Chapter 13 - actor

October 1988, Tokyo.

  The rain outside the window continued to fall, showing no sign of stopping.

  Raindrops pounded against the glass curtain wall, blurring the city's dazzling, superficial neon lights into patches of color.

  It was 2:15 a.m.

  Kawata-cho, Shinjuku Ward, the former site of Fuji Television.

  Even at this hour, the massive white building still resembled a tireless monster, consuming the most extravagant desires and ambitions of all of Japan.

  Occasionally, an assistant director would rush past carrying a stack of videotapes, or a producer, their face greasy, having just finished an all-night meeting. The air was thick with a peculiar smell—a mixture of expensive perfume, cheap tobacco, and the acrid aroma of excessive caffeine. Kitahara Shin sat in the rest

  area at the end of the corridor, clutching a can of black coffee he had just bought from a vending machine.

  The can was hot to the touch, but he didn't let go; it was the only source of warmth in this chilly night.

  "Still a little too tight."

  Kitahara Shin stared at his reflection in the vending machine's glass, silently reviewing his performance.

  The mirror showed a twenty-two-year-old man, with regular features, even handsome, but just the "standard" kind of handsome.

  In any drama, he'd be the kind of righteous extra who wouldn't survive three episodes, or the female lead's honest ex-boyfriend who only ever said "drink more hot water."

  No one knew that this young body housed an old soul from decades in the future.

  In his past life, he'd spent his entire life struggling in Hengdian World Studios, playing everything from corpses to eunuchs, from stunt doubles to extras—the kind of "veteran actor" others talked about.

  His acting skills were ingrained in his bones, but unfortunately, his face was too unattractive, and he'd never played a leading role.

  In this life, fate had bestowed upon him a handsome face and thrown him into this bubble economy of wealth.

  But reality was harsh.

  "Too academic acting," "Unremarkable," "I can't find fault with him, but I just don't want to watch him a second time"—this was the evaluation a well-known casting director gave him last week.

  Tonight, he played a waiter who was killed by a stray bullet as soon as he appeared in a police drama.

  To portray the physiological convulsions of "sudden death," he fell to the ground five times, and his knees were still aching.

  "I still have to endure this."

  Kitahara Shin took a gulp of bitter coffee, intending to make do on this bench for a few hours until the early train started running before returning to his rented room in Nerima Ward.

  Just then, a series of hurried and slightly chaotic high heel sounds broke the deathly silence at the end of the corridor.

  Kitahara Shin subconsciously straightened his posture, a professional instinct honed in his past life—on set, never let important people see you sprawled out.

  A woman walked over.

  She walked quickly, as if something was chasing her.

  In the pale light of the vending machine, Kitahara Shin recognized the person.

  She wore a glamorous, almost blindingly flashy black stage costume, its large, voluminous skirt studded with sequins that shimmered under the lights.

  But incongruously, she wore a large men's suit jacket—probably borrowed from some staff member for warmth.

  Her face was small, her makeup exquisite, but dark circles were undeniable beneath her eyes.

  Akina Nakamori.

  Everyone in Japan recognized her face.

  She was a symbol of this era, the "original diva" of countless men's dreams, and the pitiful woman in gossip magazines always weeping over her scumbag boyfriend.

  But at this moment, she was neither a diva nor that pitiful woman.

  She was just an ordinary person, utterly exhausted, wanting to escape the crowd.

  Akina Nakamori didn't notice Shin Kitahara in the shadows.

  She walked straight to the vending machine and pulled a flattened pack of Seven Stars cigarettes from the pocket of someone's suit.

  Her fingers trembled slightly as she pulled out a cigarette and put it in her mouth, then fumbled for a delicate silver Zippo lighter.

  "Click."

  The crisp metallic clang echoed in the quiet corridor.

  No flame, only a few pitiful sparks.

  "Click, click."

  Two more clicks.

  Still no light.

  Nakamori Akina stopped.

  She remained in the position of lighting her cigarette, her shoulders trembling slightly.

  She was at her breaking point.

  Three days of non-stop work with only four hours of sleep, the host's malicious teasing about a fabricated relationship during the recording, her manager's incessant nagging about the schedule… she had endured all of this immense pressure.

  But now, even a damn lighter was working against her.

  "Thump!"

  She suddenly grabbed the expensive silver lighter and slammed it hard against the vending machine's metal casing.

  "Tch."

  A very soft, irritated click of the tongue came from the mouth of this national idol known for her "fragile" demeanor.

  It wasn't anger, but rather a sense of grievance.

  Just as she was about to throw this useless piece of scrap metal into the trash can,

  "Click."

  A slight, crisp sound of plastic rang out beside her.

  A small, weak but steady orange-yellow flame was quietly offered to her.

  Akina Nakamori froze.

  She instinctively took a half-step back, turning her head warily.

  What she saw was a long, clean hand holding a cheap plastic lighter—the kind you see everywhere, branded with "XX Karaoke" printed on it.

  Following the hand, she saw a young man sitting on a bench.

  He wasn't looking at her.

  Shin Kitahara's eyes were lowered, his gaze fixed only on the unlit cigarette at the corner of her mouth.

  His expression was as calm as still water, showing neither the panic of someone seeing a big star nor that nauseating voyeuristic urge.

  He was simply, politely, asking for a light.

  This perfectly timed "ignorance" softened Akina Nakamori's hedgehog-like defenses.

  She hesitated for a second, then leaned closer and took a drag of the flame.

  The red dot of the burning tobacco lit up.

  The pungent smoke filled her lungs, and Akina Nakamori's tense back finally slumped. She leaned against the vending machine, tilting her head back to exhale a long puff of smoke, as if exhaling the weariness from her soul.

  "Something worth tens of thousands of dollars,"

  Nakamori Akina said, looking at the cold silver Zippo in her hand, her voice slightly hoarse, tinged with a self-deprecating chill. "In a pinch, it's not even as good as a hundred-dollar plastic thing."

  Kitahara Shin put away his lighter, gripping the now lukewarm coffee can again, his tone flat:

  "It's just out of gas. Add some, it'll still work."

  Very pragmatic, very straightforward, with absolutely no intention of flirting.

  Nakamori Akina turned her head, looking at this man seriously for the first time.

  In this fickle entertainment industry, where everyone wanted to pluck a layer of gold from her, this man's calmness seemed so out of place.

  He sat in the shadows, like a silent tree.

  "Akina-chan! Akina-chan, where did you go?"

  From the other end of the corridor came the manager's anxious shouts, accompanied by hurried footsteps.

  That name was like a switch.

  The dejected, agitated woman vanished instantly. Akina Nakamori quickly stubbed out her cigarette, which she had only taken two puffs of, and tossed it into the nearby trash can. She then straightened her suit jacket and straightened her back.

  Even if it was a disguise, she wanted to maintain the dignity befitting a "singer."

  Before leaving, she lightly placed her hand on top of the vending machine.

  "Out of fuel, it's just a piece of scrap metal. I don't want to fix it."

  Without turning back, she strode quickly towards her manager in her high heels, leaving only a light, fleeting sentence in the air:

  "If you don't mind, you can take it."

  The corridor returned to its deathly silence.

  Only the faint scent of expensive perfume proved that the most popular woman in all of Japan had indeed been there.

  Shin Kitahara finished his coffee and stood up.

  His gaze fell on top of the vending machine.

  The exquisite silver Zippo lighter, engraved with intricate patterns, lay there all alone.

  Was it discarded trash by its owner?

  Shin Kitahara reached out and picked it up.

  The silver body still carried a trace of warmth, the warmth of her palm.

  The instant her fingertips touched it...

  *Buzz*

  —Kitahara Shin's mind jolted.

  A familiar, semi-transparent pale blue screen unfolded on his retina without warning.

  [System Activated.]

  [Equipable Item Found (Rare)]

  [Item Name: The Diva's Abandoned Silver Zippo (Purple)]

  [Original Owner: Nakamori Akina]

  [Slot: Hand/Accessory]

  [Status: Fuel Depleted]

  [Base Attribute: Charm +15% (Trait: Fragile)]

  [Special Affix: Masked Confession (Passive)]

  Note: In public, she was a queen admired by all; in private, a girl yearning for love. This lighter witnessed countless moments of her swallowing her grievances alone.

  [Effect: When equipped, your eyes will possess a "storytelling quality." When you remain silent, those around you will have a 50% increased curiosity about you and will subconsciously perceive you as a "secret and affectionate" person.]

  Kitahara Shin's hand tightened slightly as he gripped the lighter.

  He looked at his reflection in the vending machine's glass, his thumb gently tracing the cold metal casing. "

  A sense of story..."

  For an actor, this was more precious than gold.

  He carefully tucked the empty lighter into the pocket near his heart, pushed open the glass door, and turned to walk into the long, rainy night.

The next morning.

  Nerima Ward, an old apartment no bigger than six tatami mats.

  A

  hangover-like headache woke Kitahara Shin early. The rain outside had stopped, and the sunlight streaming in carried the chill of late autumn.

  He walked shirtless into the cramped bathroom and splashed cold water hard on his face. He

  looked up, water droplets dripping from his chin.

  The mirror reflected a young, firm, but slightly pale face.

  It was a classic handsome face: thick eyebrows, a straight nose, and well-defined features. But in an era dominated by idols, while handsome, this face, too perfect, seemed somewhat "boring."

  Kitahara Shin smiled at the mirror.

  A standard, sunny smile, like a model in a toothpaste tube.

