"About the final scene—I'd like to modify some of the dialogue and plot points."
During a break in filming, Kitagawa Ryo naturally took a seat beside director Taishi Gotanda, his expression earnest.
"Hmm? What's the matter?"
Gotanda raised an eyebrow in surprise. Spider was his pride and joy, and had it been anyone other than Ryo making this request, he would have outright refused.
"Just something that's been on my mind these past few days."
Ryo subtly gestured toward Arima Kana and her mother. As filming progressed, the woman had grown restless, no longer content to stay in the background.
From assistant directors to cinematographers to supporting actors, Mrs. Arima had made it her mission to cozy up to every single crew member, dropping hints about future opportunities for her daughter.
She had even approached Gotanda himself, shamelessly asking if he could expand Kana's role—only to be swiftly shut down. Yet, undeterred, she persisted like a stubborn stain.
In Ryo's experience, children never liked seeing their parents bow and scrape before others. Whether out of pity or embarrassment, it always stung.
"Let's hear your idea."
Gotanda flipped to the script's final scene, then looked up at Ryo expectantly.
Spider's narrative was straightforward: after the protagonist's baseball dreams were shattered by his mother's actions, his team was eliminated in the second round of regionals. Blamed by everyone, he quit the sport entirely.
Scouted for his looks while wandering the streets, he ventured into acting on a whim, forging his mother's signature to sign the contract.
But without formal training, his career floundered despite his striking appearance.
Still, when he received his first substantial paycheck, he couldn't contain his excitement. He confessed everything to his mother, even buying gifts for her and his sister.
Instead of pride, he was met with disdain. To her, "actors" belonged on prime-time TV—not some unstable side gig. She nagged him to refocus on academics, to aim for prestigious universities like Tokyo, Waseda, or Sophia—schools she knew nothing about but insisted upon.
Yet, without hesitation, she "borrowed" most of his earnings for household expenses.
He knew parent-child relationships couldn't involve true loans. Lending the money pained him, yet demanding repayment would make him feel monstrous.
He pitied himself—and her. She scorned his profession but always inquired about his income on payday.
Their second clash erupted when he proposed dropping out to pursue acting full-time. In that moment, their bond shed all pretense of family, devolving into a transactional feud.
They hurled accusations like merchants tallying debts.
Only his sister's hungry sobs—left unfed during their fight—finally silenced them.
His mother never accepted his choice.
Yet once his acting career took off, she seamlessly reinvented herself, claiming his success as her own.
But to him, her words and actions had long since crossed from supportive to suffocating.
"So, in the final scene, when the son takes his mother hiking, he's actually contemplating murder."
"But the shot freezes just before he pushes her—an open ending."
"He reads aloud an old elementary school essay titled Spider, praising maternal love."
"He thinks: She did everything for my sake. But the problem is, she alone defines what 'for my sake' means. That's why it hurts."
Gotanda nodded, intrigued.
"So, what's your change?"
"Let me perform a monologue. Cut all of the mother's final lines. I'll close the film alone."
Ryo made no attempt to soften his demand.
"Hey now, I'm the director here," Gotanda chuckled, though he didn't refuse outright. He patted Ryo's shoulder.
"But... let's see what you've got."
"Right."
Ryo turned to inform Oumi Emi, the actress playing his mother.
Gotanda watched him go, shaking his head with a smile.
Of course he trusted Ryo.
Back when he was just an assistant director, he'd witnessed Ryo's solo performance in He Once Lived.
It was a tour de force worthy of any silver screen.
Scene 26, Take 1—Action!
As his mother stood at the cliff's edge, arms outstretched, eyes closed, breathing in the fresh air, Ryo could already envision it—his hands shoving her forward.
She was utterly defenseless. Mothers never anticipated malice from their children.
Yet his body remained frozen in place.
"Are you happy, Mom?"
"Of course! I've wanted to come here for ages."
That morning, she'd slathered her permed hair with glossy pomade, each strand gleaming like a brand-new hat.
The cloying mix of hair oil, foundation, and perfume assaulted Ryo's senses. She always did this—trying to appear fairer, more like an "actor's mother" in photos.
"You never change, Mom."
Ryo forced a pallid smile. His hand flexed—clenching, unclenching, then tightening into a fist.
"If my success strokes your ego, fine. Treat me like a cash cow. Shake me dry if you want."
"Like you said: without you birthing and raising me, no one would know me today, right?... Right?"
His mother faltered, seeing this side of him for the first time.
"Enough... really, enough... Have it your way."
"You're my mom. You've never been bad to me. That alone should suffice."
He hung his head, muttering softly:
"Because you're my mom... What can I do?"
"It's my fault—probably."
His childhood essay Spider surfaced in his mind:
"Mothers are like spiders—clever, patient, diligent. Knitting sweaters in winter."
"Spider eggs are fragile. Maybe that's why they grow so fierce—to protect."
"She weaves invisible threads through every corner of my life."
Back then, his mother had beamed, calling him filial.
But the truth was darker. He'd written it after reading a zoology fact:
Spiderlings devour their mother.
Only later did he learn this applied to few species.
Most spider mothers either carried their young until maturity or set them adrift at birth.
Then Ryo stepped forward.
Sunlight cast his shadow long and twisted behind him.
He was glad his sister wasn't here to see this.
Passing his mother, vaulting the fence, snapping those silken threads—he vanished over the cliff's edge like a severed kite.
Arima Kana watched Ryo's performance intently. For a moment, she felt this wasn't acting—but a message to someone beyond the set.
As if the brother was telling his sister:
My life is already ensnared. But yours isn't.
There's still time.
Yet at her age, what could she do?
After much hesitation, Kana finally approached Ryo.
"Kitagawa... Ryo, Onii-chan-senpai."
She'd nearly defaulted to the formal Kitagawa-san, then found it too distant. Ryo felt disrespectful, so she'd blurted out his character's name, tacking on senpai as an afterthought.
"What is it, Kana?"
Ryo seemed to have expected this. Kneeling to her eye level, he ignored the awkward address, his voice gentle.
"I... don't like my mom right now."
The film's themes had stirred something in Kana. For the first time, she voiced doubts about the woman she'd always obeyed unconditionally.
"Then—do you like acting?"
Ryo's seemingly unrelated question caught her off guard.
"I read your profile. You debuted as a child actor at your mother's urging."
"...I like it."
After a brief pause, Kana nodded firmly.
She did love acting.
Maybe she'd started under pressure. Maybe she'd only pretended to enjoy it for her mother's sake.
But faced with Ryo's question, the answer came effortlessly.
Not to surpass him—just pure, uncomplicated love.
"Good."
Ryo stroked his chin thoughtfully.
The priority was clear: separate Kana from her mother's management.
"How about signing with my agency?"
"As my junior, what do you say?"
"Exquisitely lovely, radiating innocent charm, with an almost ethereal grace."
"One cannot help but stare, longing to witness her blossoming into adulthood."
On the flight back to Tokyo, Hoshino Ai reopened The Tale of Genji, her slender fingers tracing the passage describing Genji's first encounter with Murasaki.
As the plane touched down, she adjusted her mask and cap, carefully maneuvering her luggage—a tip she'd learned from Ryo to prevent loss.
The arrivals hall overflowed with reunions.
Hers was no exception.
Spotting Ryo instantly, Ai dashed forward and enveloped him in a hug, just like the others around them.
"Ryo—you've finally grown taller than me."
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