knows exactly how to work a camera.
Saved me a hell of a lot of film.”
The producer took one of the proofs and studied it for a moment.
Then he nodded thoughtfully and drew a circle beside Shin Kitahara’s name.
In an industry built around efficiency, being easy to work with, inexpensive, and dependable could sometimes impress the people holding the money more than raw brilliance ever could.
Shin stood and deactivated the equipment effect, once again becoming the mild-mannered, humble newcomer everyone had met earlier.
“Thank you for your hard work.”
He bowed to the crew and headed toward the changing area.
The wardrobe stylist was a woman in her thirties named Miwako.
She had watched the entire shoot from nearby.
When Shin approached and started to take off the linen shirt, she suddenly raised a hand.
“Hey, wait.”
Miwako looked him up and down with obvious approval.
“That shirt was only a sample the production bought.
It hasn’t even been entered into wardrobe inventory yet.
And frankly, it fits you better than that…
ahem, better than it ever did the mannequin.”
She lowered her voice and gave him a conspiratorial wink.
“Just wear it home.
Use it as your own shirt.
If we put it into storage, it’ll probably spend the rest of its life buried in a box anyway.
That’d be a waste.”
The shirt was made of pure linen, and good linen wasn’t cheap in this era.
A piece like this would cost at least twenty thousand yen.
Shin blinked, then gave her a genuinely delighted smile.
“Really?
I can keep it?
Thank you so much, Miwako-san.
I actually needed something for the change of season.”
The natural warmth in his voice clearly pleased her.
In an even better mood now, Miwako turned and picked up an elegant multi-tiered bento box from a nearby table.
“Take this too.”
“What is it?”
“A premium Jojoen yakiniku bento they prepared for Matsumoto-kun.
He said it was too greasy and wouldn’t touch it because he’s watching his figure.”
Miwako clicked her tongue and pushed the still-warm box into Shin’s arms.
“It’ll only get thrown away.
You’re young, and you’re still a newcomer.
Eat some meat.”
A premium Jojoen bento cost around three thousand yen.
For Shin, who was still living on discounted rice balls and bargain bento, it was the kind of luxury he wouldn’t even consider buying for himself.
The mouthwatering aroma of grilled meat drifted from the box in his arms, while the linen shirt against his skin felt soft and comfortable.
Carrying his unexpected dinner, Shin left the studio.
The rain outside had stopped.
For once, a few stars were visible above Tokyo’s night sky.
They were only small things—a shirt and a box of food.
But in this industry, you didn’t always need dramatic confrontations or flashy displays to win people over.
Do your job well.
Don’t run your mouth.
Don’t make other people’s lives harder.
Eventually, someone would be willing to show you a little kindness.
“Getting to eat meat is a lot more useful than looking cool anyway.”
With lighter steps, Shin headed toward the train station.
It was the first proper dinner he had eaten since arriving in this glittering bubble-era Tokyo.