  But that was all; nothing lingered, easily forgotten. Having spent decades in film crews in his past life, he knew all too well how fatal a curse "lack of recognizability" was for an actor.

  "So, what about now?"

  Kitahara Shin took a deep breath, his thoughts stirring slightly.

  His consciousness sank into the pale blue system panel.

  In the equipment slot, the [Silver Zippo Abandoned by the Diva] floated quietly, emitting a faint purple light.

  "Equip."

  The moment the thought fell,

  there were no special effects or lighting, but Kitahara Shin felt as if his heart had been gently squeezed, an indescribable bittersweet feeling quickly spreading through his emotions.

  It was the despair and loneliness that Nakamori Akina had felt in that instant last night.

  He looked in the mirror again.

  His features were unchanged, even his hairstyle was the same.

  But the person in the mirror had changed.

  His once clear but slightly empty eyes now seemed to be veiled by a thin layer of mist.

  Even with a blank expression, his eyes seemed to hold a thousand unspoken words, like a child abandoned in a downpour, or a prodigal son who had seen through the coldness of the world.

  A kind of "broken beauty" overflowed from his brows.

  If people saw Kitahara Shin on the street now, they would probably subconsciously think, "What has this man been through? Why does he look so sad?"

  "That's... the atmosphere."

  Kitahara Shin touched his face.

  With the blessing of the "Masked Confession" tag, even just a slight twitch of the corners of his mouth, that smile was no longer the sunny toothpaste GG, but a bitter forced smile that made people's hearts tighten.

  "Plus my acting skills from my past life..."

  Kitahara Shin turned off the tap, a glint of light flashing in his eyes.

  ...

  Ten o'clock in the morning, Shibuya, an inconspicuous back alley.

  The peeling sign of "Ota Office" hung on the second floor.

  This was a typical small workshop, with only a few employees. When Kitahara Shin pushed open the door, his manager, Ota, was smoking a cigarette and looking worried as he flipped through a fax.

  "Hey, Kitahara, how did the corpse scene go last night?" Ota asked casually.

  "Not bad, the director didn't yell at me."

  Kitahara Shin pulled out a chair and sat down.

  He had already shed his "pretend mode" and reverted to his usual gentle and composed self.

  After all, that effect was too mentally taxing, and there was no need to act in front of acquaintances.

  "It's good that he didn't yell at me." Ota sighed and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. "Perfect timing, here's a job. A new drama on TBS, a pure romance, audition at 2 PM."

  He looked at Kitahara Shin hesitantly: "But... this role is a bit tricky."

  Kitahara Shin took the paper.

  The drama was called "Winter Sunflower." The role he was auditioning for was the third male lead, a "mute genius painter."

  Due to childhood trauma, he suffered from psychogenic aphasia, deeply in love with the female lead, but could only express it through painting.

  The entire play has no dialogue; it relies entirely on eyes and body language.

  "This kind of role, if played well, is deeply affectionate; if played poorly, it's just a deadpan, twisted character," Ota exhaled a smoke ring, not holding out much hope. "Besides, I heard Johnny's also sent someone. We're just going to make up the numbers, get some exposure, don't take it too seriously."

  In this era, a role without lines usually means no screen time. And competing with those top idol agencies for talent is like throwing an egg against a rock.

  "No lines?"

  Kitahara Shin looked at the character's biography, his fingers lightly tracing the edge of the paper.

  No need to speak, just express love and pain with his eyes. This is practically a stage tailor-made for that [Silver Zippo].

  "I'll go," Kitahara Shin looked up, his eyes calm. "Sign me up."

  ...

  Two o'clock in the afternoon, Akasaka, TBS television station audition hall.

  The corridor was crowded with young male actors auditioning.

  The fashion of the bubble era was vividly embodied in them: exaggerated padded-shoulder suits, towering pompadours, and the air thick with the scent of hair gel and cologne.

  Kitahara Shin, dressed in a simple white shirt and worn jeans, sat quietly in a corner.

  Several stylishly dressed men chatted around him, their gazes lingering on Kitahara Shin's attire for only a second before indifferently looking away.

  There was no mockery, no disdain.

  That complete indifference was the true, cruel reality of this circle—you didn't even have the right to be their topic of conversation.

  Kitahara Shin didn't even lift his eyelids, closing his eyes to rest, repeatedly simulating the painter's mental state in his mind.

  "Next, Kitahara Shin,"

  a staff member called out, opening the door.

  Kitahara Shin stood up.

  The instant he took a step, he touched the Zippo in his pocket.

  [Equipment: The Diva's Abandoned Silver Zippo]

  [Entry "The Masked Confession" activated.]

  In an instant, the surrounding noise seemed to fade away.

  A lonely chill enveloped him.

  He pushed open the door and entered.

  The audition room contained the director, screenwriter, and producer.

  All three looked exhausted; a dozen or so boisterous idols had entered before them, either overacting or unable to calm down.

  "Ota Office, Kitahara Shin," Kitahara

  Shin said, walking to the center of the room. He didn't bow and shout "Nice to meet you," but simply gave a slight bow, his voice soft.

  The director frowned.

  Why was this kid so listless?

  "Let's begin," the director waved casually. "The topic is: Watching your beloved woman accept someone else's marriage proposal, you're painting, then stop."

  Extremely melodramatic, and also extremely demanding in terms of skill.

  Kitahara Shin didn't speak.

  He pulled up a chair and sat down, his hand empty of paintbrush, merely grasping at the air.

  He looked up at the empty air before him.

  In that instant, the director's previously nonchalant gaze suddenly froze.

  What kind of eyes were those?

  In those dark pupils, it seemed as if an entire autumn rainy night was hidden. There was no heart-wrenching pain, no jealous rage, only a gentle "As long as you're happy, it doesn't matter if I break."

  [Charm +15%] combined with [The Masked Confession] amplified this "tragic beauty" to the extreme.

  Kitahara Shin's hand moved lightly in the air, as if he were truly painting.

  Suddenly, the movement stopped.

  He looked ahead, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly, as if he wanted to smile to express his blessing. But that smile froze halfway through, the light in his eyes gradually fading until only desolation remained.

  He lowered his gaze, slowly, bit by bit, putting down the paintbrush that wasn't even in his hand.

  Less than a minute.

  Not a single line, not a single sigh.

  The audition room was deathly silent.

  The female screenwriter, who had been looking down at her resume, had somehow raised her head, her pen hovering in mid-air, not falling for a long time. She was struck by that look; wasn't that the painter she had created, the one who evoked such heartache?

  "Okay..."

  After a long while, the director finally snapped out of his reverie. He found himself covered in goosebumps.

  He had only wanted a handsome but empty-headed guy, but this kid... this kid had given him an artist with a soul.

  "Your name is Kitahara Shin?" The director sat up straight, his tone more solemn than ever before.

  Kitahara Shin deactivated his armor, the heartbreaking oppressive aura vanishing instantly, transforming him back into the gentle young man he once was.

  "Yes."

  "What have you played before?"

  "Dead bodies, waiters, and extras."

  The director paused for a moment, then laughed, a laugh tinged with the elation of finding a gem.

  "Very good." The director circled a line heavily on the resume. "Your days as an extra are over, Kitahara-kun. Let your hair grow a little longer, and come for a fitting next week."

  Kitahara Shin bowed, turned, and walked out of the audition room.

  In the corridor, the handsome guys who had previously ignored him were still fixing each other's hair.

  Seeing Kitahara Shin come out so quickly, some thought he had been rejected and let out a soft laugh.

  Kitahara Shin stopped and glanced at them. His eyes were calm, without provocation, only the tolerance of an adult looking at a child.

  He didn't speak, and walked towards the elevator with his hands in his pockets.

  In his pocket, the cold silver Zippo seemed to be slightly warm.-+Chapter 3 An Encounter  Inside the "Ota Agency," smoke swirled.

  Ota, the manager, held a cigarette between his fingers, a long ash he'd forgotten to flick off. His bloodshot eyes were fixed on Kitahara Shin, who had just entered.

  "You mean…" Ota swallowed hard, "TBS not only booked you, but also… replaced that newcomer from Johnny's…"

  "Yes."

  Kitahara Shin pulled out a chair and calmly poured himself a glass of water.

  "My God..." Ota slapped his forehead, cigarette ash spilling all over his pants. "That's a TBS 'Getsu-9' slot! Even though it's the third male lead, do you know how many big agencies are eyeing this lucrative opportunity? You... how did you manage that?"

  Kitahara Shin smiled, offering no explanation.

  "Did you discuss the pay?"

  "Yes." Ota instantly perked up, pulling a contract from his drawer. "Because I'm a newcomer, the pay per episode is only 50,000 yen. The whole series is about ten episodes, so it's 500,000 yen in total. But TBS promised an extra bonus if the ratings exceed 20%." 500,000

  yen.

  In this bubble economy era, that amount of money wasn't even enough for those big shots to buy a bottle of wine in Ginza.

  But for Kitahara Shin, who was still eating discounted bento boxes, this was the first brick he had laid in this industry.

  "Sign it."

  Kitahara Shin picked up the pen and signed his name neatly.

  His decades-long career as a struggling actor in his previous life seemed to flash before his eyes.

  In his previous life, he couldn't even get a role with a name; in this life, he finally pried open that door.

  ...

  Three days later, Akasaka, TBS Television Station.

  The makeup shoot went smoothly.

  When Kitahara Shin, with his slightly wavy long hair, wearing a linen shirt stained with paint, stood in front of the camera with the equipment effects turned on, the previously lazy atmosphere in the studio instantly changed.

  The photographer didn't shout or yell, but the frequency of pressing the shutter suddenly became extremely dense.

  "Click! Click! Click!"

  That almost frantic shutter sound was the greatest recognition an actor could receive.

  Kitahara Shin's "fragile artistic sensibility" even overshadowed the intense flashes in the studio.

  During a break in shooting, Kitahara Shin went to the restroom.

  People were coming and going in the corridor.

  He washed his face and was about to return to the studio when, as he passed the corner of the fire escape, a familiar figure made him pause.

  Nakamori Akina.

  She seemed to be there to record a song program today, wearing her signature gorgeous dress. But at this moment, she was being cornered by a middle-aged man in a suit.

  The man, his back to Kitahara Shin, spoke sharply:

  "...What's wrong with you? Why didn't you cooperate with Kanai-san's press conference? Do you know how much money the company spent suppressing the news? Who are you trying to impress with this tantrum?"

  Nakamori Akina kept her head down, her fingers furrowing the lace of her skirt, remaining silent.

  Kitahara Shin didn't step forward.

  He knew he was just a newcomer actor who had just landed a role; rushing in to play the hero would only make things worse and wouldn't solve anything.

  He simply stood quietly in the shadows around the corner, taking out a cigarette.

  "Click."

  The crisp sound of the metal cap opening was particularly clear in the noisy corridor.

  The middle-aged man who was scolding him paused, glancing back at him. A young man with long hair was lighting a cigarette, his eyes cold (his aura of indifference was still present).

  The man was startled by this aura of unapproachability, and considering they were in a TV station corridor, he couldn't continue his outburst.

  "Reflect on your own behavior! Don't mess up on stage later!"

  the man said, then hurried away.

  In the corner, only Nakamori Akina remained.

  She slowly raised her head, looking at Kitahara Shin not far away. Her eyes were red, but there were no tears on her face. Having been in this industry for so long, she had long since learned to swallow her tears.

  Kitahara Shin didn't speak either.

  He simply closed the silver Zippo lighter in his hand.

  "Click."

  It was a familiar sound.

  Nakamori Akina looked at the lighter, then at Kitahara Shin.

  She recognized him—the stranger from a few nights ago.

  She glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then lifted her elaborate skirt and quickly walked to Kitahara Shin.

  "Can I borrow a light?"

  Her voice was soft, with a slight nasal tone from being scolded.

  Kitahara Shin didn't ask why she'd been scolded, nor did he show excessive concern. He simply lit the light again.

  The orange-yellow flame flickered.

  Nakamori Akina wasn't actually going to smoke; she was going on stage soon and couldn't have any smoke.

  She just stared at the flame for a while, as if confirming something, or perhaps just wanting to catch her breath in the light.

  "Is it fixed?" she asked.

  "I added some oil," Kitahara Shin replied.

  The simple conversation was like a casual chat between two strangers waiting at a traffic light.

  "It's alright."

  Nakamori Akina took a deep breath, straightened her skirt, and put the "National Diva" mask back on.

  The vulnerability and embarrassment she had shown just moments before were skillfully concealed.

  Before leaving, she glanced at the lighter in Kitahara Shin's hand.

  "I'll leave it with you for now."

  She didn't say "it's yours," nor "keep it safe for me," but simply left with this ambiguous statement before turning and walking towards the stage.

  "I always lose it anyway."

  Kitahara Shin watched her glamorous yet slightly lonely figure disappear around the corner.

  The Zippo in his hand felt slightly warm.

  [System Notification: A bond has been formed with the key character "Nakamori Akina."]

  [Status Acquired: Diva's Gaze (Level 1)]

  Note: She remembers you. In this suffocating world of fame and fortune, you've become just another slightly special passerby in her eyes.

  Kitahara Shin put the lighter back in his pocket and turned to walk towards the photography studio.

  This was just a minor incident.

  More important than that, he was concerned about whether the producer would be satisfied with the makeup photos later.

  After all, that was his livelihood.-+  TBS Television Station, Studio 6.   A sense of anxiety permeated the air.

  "   Hair, the bangs need more volume! That angle made my face look too wide!"   In the center of the studio, the male lead—Matsumoto Kazuya, a rookie idol from Johnny & Associates—was criticizing his hairstyle in the makeup mirror.   Three assistants surrounded him: one holding a mirror, one a comb, and the other holding hairspray as if facing a major crisis.   The photographer in charge of the makeup photoshoot, Tanaka, was impatiently tapping the camera shutter with his fingers.   He had been working for six hours straight and was craving a cigarette, but this idol, barely in his early twenties, was at the height of his fame, and he   couldn't afford to lose his temper. "Matsumoto-san, the lighting is all set, could we..." Tanaka asked tentatively.   "Wait a minute, the sideburns are still asymmetrical here." Matsumoto didn't look at the photographer, still staring at the mirror.   Kitahara Shin sat quietly in a folding chair in the corner, watching the scene unfold.   He had already changed into his costume—a high-quality off-white linen shirt, the cuffs casually rolled up, paired with distressed corduroy trousers.   This was the standard outfit for the "mute painter" in the play.   In his previous life in Hengdian, he had seen far more outrageous diva-like behavior than this.   In comparison, Matsumoto Kazuya's excessive anxiety about his image seemed rather childish.   Twenty minutes later, Matsumoto was finally satisfied.   He struck his signature idol smile for the camera, flashing a V-sign or stylishly stroking his hair.   The shutter clicked rapidly; photographer Tanaka, though pressing the shutter, remained expressionless—these photos lacked any real quality, purely for use in idol magazines to please young girls.   "Okay, that's good! Next!"   Tanaka put down his camera, let out a long breath, grabbed the towel around his neck to wipe his sweat, his tone clearly tired and perfunctory. "The one playing the painter, Kitahara, right? Come here."   Matsumoto left the stage surrounded by a group of assistants, not even raising his eyelids as he passed Kitahara Shin.   Kitahara Shin stood up, not rushing to the center of the backdrop, but first glancing at the lighting setup above his head.   The main light was at a 45-degree angle to the left front, and the contour light was at the right rear, used to outline the hair.   This was a classic lighting setup, but it also tested the model's positioning; if the model stood even slightly off-center, their face would either be overexposed or become a dark shadow.   He walked to the round stool in front of the easel, but instead of sitting down directly, he gently moved the stool five centimeters to the left with his toes.   Tanaka, who was about to give instructions on positioning, paused.   Those five centimeters were precisely where the softest light fell, the so-called "sweet spot."   "Not bad, you know a bit of the unwritten rules," Tanaka muttered, his furrowed brows relaxing slightly. "You have five minutes. Just strike a slightly melancholic pose, don't cover your face."   "Okay, thank you,"   Kitahara Shin nodded politely.   The moment he sat down, his hand slipped into his pocket, his fingertips touching the cold, metallic casing.   [Equipment: The Diva's Abandoned Silver Zippo]   A promotional photo doesn't need that kind of heart-wrenching acting; that kind of exaggeration would seem overdone.   All it needs is a perfectly balanced atmosphere.   He slightly turned his body, lowering his center of gravity, and picked up a dried paintbrush as a prop.   Then, he lowered his head, his gaze fixed on the tip of the brush.   In that instant, the surrounding noise seemed to be isolated by some invisible force field.   Under the halo of the light, his slightly curly long hair covered half of his eyebrows and eyes, revealing a tight and pale jawline.   Although his eyes were not looking at the camera, the serenity in the corners of his eyes and brows was like an old oil painting sealed by the dust of time.   Lonely, but not destitute.   Like a dusty book of poetry in the corner of an old bookstore.   "Click."   Tanaka's fingers instinctively pressed the shutter.   "Raise your chin two millimeters."   Kitahara Shin moved slightly.   "Click."   "Look at your left shoulder."   Kitahara Shin slightly raised his eyelids, but his gaze remained unfocused, maintaining that aloofness.   "Click, click, click."   The shutter sounds became light and rhythmic.   Tanaka was getting more and more comfortable shooting.   This feeling was so comfortable; the model knew exactly where the camera was, where the light was, and even knew to control his breathing to maintain his balance the moment the shutter was pressed.   He didn't need to teach him how to pose like a child.   The one hour of shooting time originally allocated to the "third male lead" had only lasted ten minutes.   "Great! Perfect!"   Tanaka put down his camera, a genuine smile appearing on his face for the first time that day. "This film is excellent; it's ready to use right out of the box."   Not far away, the producer, who was chatting with the coordinator, heard the commotion and looked over in surprise: "It's finished shooting already?"   "Finished shooting, all usable shots, almost zero wasted footage." Tanaka pointed to the sample film that Polaroid had ejected, praising it generously. "This kid has a great sense of camera presence; he saved me a lot of film."   The producer took the sample film, glanced at it, nodded thoughtfully, and circled Kitahara Shin's name.

  In this efficiency-driven industrial system, "ease of use," "cost-effectiveness," and "effortlessness" are often more appealing to employers.

  Kitahara Shin stood up, deactivated his equipment, and reverted to his usual gentle and humble demeanor as a newcomer.

  "Thank you all for your hard work,"

  he said, bowing to the staff before heading towards the changing area.

  The stylist in charge of the costumes was a woman in her thirties named Miwako. She had been watching the entire process, and as Kitahara Shin approached, preparing to take off his linen shirt, she suddenly reached out and stopped him.

  "Hey, wait a minute."

  Miwako looked Kitahara Shin up and down, her eyes filled with admiration. "This shirt was a sample purchased by the production team; it wasn't originally in stock. I think it fits you better than that... cough, even better than the mannequin."

  She lowered her voice and blinked. "Just wear it as a personal outfit. It's a shame it'd just end up at the bottom of the closet anyway."

  The shirt was made of pure linen, a material that wasn't cheap back then, costing at least 20,000 yen.

  Kitahara Shin was taken aback for a moment, then broke into a genuine smile. "Really? Thank you so much, Miwako-nee. I was just about to need a new outfit for the changing season."

  This natural "Miwako-nee" clearly pleased her.

  Miwako was in a good mood and turned to pick up an elegant multi-layered food container from the table next to her.

  "And this, take it."

  "What's this?"

  "That's the Seijuen premium yakiniku bento box prepared for Matsumoto-kun, but he thought it was too greasy and didn't touch it to maintain his figure."

  Miwako pouted and stuffed the still-warm bento box into Kitahara Shin's arms. "It's a waste to throw it away. You're still growing, and you're a newcomer, so eat more meat."

  A Seijuen premium bento box costs three thousand yen, a luxury that Kitahara Shin, who is currently eating discounted rice balls, can't even dream of.

  The bento box in his arms exudes an enticing aroma of yakiniku, and the linen shirt he's wearing feels soft and comfortable.

  Kitahara Shin hugged the bento box and walked out of the photography studio.

  The rain outside had stopped, and a few stars were showing in the Tokyo night sky, a rare sight.

  Although they were just two small things—a piece of clothing and a bento box—

  in this circle, there's no need for pretentious displays of respect. As long as you're good at your job, quiet, and easy to get along with, people will naturally be willing to show you some kindness.

  "It's still more practical to have some meat to eat,"

  Kitahara Nobumi said with light steps as he walked towards the train station.

  This was the first decent dinner he had eaten in this bubble era.-+  It was nearly 10 p.m. when he left Studio 6.

  Kitahara Shin, clutching the heavy lacquerware food box, was even happier than when the photographer had praised him.

  Instead of leaving the television station building directly, he took a detour to the production center on the third floor.

  There was free hot water there, and he planned to fill up and take some with him—the water heater in his old apartment had been broken for half a month, and the landlord had been putting off fixing it.

  Passing a meeting room labeled "Winter Sunflower Script Study Room," the door was ajar.

  It was empty, except for a messy table.

  Ashtrays piled high with cigarette butts, scattered discarded printing papers, and half-empty cans of coffee—one could imagine the intense brainstorming that had just taken place here.

  Kitahara Shin subconsciously glanced inside.

  If it were the younger Kitahara Shin of the past, he probably would have walked right past without a second glance.

  But as a seasoned veteran of film sets, he had developed a habit—observing his surroundings.

  His gaze settled on a chair in the corner of the long table.

  There sat a pair of glasses there.

  Black, thin frames, a new style, the lenses gleaming with a faint bluish-purple sheen under the corridor lights.

  It lay forlornly on a stack of discarded documents, clearly forgotten by its owners who had hastily departed.

  "Nobody wants it?"

  Kitahara Shin pushed open the door and entered.

  The whiteboard in the meeting room still bore the words "Episode 3 Outline Revision," indicating that the scriptwriting team had left long ago.

  According to television station practice, such meeting rooms left overnight would be emptied by the cleaning lady the next morning, and the items on the tables would most likely be disposed of as trash.

  He walked over and picked up the glasses.

  They were light, the acetate felt warm to the touch, and they had no prescription—they were non-prescription lenses.

  The moment his fingertips touched them, that familiar blue screen popped up again.

  [Found Equippable Item (Common)]

  [Item Name: Screenwriter's Lost Plain Blue Light Blocking Glasses (White)]

  [Original Owner: An Unknown Assistant Screenwriter with Excessive Eye Strain]

  [Location: Head/Accessory]

  [Status: Intact, Clean]

  [Base Attribute: Concentration +20%]

  [Special Ability: Subtext Insight (Passive)]

  Note: These glasses have accompanied their owner through countless late nights revising the script. When wearing them, your sensitivity to text will be greatly enhanced, allowing you to quickly grasp the logic and emotions behind the lines.

  "Concentration boost?"

  Kitahara Shin's eyes lit up.

  Compared to that somewhat "mystical" Zippo lighter, this thing is a genuine efficiency artifact.

  For actors, reading the script is not just about memorizing lines, but also a process of logical analysis.

  He took a handkerchief from his pocket, carefully wiped the mirror, and after making sure it was clean, put it in his inner jacket pocket.

  "Thanks, nameless screenwriter."

  ...

  Nerima Ward, rented room.

  It was almost eleven o'clock when he got home.

  The cramped, six-and-a-half-tatami room was filled with the chill of late autumn.

  Kitahara Shin rubbed his hands together, not rushing to turn on the heater, but first opening the exquisite food box.

  Even though it was cold, the rich aroma of top-quality oil still wafted over.

  This was the famous "Shushuen" premium yakiniku bento.

  Thick slices of beef short ribs were served over rice, accompanied by refreshing kimchi and mixed vegetables.

  He picked up a piece of beef and put it in his mouth.

  The rich juices burst in his mouth, and the sweetness of the fat instantly soothed the fatigue of a long day.

  "Not bad..."

  Kitahara Shin let out a satisfied sigh.

  In his previous life in Hengdian, because he wasn't good-looking, he could only play minor roles, and he always ate those ordinary crew box meals, which were either fatty meat or lymph node meat, and he rarely got to eat chicken legs.

  But in this life, he received such a gift simply because he showed "professionalism" and "effortlessness" during the makeup and photo shoot.

  It has to be said that the bubble economy era was indeed very generous.

  After finishing his bento, his body finally warmed up.

  Kitahara Shin tidied the table and took out the script for "Winter Sunflower" from his bag.

  Tomorrow was the first day of filming, and although his character had no lines, he wouldn't let his guard down.

  He took out the black-rimmed glasses he had just picked up and put them on his nose.

  [Equipment activated: Concentration +20%]

  The world seemed to fall silent instantly.

  The occasional sound of cars passing by outside the window and the noise from the neighbor watching TV next door seemed to be filtered out by some kind of filter.

  In his vision, only the dense lead words on the script remained.

  The originally boring triangle prompts and action instructions in parentheses now seemed to come alive in his eyes, automatically constructing dynamic images.

  "Here, after the male lead says that line, there will definitely be a pause to catch his breath..."

  "Here, the female lead's emotions are fake; she's covering up..."

  Kitahara Shin's pen flew across the script.

  Normally, analyzing tomorrow's three scenes would take at least two hours. But today, with the boost from [Subtext Insight], his brain was working at an astonishing speed.

  He not only memorized his own blocking, but even mastered the rhythm of the male lead Matsumoto Kazuya's lines.

  He anticipated where Matsumoto might freeze, where he might rush to the next scene, and where his movements might become distorted due to tension.

  "If you don't understand your co-star's breathing, you can't steal the show in silence."

  This was the experience of a veteran actor.

  Just forty minutes later, the script was closed.

  Kitahara Shin took off his glasses, rubbed his temples, and felt refreshed.

  The clock on the wall pointed to twelve.

  "So early."

  Usually at this time, he would still be working on the script.

  Now that the work was finished, he could go to bed early.

  In this appearance-obsessed industry, sleep is the best beauty treatment.

  ...

  The next morning, 6:30.

  Shinjuku Gyoen National Garden exterior location.

  The morning mist of late autumn hadn't yet dissipated when the crew was already busily laying out the tracks.

  Kitahara Shin arrived on set right on time.

  He was wearing the linen shirt he'd borrowed the day before, with an old trench coat over it.

  After a good night's sleep, he looked radiant, his skin firm and glowing, his eyes clear and bright, needing no extra concealer.

  "Good morning, Miwako-nee,"

  he greeted the stylist who was adjusting his costume with a smile.

  "Kitahara-kun!" Miwako's eyes lit up when she saw him. "Your skin looks great! Look at your complexion, you can even apply a thinner layer of foundation."

  In contrast, the male lead, Matsumoto Kazuya, who arrived twenty minutes later, looked rather pathetic.

  Matsumoto, wearing sunglasses, stepped out of the van surrounded by a group of assistants.

  The moment he removed his sunglasses, even with makeup, the dark circles under his eyes and slight puffiness on his cheeks were visible.

  Clearly, this popular idol hadn't studied the script properly last night, most likely partying at a Roppongi nightclub until the early hours.

  "Um...where's the makeup artist? Hurry up, fix my face, it's still a bit swollen," Matsumoto complained as soon as he sat down, his voice hoarse and full of morning grumpiness.

  The director, who was adjusting the monitors nearby, frowned and glanced over.

  He then turned to look at Kitahara Shin, who had already finished his makeup and was sitting quietly in the corner reading his script.-+  Shinjuku Gyoen National Garden, a grove of autumn leaves. The

  late autumn scenery was filled with a restless atmosphere.

  "Cut! Cut! Cut!"

  The director slammed the rolled-up script onto the table next to the monitor, pointing at the male lead, Matsumoto Kazuya, in the center of the set and yelling:

  "Matsumoto-kun! That's backlighting! Is it so hard to take two steps to the right? Every time you turn around, the camera shoots a huge black face, and the lighting technician can't even catch up with you with a reflector!" Matsumoto Kazuya stood on the grass covered with fallen leaves, his face flushed, bowing

  repeatedly

  : "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!"

  The staff around him kept their heads down, no one daring to utter a sound.

  This was the first major scene after filming began for "Winter Sunflower." The plot was simple: Matsumoto's character, the male lead, tried to persuade a mute painter (Kitahara Shin) who was sketching to leave the female lead.

  The problem lay with Matsumoto Kazuya.

  He was dazzling on stage, but once he entered the real-life shooting environment that emphasized positioning and lighting, he was like a headless fly. The more he was scolded, the more nervous he became, and the more nervous he became, the harder it was to find the right camera position.

  "Five-minute break! Lighting crew, get back to the lighting!" the director waved impatiently.

  Matsumoto Kazuya walked to the side dejectedly, and the makeup artist quickly went to touch up his makeup.

  Kitahara Shin remained standing under the huge ginkgo tree, maintaining his painting posture. Using his analysis of the script last night, he clearly understood Matsumoto's problem—a lack of confidence prevented him from moving; and this lack of movement resulted in him constantly blocking the light.

  "Kitahara-kun, have some water." A stagehand handed him a bottle, his attitude indifferent.

  "Thank you."

  Kitahara Shin took the water, his gaze sweeping over the reflector not far away.

  Since his opponent couldn't find the light, he could only "give" him his.

  Five minutes later.

  "On your marks! Action!"

  As the clapperboard fell, filming resumed.

  Matsumoto Kazuya took a deep breath and strode towards the easel under the tree. His mind was filled with the director's earlier instruction to "take two steps to the right," making his steps feel particularly heavy.

  "How long are you going to keep painting?"

  Matsumoto recited his lines, his steps halting.

  Following his previous positioning, he was still slightly to the left, about to block the main light shining on Kitahara Shin again, and also fall into the shadow.

  Just a second before he stopped,

  Kitahara Shin, who had been facing away from him, moved.

  The mute painter, who had been immersed in his painting, seemed to be startled by the footsteps. Clutching his easel, he instinctively took a half-step back to the left, retreating into the shadow of the tree trunk.

  This seemed like a character action expressing "inferiority and escapism."

  But with this retreat, the path of light was cleared.

  Because of Kitahara Shin's initiative, the previously blocked light instantly pierced through.

  Matsumoto Kazuya, who had been standing in the wrong place, was now miraculously in the spotlight, the afterglow of the setting sun shining precisely on his profile, making his features distinct.

  Matsumoto Kazuya was stunned for a moment.

  He found the space before him suddenly open and spacious. Moreover, Kitahara Shin's cowering posture instantly gave him a sense of oppressive "strong against weak," and his confidence as the protagonist returned.

  "Answer me! Do you think silence will solve the problem?"

  Matsumoto's lines this time were powerful and emotionally charged.

  Kitahara Shin remained silent.

  He simply turned slowly, his gaze passing over the edge of the canvas, and glanced at Matsumoto. He subtly adjusted the angle of his shoulder beforehand, making Matsumoto's subsequent grabbing of his collar extremely natural, requiring no effort to find the right position.

  Push, eye contact, silence.

  The entire scene flowed incredibly smoothly.

  Although Kitahara Shin didn't have a single line, he was like an invisible guide, leading Matsumoto Kazuya through the entire scene with body language.

  "Cut! OK!"

  the director yelled. This time there was no roar.

  Matsumoto Kazuya breathed a sigh of relief and looked at Kitahara Shin with some excitement: "Um... Kitahara-san, that felt so smooth! It was over before I knew it."

  Kitahara Shin just smiled gently: "It's because Matsumoto-san's emotions were on point."

  On the sidelines.

  The director lit a cigarette and stared at the monitor playback.

  The layman sees the spectacle, the expert sees the details.

  Matsumoto thought he had figured it out, but the director saw it clearly—it was that newcomer named Kitahara who was "feeding" him.

  Every time Matsumoto was about to leave the frame or block the light, Kitahara Shin would make room for him with a gesture that suited the character.

  He both made the lead actor's role work and maintained the continuity of the shot.

  "This kid's got some interesting."

  The director exhaled a smoke ring. In this industry, there are many who vie for screen time, but very few who know how to "hide their scenes" to preserve the overall picture.

  Most importantly, with him there, today's shooting schedule could be maintained.

  "Production assistant,"

  the director beckoned, pointing to Kitahara Shin, who was still standing under the tree packing up his art supplies.

  "We'll need him for the next scene. Go find him a place to sit, don't let him get tired and affect his performance."

  The words weren't loud, but the production assistant understood.

  This wasn't about worrying about the extras getting tired; it was the director indirectly acknowledging the "functionality" of this supporting actor—he was key to ensuring the male lead wouldn't have any mistakes.

  A moment later.

  The production assistant didn't just point to any prop box; instead, he brought a folding chair from the equipment cart (not one of those custom-made canvas chairs with a name, but one with a backrest) and placed it behind Kitahara Shin.

  "Kitahara-san, there are ten minutes until the next scene change. Please sit here and rest for a bit," the assistant said with a professional smile.

  The extras sitting on the floor around them cast envious glances.

  On a film set, chairs signify status.

  From standing, to sitting in a prop box, to owning a folding chair with a backrest—this step seems simple, but it's actually quite difficult.

  Kitahara Shin looked at the chair, said thank you, and sat down steadily.

  The backrest supported his tired spine.

  Although it's just an ordinary folding chair, it might mean that in this film crew, he is no longer a background figure that can be replaced at any time, but a valuable "part".-+Chapter 7 Advance Payment  Shibuya, Ota's office.

  "You kid, you've got some skills."

  Ota, the manager, sat in his slightly wobbly office chair, a cigarette burning almost to his fingers between his fingers, squinting at Kitahara Shin sitting opposite him.

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  He exhaled a smoke ring, took a thick envelope from a drawer, and tapped it on the table.

  "The producer from TBS just called me. They said that although filming is still ongoing, considering your performance 'far exceeded expectations,' they've made a special exception and can advance part of your salary."

  Ota pushed the envelope towards Kitahara Shin, his tone carrying an undisguised surprise. "I've managed quite a few newcomers, but you're the first one who's gotten those stingy TV station accountants to pay upfront." Kitahara

  Shin reached out and took the envelope.

  He didn't rush to open it, but the thickness of the envelope under his fingers already told him the answer.

  Two hundred thousand yen.

  In this bubble economy era of extravagant spending, that amount of money might only be enough to open half a bottle of whiskey in Ginza, or take a taxi round trip in Roppongi.

  But for Kitahara Shin at this moment, this wasn't just money; it was the dignity of survival.

  "According to the contract, this was supposed to be the final payment after filming wrapped," Ota flicked his cigarette ash.

  "Thank you for your trouble, Ota-san."

  Kitahara Shin bowed slightly, carefully tucking the envelope into his inner jacket pocket.

  "Act well," Ota said, unusually serious, looking at the overly composed young man. "I have a feeling this 200,000 yen payment might just be the beginning."

  ...

  As he left the agency, a light, cold rain began to fall.

  Late autumn in Tokyo was damp and chilly.

  Kitahara Shin tightened his somewhat thin trench coat, his hand pressed against his chest.

  There, the sharp edges of the envelope pressed against his ribs, yet it radiated an unprecedented warmth.

  Instead of heading straight back to his run-down apartment in Nerima Ward, he turned and went into a large electronics store.

  The store was brightly lit, and the TV screen was playing Seiko Matsuda's latest single music video; the air was filled with the cacophony of promotional noise.

  Kitahara Shin went straight to the heating equipment section.

  His old, six-tatami-mat apartment was just too cold.

  The windows let in drafts, the blankets were damp, and every morning when he woke up, his nose was icy cold.

  These past few days, he'd truly been terrified of the cold.

  "Sir, are you looking at a space heater? This is Mitsubishi's latest model, quiet, heats up quickly…"

  the salesperson greeted him enthusiastically.

  "I'll take this one."

  Kitahara Shin pointed to a ceramic space heater priced at 18,000 yen, without the slightest hesitation.

  He used to spend half an hour lingering in the supermarket's discount section just to save a few hundred yen. But today, he didn't even glance at the cheap, older model next to him.

  He quickly handed over two 10,000-yen bills, watching the sales assistant give him change and pack it up.

  As he walked out of the store carrying the brand-new heater, Kitahara Shin felt the drizzle around him didn't seem so cold anymore.

  Next was the supermarket.

  It was already 7 p.m., the time when housewives were rushing to buy groceries for dinner.

  Kitahara Shin pushed his shopping cart, ignoring the cheap bean sprouts and discounted chicken breasts, and stopped directly in front of the refrigerated meat section.

  Even during the bubble economy, Wagyu beef was still synonymous with high prices.

  He picked up a box of Kuroge Wagyu beef steak with a yellow "Best Before Tonight" label.

  Although it was a discounted item nearing its expiration date, the snowflake-like texture was still clearly enticing, and the fat was as white as jade.

  "30% OFF."

  Even after the discount, this small piece of meat still cost 2,500 yen.

  Kitahara Shin stared at the meat for two seconds, then put it in his shopping cart. Next, he grabbed a box of Hokkaido butter that he usually couldn't afford, a bag of freshly harvested Koshihikari rice, and a bottle of not-too-expensive red wine to accompany the meal.

  As he checked out, a sense of satisfaction shone in his eyes as he looked at the numbers displayed on the cashier's screen.

  ...

  Back in his apartment in Nerima Ward.

  It was still that cramped and narrow room, still with that musty smell.

  But tonight was different.

  Kitahara Shin unpacked the newly bought heater and plugged it in.

  "Buzz—"

  Accompanied by a soft hum, a wave of heat quickly surged out.

  In less than ten minutes, the previously chilly room was filled with warmth. He took off his heavy overcoat, feeling no cold even in just a shirt.

  He rolled up his sleeves and stepped into the tiny kitchen, barely a square meter in size. He

  heated the frying pan and tossed in a small piece of butter.

  "Sizzle—"

  The butter melted in the pan, releasing a rich, milky aroma.

  The Wagyu beef steak with its beautiful marbling was gently placed into the pan.

  The high temperature instantly locked in the juices, and the wonderful sound of the fat caramelizing echoed in the quiet room—the most beautiful sound in the world.

  No complicated seasonings were needed, just a little sea salt and black pepper.

  Five minutes later.

  Kitahara Shin sat at the only low table.

  A heater was blowing warm air at his feet, and in front of him was a sizzling steak, a bowl of glistening white rice, and a glass of red wine.

  He picked up a piece of beef and put it in his mouth.

  The rich juices and aroma of the fat exploded on his tongue, so tender that it required almost no chewing.

  Kitahara Shin closed his eyes and chewed slowly.

  He began to recall his past life as an extra in Hengdian, how he would wait in the snow in winter until his hands and feet were numb, and how he could only eat a cold boxed lunch after work.

  That memory of hunger and cold was etched into his bones.

  And now.

  The room was warm, his stomach was warm, and his pockets were warm.

  He took a sip of red wine and let out a long sigh.

  "This is what it means to be alive."

  The real warmth and fullness made him truly feel that he had taken his first root in this unfamiliar era.

  He was no longer that drifting ghost, but a man who could make a living through acting.

  In this pleasant moment, a sudden flash of insight struck him.

  [System Notification]

  [Host's mental and physical well-being has significantly increased.]

  [Only those who understand the warmth of life can portray the coldness in a story well.]

  [Equipment "The Diva's Abandoned Silver Zippo" compatibility increased to 15%.]

  [Passive effect adjustment unlocked: When you are in a relaxed state, your "melancholy" will be transformed into a more attractive "relaxation."]

  Kitahara Shin put down his glass, took out the Zippo from his pocket, and toyed with it in his hand.

  The silver body reflected the warm yellow light, no longer appearing so cold and lonely.

  "Relaxation, huh…"

  He smiled, putting the last piece of beef into his mouth.-+  Filming of "Winter Sunflower" went smoothly.

  In the following days, Kitahara Shin's life became regular and fulfilling.

  During the day on set, he used the screenwriter's glasses to thoroughly understand the script beforehand, and he almost never made a mistake during filming.

  The label of "worry-free, easy to use, and high-quality" was firmly attached to him.

  In the evenings, back in his heated rented room, he would grill a discounted Wagyu beef, drink a glass of red wine, and live a life even more comfortable than in his previous life.

  On Wednesday night, because there was a night scene to set up, with a two-hour break in between,

  Kitahara Shin didn't want to listen to the extras bragging in the noisy dressing room, so he wandered off alone to the common lounge area of ​​the TV station's main building.

  The vending machines here have a good selection, offering coffee, hot soup, and milk.

  Just as he turned the corner of the corridor, he saw a familiar figure.

  Nakamori Akina.

  Today she wore a loose beige knitted long-sleeved shirt, her hair casually tied in a bun, her face bearing the deep weariness that comes with letting down one's guard.

  She was standing in front of the vending machine, head down, rummaging through her pockets.

  She felt around on the left, then on the right.

  Then she turned her designer handbag inside out.

  Clearly, the big star hadn't brought any change, or had just run out of coins.

  In this era before electronic payments, without a hundred-yen coin, this machine was just a glowing metal box.

  Akina sighed in annoyance, her shoulders slumping, ready to give up and leave.

  "Clink, clink, clink."

  Three 100-yen coins landed crisply in the coin slot.

  Akina jumped in surprise, instinctively taking a half-step back and turning around.

  There stood Kitahara Shin behind her, two coins still clutched in his hand, a gentle, polite smile on his face.

  He didn't look at her, but instead pressed one of the row of illuminated buttons.

  "Clang."

  A can of hot, red milk spilled out.

  Kitahara Shin bent down, took out the can, and handed it to the still somewhat dazed Akina.

  "Have something hot."

  His tone was casual, like handing a glass of water to a colleague who had just finished work. "I noticed you were staring at the black coffee the whole time. It's not good to drink iced coffee on an empty stomach in this damp and chilly weather."

  Akina looked at the long, slender hand in front of her and the steaming milk.

  She recognized the face.

  The man who had lent her the lighter in the hallway.

  "...Thank you."

  She hesitated for a moment, then reached out and took the milk.

  The scalding heat from his palm instantly dispelled the coldness from her fingertips.

  "I forgot to bring my wallet." Akina pulled the tab, took a small sip, and the rich milky aroma relaxed her tense nerves a little. "My assistant went to buy food; I don't know when she'll be back."

  "That's normal. Who remembers to bring change when they're busy?"

  Kitahara Shinya bought himself a can of hot coffee, took a sip, and then pointed to the other end of the corridor.

  "I'll go back to the studio then; I have a night shoot to wait for."

  With that, he nodded slightly and turned to leave.

  Nakamori Akina was surprised by his tact.

  After all, in this industry, everyone who approached her had an ulterior motive—either for her fame, her money, or even her as a person.

  "Wait."

  Akina suddenly called out to him.

  Kitahara Shin stopped and turned around. "What's wrong? If it's about paying back the milk, really, it's okay. After all, the lighter you gave me is much more expensive than this."

  "Who said anything about money?"

  Akina rolled her eyes at him, a hint of youthful coquettishness flashing across her face.

  She rummaged in her pocket for a moment and pulled out an exquisitely printed coupon with gold foil patterns.

  "Here you go." She handed him the coupon. "Take it."

  Kitahara Shin took it and looked at it.

  [Senbikiya Premium Fruit Parfait Redemption Coupon].

  Senbikiya is Japan's most expensive fruit and dessert shop; this coupon is worth at least 10,000 yen.

  "This was a gift from the sponsor, but I'm trying to control my weight lately, and my manager would kill me if she saw me eating this."

  Akina pouted, gripping the hot milk in her hand even tighter. "It's a shame to throw it away, and since you treated me to milk anyway, consider this a return gift."

  Kitahara Shin paused for a moment.

  When he looked into Nakamori Akina's eyes, he could read a hint of expectation.

  It seemed she didn't want to be rejected?

  "Alright, then I won't be polite."

  Kitahara Shin readily accepted. "I happen to know someone who really likes this place's desserts."

  "Okay, then I'll be going."

  Akina waved, holding the milk, and turned to walk towards the lounge.

  ...

  The next day, early morning.

  Kitahara Shin had just entered the lab when stylist Miwako was organizing makeup brushes.

  "Good morning, Miwako-nee."

  "Good morning, Kitahara-kun! We're shooting a close-up today, how's your skin?" Miwako greeted them warmly.

  Ever since she brought them lunch last time, their relationship had become much closer.

  On set, maintaining a good relationship with the makeup artist is a crucial survival skill, since how your face looks on camera depends entirely on their hands.

  "Thanks to you, I had a good rest."

  Kitahara Shin sat down in front of the makeup mirror, as if suddenly remembering something, and took out the glittering gold voucher from his bag.

  "Oh, right, Miwako-nee, this is for you."

  "What's this?"

  Miwako took it and her eyes widened instantly. "Senbikiya?! My goodness, that's the legendary high-end dessert shop! This coupon can be used to buy that limited-edition white strawberry parfait, right? That's over ten thousand yen!" "

  A friend gave it to me. I don't like sweets, and it'd just expire anyway," Kitahara Shin said with a smile, his tone as casual as if he were handing over a discount coupon. "Miwako-nee works so hard, consider this a treat for you."

  "Oh! I can't accept this..."

  Miwako said apologetically, but her hand was already tightly gripping the coupon.

  For her, a salaried worker, Senbikiya was a luxury she couldn't afford to go to normally.

  "You're such a smooth talker!"

  Miwako grinned from ear to ear, carefully tucking the coupon into her pocket. Then, she picked up her powder puff again, her eyes becoming incredibly serious. "Come on, let me show you my secret weapon today! I guarantee I'll make you even more charming than that pretty boy Matsumoto!"

  For the next half hour, Miwako used the high-end ampoule serum she usually reserved for leading ladies to apply as a base for Kitahara Shin's makeup.

  The contouring was meticulous, down to the millimeter, making his already defined features even more striking, even his hairline was carefully refined.

  When Kitahara Shin stood up after his makeup was done, the person in the mirror, though wearing an old shirt, possessed a unique and captivating aura.

  "Perfect." Miwako clapped her hands in satisfaction. "I guarantee you'll charm a bunch of girls!"

  Kitahara Shin looked at himself in the mirror and straightened his collar.

  One hundred yen worth of milk had earned him a ten thousand yen coupon.

  The ten thousand yen coupon had secured the full attention of a top makeup artist.

  Bartering, huh?

  He touched the Zippo lighter in his pocket and strode confidently out of the dressing room.-+  In mid-November, Tokyo's temperature plummeted.

  Filming for "Winter Sunflower" was already halfway complete.

  As filming progressed, the atmosphere on set was subtly changing.

  The most obvious change was in Kitahara Shin's treatment.

  Although he was still listed as the "third male lead" on the billing, on set, everyone—from the lighting technician to the cinematographer—would subconsciously ask, "Kitahara-kun, do you feel awkward from this angle?"

  This wasn't just trust based on "professionalism."

  Everyone noticed that any shot featuring Kitahara Shin as the visual focus was almost always a one-take success.

  He didn't steal the spotlight, didn't block the light, and could even help the idol male lead, who sometimes lost his focus, keep the scene flowing.

  This "useful" tool-like quality forced the director and screenwriter to re-evaluate this character, who was originally intended to be a "background character.

  " ...

  "Um... Kitahara-kun, come here for a moment."

  The lunch break had just ended when the assistant director, holding a few pages of newly printed paper, mysteriously called Kitahara Shin to the director's monitor.

  The director was chewing on his pen, discussing something with the screenwriter.

  Seeing Kitahara Shin approach, the director stubbed out his cigarette and gestured to the folding chair next to him, indicating for him to sit down.

  "That's right," the director said bluntly, "The screenwriter watched the rough cut last night and felt that the 'painter' character's presence was much stronger than expected. Although the original plan was for him to have no lines throughout the entire series, since the emotions have been built up to that extent, remaining silent would feel a bit stifling."

  The screenwriter, a woman in her forties, adjusted her glasses and looked at Kitahara Shin with a hint of appreciation in her eyes: "Especially in episode 7, in the scene where the painter hallucinates due to a high fever. Originally, the script only had you breathing heavily in pain, but I always felt... if you could call out the female lead's name at that moment, that suppressed love would be even more moving."

  Kitahara Shin took the newly printed page of the script.

  The changes were minor, just adding a line of text after the triangle action prompt.

  [Painter (in a dream): Kaoru…]

  Only one word.

  The female lead's name.

  "How is it? Can you act it?" The director looked at him. "Although it's only one word, it's the only time this character speaks in the entire play. If you act too realistically, it will destroy the sense of mystery; if you act too faintly, the audience won't be able to hear it."

  This is actually a difficult problem.

  Many new actors get excited as soon as they get their lines, wishing they could shout them out from their diaphragm, afraid that the audience won't hear them.

  But for this character, this one line must be as light as a feather falling, yet as piercing as a needle.

  Kitahara Shin stared at the word for two seconds, then looked up and smiled.

  "I understand, it's about saying this line with your breath, right?"

  The director and screenwriter exchanged a glance, both seeing surprise in each other's eyes.

  "That's right! That's exactly what I meant!" The screenwriter slapped his thigh excitedly. "That's the feeling I wanted—to have the name stuck in your throat, chewing it up, but not wanting to spit it out!"

  ...

  3 PM, Studio 6.

  The set was set up as a dimly lit apartment bedroom.

  Kitahara Shin lay on the bed, a fever patch on his forehead, his face pale.

  "All departments, prepare!"

  "3, 2, 1, Action!"

  The camera slowly zoomed in.

  In the shot, the man who always painted silently was now being tormented by a high fever, his consciousness blurred.

  His brows were furrowed, his fingers gripping the sheets tightly, his knuckles white.

  Kitahara Shin didn't rush to recite his lines.

  Under the covers, his hand gently grasped the silver Zippo lighter.

  [Equipment Effect: Storytelling (Activated)]

  A damp, stale emotion, seemingly from the distant past, spread through his nerve endings.

  He began to breathe rapidly.

  His breathing was heavy, with a deep tremor in his throat, making one's chest feel heavy.

  Behind the monitor, the script supervisor, who had been drinking water, involuntarily put down her cup and held her breath.

  The camera zoomed in for a close-up.

  Kitahara Shin's lips were chapped and slightly parted.

  His Adam's apple bobbed, as if something was stuck there, wanting to come out but

  unable to. It was the unspoken love that had accumulated for seven whole episodes.

  Finally.

  With a long, trembling exhale, that name slipped out with the airflow.

  "Kaoru..."

  It wasn't a shout, nor a whisper.

  It was a breathy sound.

  The sound was very soft, as soft as a sigh.

  But in the lingering tone of that sound, there was a kind of almost desperate longing.

  Like the last breath a person exhales before drowning.

  At that moment, the scene was extremely quiet.

  Only the sound engineer held the boom high, not daring to make any noise.

  After Kitahara Shin finished speaking, as if he had exhausted all his strength, his head tilted weakly to one side.

  "Cut!"

  The director's voice didn't ring out immediately, but after two or three seconds, he called out in a low voice.

  "Okay, that's a wrap."

  ...

  It was already dark when they wrapped up.

  The production assistant, who was distributing dinner bento boxes, didn't just hand Kitahara Shin a regular box as usual. Instead, he specially pulled one out from the insulated box underneath.

  "Kitahara-san, this one has a big chicken leg, I saved it for you," the assistant said with a smile. "I saw the monitor footage of that scene just now, you acted really well."

  "Thank you."

  Kitahara Shin accepted the heavy bento box, feeling a warmth in his heart.

  In this seniority-based film crew, it was quite rare for a production assistant, who had seen countless people, to give him an extra chicken leg.

  He was about to find a place to eat when he heard footsteps behind him.

  "Kitahara-kun, wait a moment."

  Turning around, he saw it was the director.

  The director, wearing his signature military green vest and smoking a cigarette, seemed to be in a good mood.

  "Director, is there anything I can do for you?" Kitahara Shin stopped, his demeanor still humble.

  The director looked him up and down, then pulled a business card from his pocket, followed by a pen, quickly scribbling a string of numbers on the back.

  "This is my personal pager number."

  The director handed the card to Kitahara Shin, his tone casual, but his eyes serious. "After this project is finished, if you don't have any other plans, you can contact me. NHK has a Taiga drama in development next year, and I'm the B-unit director. We need a young and 'sensible' samurai for the role."

  Kitahara Shin took the card with both hands, glancing at the handwritten numbers on the back.

  In this era of limited communication, obtaining a director's personal number meant you were no longer an outsider handing out resumes at the door—it was incredibly significant.

  "Thank you so much for your guidance! I will continue to work hard," Kitahara Shin bowed deeply.

  "Alright, go eat,"

  the director waved, turning and humming a tune as he walked away.

  Kitahara Shin carefully tucked the business card into his pocket, placing it next to his "Screenwriter's Glasses."

  He carried the bento box with a large chicken leg as he headed towards the lounge area.

  The night breeze felt exceptionally pleasant on his face.-+  Ochanomizu, the music instrument district.

  This is the area with the highest concentration of music instrument shops in Tokyo, with all kinds of guitars and basses hanging on both sides of the street.

  [At this point, I hope readers will remember our domain name: Taiwan Novel Network, with a complete collection of books, 𝗍𝗐𝗄𝖺𝗇.𝖼𝗈𝗆 for easy access anytime.]

  Kitahara Shin was accompanying Sato, the prop master for the film crew, today.

  There was a scene in the script where the male lead played the guitar, and the director required that a folk guitar that "looked very vintage" be used.

  Sato was haggling with the shopkeeper about renting a guitar, while Kitahara Shin casually strolled around the shop.

  The shop was called "Woodstock," and the corners were piled high with second-hand music instrument parts.

  Kitahara Shin casually picked up a guitar plectrum from the glass bowl on the cashier's counter.

  It was a pure white plectrum, its edges worn smooth and rounded, clearly well-used.

  [Found an equipable item (common)]

  [Item Name: The Street Singer's Guitar Plectrum]

  [Status: Worn (Excellent feel)]

  [Effect: Street Resonance (Your singing and playing will more easily evoke a sense of immersion in the audience)]

  "The feel is indeed quite good."

  Kitahara Shin squeezed it, the perfect friction bringing back some nostalgia.

  In his previous life in Hengdian, he had indeed practiced guitar diligently for a while to secure a job as a part-time actor. While not a master, he was more than capable of handling ordinary singing and playing.

  He pulled out a fifty-yen coin and bought the plectrum on the spur of the moment.

  ...

  At two o'clock in the afternoon, back in Studio 6.

  The atmosphere was somewhat tense.

  "Cut! Again!"

  The director's voice was already laced with suppressed anger. "Matsumoto-kun, that's an F chord. Did you not eat? The notes are all muffled."

  In the center of the studio, the male lead, Matsumoto Kazuya, was holding the guitar he had just rented, sweating profusely.

  This scene was about the male lead playing and singing a love song to the female lead in a park.

  As a popular idol, it was common for Matsumoto to show off his guitar on stage, but that was usually just "posing" or playing accompaniment.

  When it came to actually recording the sound and giving close-ups of his hands, his well-maintained, delicate hands immediately gave him away.

  "Director...Director..."

  Matsumoto winced in pain, shaking his left hand, which was already marked with red welts. "These strings are too stiff, and I've had too many gigs lately, I really haven't had time to practice... Maybe we should find a hand double?"

  He was smart; rather than making a fool of himself here, he'd better find a way to save face quickly.

  "A hand double?"

  The director scratched his head in frustration. "Where are we going to find one now? Waiting for a professional stunt double to get here will take two hours just from traffic, and today's shooting plan will be completely ruined."

  He glanced at his watch, already considering whether to cut the close-up shot and replace it with a wide shot.

  An awkward silence fell over the set.

  Everyone knew Matsumoto wasn't up to it, but no one dared to speak up at this moment.

  Kitahara Shin stood on the sidelines, clutching the white plectrum he had just bought.

  He hesitated for a moment.

  He hadn't wanted to cause trouble, but if this scene wasn't finished, the entire crew would have to work overtime tonight. Besides, this was indeed a good opportunity to showcase his "multifaceted" personality.

  "Director,"

  Kitahara Shin took a step forward, his voice not loud, but clear enough in the quiet studio, "If you don't mind, I can give it a try."

  Everyone turned to look.

  The director was taken aback: "You can play guitar?"

  "I learned a little before," Kitahara Shin said conservatively, "I'm fairly familiar with the chords of this piece."

  Matsumoto, as if granted a reprieve, immediately handed over the guitar, his face beaming with smiles: "Since Kitahara-kun wants to try, then I'll trouble you. These strings are really hard on your hands, be careful."

  He was now hoping someone would take over this hot potato.

  Kitahara Shin took the guitar and sat in the spot that had originally belonged to the male lead.

  He adjusted his posture, holding the old white plectrum between his thumb and forefinger.

  His left hand rested on the neck of the guitar.

  That familiar touch traveled back through his fingertips. No system prompts were needed; his muscle memory naturally awakened.

  Sound check.

  "Thump—"

  A crisp, full E chord, free of any extraneous noise, resonated in the studio.

  The staff who had been whispering instantly fell silent.

  The purity of the tone was definitely not something that could be described as "a little bit learned."

  The director's eyes lit up, and he immediately waved: "Cinematographer, zoom in! Shoot a close-up of the hands! Prepare for sound recording!" The script supervisor

  clapped the clapperboard.

  Kitahara Shin's fingers began to dance across the strings.

  He was playing "Kandagawa," a classic folk song from the Showa era.

  The arpeggios flowed like water. With the aid of the old plectrum, the simple melody gained a subtle narrative quality, like a down-on-his-luck singer softly singing on a street corner late at night.

  Matsumoto Kazuya stood behind the monitor, watching those long, skillful hands on the screen, his mouth slightly agape.

  He suddenly felt a little embarrassed.

  The sawing noise from before, compared to the smooth music now, was practically public execution.

  The piece ended.

  The lingering sound still echoed in the air.

  "Great!"

  the director exclaimed excitedly. "This double is amazing! This is exactly the level I envisioned for a male lead!"

  Realizing he might have hurt Matsumoto's feelings, the director quickly added, "Well… Matsumoto-kun's emotional expression is also very good, it's just that he definitely needs more practice with the instruments. Now that we have a perfect double, let's move on to the next take!"

  The crisis was averted, and the crew resumed operations.

  Kitahara Shin put down his guitar and put the plectrum back in his pocket.

  "Kitahara-kun, you've been keeping a low profile," prop master Uncle Sato said, quietly giving him a thumbs-up as he came over to collect his guitar.

  "Just lucky, I practiced a bit more before," Kitahara Shin smiled.

  At the end of the day, the production manager specifically sought out Kitahara Shin.

  "Kitahara-san, this is your 'technical allowance'."

  The production manager handed him a white envelope, his attitude much more polite than before. "It was specially approved by the director, according to the standards of a professional stunt double, a total of 30,000 yen. We really owe you a debt of gratitude for saving the day."

  30,000 yen.

  Just for playing the guitar for five minutes.

  Kitahara Shin took the envelope, feeling its thickness. This amount was enough to pay his gas and electricity bills for a month.

  "It's always good to have more skills."

  He put the envelope away and walked out of the studio in a good mood.-+  In early December, Tokyo's streets were already adorned with Christmas decorations.

  The fourth episode of "Winter Sunflower" officially aired.

  Being a prime-time "Getsu 9" (Monday 9 PM) drama, the ratings were steadily climbing.

  What surprised TBS most was that the "mute painter," initially just a background character, unexpectedly sparked heated discussions among female viewers.

  In Ginza office buildings, office ladies whispered among themselves during their lunch breaks in the break room.

  "Did you watch it yesterday? The painter."

  "Yes, I did! The way he looked at the female lead… he didn't say a word, but my heart broke."

  "Compared to that male lead who only knows how to yell, this silent man is much more charming."

  …

  Ota Office.

  "Five hundred thousand."

  Manager Ota slammed a contract on the table. His usually gloomy face was now beaming with joy. "Just half a day of shooting, for a male model. This is their offer."

  Kitahara Shin picked up the contract and glanced at it.

  The client was a famous beverage company, and the product was a new canned black coffee called "Midnight," set to launch in the new year.

  "They watched the drama, and the head of the male-male department took a liking to you at first sight." Ota lit a cigarette, his tone full of smugness. "They said that all the idols on the market are too sweet, only you have a 'bitter aftertaste,' which is especially suitable for this black coffee targeting the overtime worker market."

  "A bitter aftertaste?"

  Kitahara Shin smiled.

  That was a precise description.

  "And they specifically requested that you hold that during the shoot..." Ota pointed to Kitahara Shin's pocket, "that silver lighter. They think the 'playing with fire' gesture is particularly sexy."

  Kitahara Shin touched the Zippo lighter in his pocket.

  "When is the shoot?"

  "Tomorrow afternoon, at a studio in Shibuya." Ota flicked his cigarette ash. "Kitahara, this is your first commercial endorsement. Although it's just print, if sales are good, you'll have a chance for TV commercials later."

  ...

  The next day, at a commercial studio in Shibuya.

  On the set of this print shoot, Kitahara Shin once again demonstrated his efficiency as a "veteran actor."

  The theme of the commercial was "Urban Nighttime Comfort."

  The background was a huge black curtain, lit by cool-toned lights, simulating the atmosphere of a Tokyo night street.

  Kitahara Shin wore a simple black turtleneck sweater, holding a can of black "Midnight" coffee.

  "Okay, Kitahara-san, give me an expression that says, 'Working late into the night, exhausted but still don't want to go home,'" the photographer instructed. Kitahara

  Shin nodded slightly.

  He silently activated the [Silver Zippo] in his mind.

  [Equipment Effect: Storytelling (Medium Power Output)]

  At the same time, he also activated the [Screenwriter's Glasses] he had picked up earlier.

  He quickly deciphered the logic behind this phrase.

  "Click."

  He slid open the Zippo lid with one hand.

  Orange-yellow flames danced in the dark background, illuminating half of his profile.

  He didn't look at the camera, nor at the coffee in his hand, but stared at the cluster of flames, his gaze deep and distant.

  It was as if that wasn't fire, but the only warmth he could grasp in this city.

  That overwhelming sense of loneliness made the noisy background noise seem to drop several decibels.

  "Fantastic!"

  The photographer's shutter clicked incessantly like a machine gun. "That's the feeling! That sense of loneliness of the individual during the bubble economy! Keep it up!"

  The brand representative next to him nodded repeatedly: "If that look were printed on a poster, those commuters on the last train would definitely be unable to resist buying a can."

  The shoot, originally planned for four hours, ended in just two.

  ...

  Three days later.

  Kitahara Shin went to the bank to update his passbook.

  Looking at the extra zeros after the number, he let out a long puff of white breath.

  After deducting the agency's commission and taxes, he received about 350,000 yen. Adding this to his previous earnings from filming, his savings exceeded 600,000 yen for the first time.

  Buying a house in Tokyo in 1988 was a pipe dream, but it was enough for him to do something he had longed for.

  He walked out of the bank and straight into a real estate agency.

  "Welcome! Sir, are you looking to rent or buy a house?" the agent greeted him warmly.

  "Renting a place."

  Kitahara Shin picked up a latest real estate magazine from the shelf, his tone calm but firm. "I'm looking for a place near Nakano or Koenji, with only one requirement—it must have a private bathroom and a bathtub."

  His current old six-tatami-mat apartment only has a shared toilet, and he has to go to a public bathhouse on the corner to shower.

  For an actor who often works late nights and comes home drenched in sweat, this is incredibly inconvenient.

  Especially in winter, his hair freezes on the way home from the steamy bathhouse.

  "A private bathroom…" The real estate agent flipped through the information. "These 1DK (one-bedroom, one-living room, one-kitchen) apartments with private bathrooms are in high demand now. The rent is around 60,000 to 80,000 yen a month, and the down payment (key money + deposit) is quite high."

  A month ago, upon hearing the rent of "80,000 yen," Kitahara Shin would probably have turned and walked away.

  But now...

  "Take me to see it," Kitahara Shin said, closing the magazine. "As long as the place is clean and quiet, money isn't a problem."

  ...

  That afternoon, he found a one-bedroom apartment in Nakano Ward that he liked.

  Although it was on the second floor, it had excellent natural light, and most importantly, the white enamel bathtub, though small, was polished to a shine and large enough for an adult to stretch out comfortably.

  Standing in the empty room, Kitahara Shin could almost see himself soaking in the hot water, sipping red wine and reading a script.

  "This one's the one."

  He signed the contract and paid the deposit.

  When you have money in hand, you make decisions faster.

  It was already late when he left the real estate agency. The neon lights of Tokyo illuminated the city of desire once more.

  Kitahara Shin stood on the pedestrian bridge, watching the endless stream of car lights below.

  A month ago, he was a struggling extra, worrying about a few hundred yen for a bento box and sleeping in a drafty, dilapidated room.

  Now, he was the third male lead in a hit drama, had his own GG endorsement, and was about to move into an apartment with a bathtub.

  And all of this stemmed from the silver Zippo lighter given to him by Nakamori Akina.

  He pulled out the sample "Midnight" black coffee from his pocket, unzipped it, and took a sip.

  Bitter, cool, with a hint of sweetness in the aftertaste.

  "Not bad,"

  Kitahara Shin smiled, precisely tossing the empty can into the trash can.