Fortunately, Shiraki Keima wasn't some bizarre stalker. He'd bowed silently and disappeared after escorting Chihara Rinto to the TV station's exit—too respectful to disturb his thoughts or follow him home. This saved Chihara from a potential nightmare scenario involving an adoring figure kneeling bedside.
Chihara resolved to keep a closer eye on this peculiar assistant. How could someone exude so little presence? It was uncanny—and slightly unsettling. Perhaps his ancestors were ninjas?
Shaking off these musings, he followed the assistant to the first production meeting, held in a small conference room upstairs. Their makeshift headquarters, though functional, was inconvenient for frequent comings and goings.
Inside, only the core creative team awaited: producer Murakami Iori, director Fujii Arima, and assistant director/executive director Yoshizaki Shingo. No one else.
A modestly sparse creative group—but one carrying significant professional stakes.
"Sorry I'm a bit late," Chihara greeted them. Murakami waved it off, gesturing for him to sit opposite Fujii. Seating reflected hierarchy; even Yoshizaki, in his thirties, sat diagonally below Chihara. If there were episode writers, they'd occupy positions subordinate to him, directly across.
Settling in, Chihara scanned the room but found no trace of Shiraki. Either he'd tactfully withdrawn after guiding them—or vanished entirely. Perhaps ninja ancestry was plausible.
Lost in thought, Chihara barely noticed Murakami skipping formalities, addressing him directly. "Chihara-kun, we've left you undisturbed until now. Here's the current status: the studio's cleared, and Fujii-kun has completed storyboards for the first two episodes…"
As she spoke, Fujii slid over a copy of the storyboard. Chihara accepted it, flipping through pages. Murakami paused, allowing him time to review.
Fujii, rubbing his bald head, added softly, "This is tentative. If shooting reveals issues or better ideas arise, adjustments will follow."
The storyboard resembled a picture book, with Fujii even coloring certain sections—a meticulous touch that impressed Chihara. Reviewing the first episode, which introduced the season's overarching concept and three short stories, he estimated its runtime at 95 minutes—a premiere extended edition.
Setting aside the second episode for later, Chihara closed the storyboard, smiling. "Thank you for your hard work, Fujii-kun." For now, observing and learning sufficed—offering opinions on directing could wait.
Pleased with the harmonious atmosphere, Murakami continued. "We'll begin filming on the 15th. Now, let's discuss casting. Any actor recommendations?" She placed a thick stack of profiles in the center of the table. "If not, here's a list of artists currently collaborating with our network."
Fujii began, "Let's start with the 'Narrator'—a recurring role pivotal to the season's tone despite limited screen time. I envision a middle-aged man, somber demeanor, magnetic voice, and some renown."
Yoshizaki chimed in, "Someone with a weathered, experienced aura would suit perfectly."
Murakami sifted through profiles, suggesting, "What about Yamamoto?"
"He's a comedian by trade—his vibe might not fit…"
"How about Ono?"
"Ono's great—he excelled in his last mystery drama. But his agency's notoriously difficult, and his fees won't be cheap."
"For such a key role, higher costs are unavoidable," Murakami reasoned.
"Let's invite him for an audition. Anyone else?"
"Takeda's another option, though his popularity's waned recently due to lackluster projects."
"That's fine—include him too."
Murakami, Fujii, and Yoshizaki, seasoned veterans of the production bureau system, debated enthusiastically, well-versed in industry actors. Still, Murakami, mindful of Chihara's newcomer status, paused to ask, "Chihara, any recommendations?"
Japan's entertainment world thrived on personal connections. Favoring friends under equal conditions was an unspoken rule. If Chihara had acquaintances seeking roles, Murakami wouldn't object—as long as they fit. She suspected he lacked industry ties but ensured his inclusion and solicited his input for team cohesion.
Unfortunately, Chihara didn't recognize a single actor. In his original world, he might have enjoyed scouting future stars—but not in this parallel reality. Smiling apologetically, he replied, "None."
"Alright…" Murakami didn't press, resuming discussions with the directors. Soon, three audition candidates for the Narrator role were finalized—no pretense of fairness, but standard practice nonetheless.
"What about Miho, the young girl in the premiere short?"
Three heads shook. Murakami resumed rifling through profiles. "Let's find someone."
"Akiko?"
"She's excellent—but currently in high demand. Her fees will be prohibitive."
"Child actors around ten are expensive. What if we look among print or commercial models? More options, likely lower demands."
"Can their acting hold up?"
"We'll screen thoroughly during auditions."
"Agreed."
The trio resumed sifting through profiles while Chihara, engrossed, began perusing actor dossiers. Under the production bureau system, everything felt streamlined—even casting benefited from comprehensive, pre-existing materials. Each profile included internal evaluations, neatly summarized—one glance revealed thousands of options.
Moreover, the creative team wielded immense power. A producer who commanded respect from directors and writers could unilaterally decide the entire cast—an unimaginable authority in other countries' formal productions. Naturally, failure rested squarely on her shoulders. Yet, brokers likely viewed producers like Murakami as powerful, untouchable figures.
Soon, Miho's audition pool was finalized. Next came contacting agents to confirm interest and availability.
For Miho's parents, Fujii and Yoshizaki recommended mutual friends. Neither Murakami nor Chihara objected, adding them to the list. Barring audition mishaps, these roles were practically secured.
Casting was intricate, rife with industry gossip, rivalries, and grudges. Chihara listened intently while reviewing profiles, uncovering fascinating tidbits—including the existence of "background actors" maintained by the production bureau.
These individuals resembled China's "film city drifters"—unspecialized extras performing various minor roles daily. Organized and minimally trained, they received meager base pay, supplemented by per-gig wages. Without assignments, they often sought odd jobs elsewhere—dishwashing, manual labor, etc.
Dreaming of stardom, 99% would gladly work unpaid for months given even a minor role—opportunities rarely afforded.
Casting deliberations stretched over three hours. Fujii began appreciating Murakami's balanced leadership—valuing directorial and writer input without overshadowing them, despite Chihara's relative silence.
Closing his notebook, Fujii mentally tallied actor fees against the budget. Unease crept in. Turning to Murakami, organizing papers, he asked, "Any luck with corporate sponsorships?"
Her hands paused, a rueful smile crossing her face. "None."
In Japan, TV dramas often sought sponsorships. Companies paid for acknowledgments like "XX Life Insurance" or "XXX Bank" in credits—or subtle product placements. Occasionally, brands even commissioned short ads featuring main characters post-episode.
As producer, ensuring funding sufficed for the season's completion fell to Murakami. Cost-cutting was paramount, yet quality typically scaled with expenditure. Her sponsorship efforts had yielded nothing—small businesses balked at costs, larger ones dismissed nighttime dramas.
Fujii, prepared for disappointment, sighed. "Then we'll need to tighten the budget."
"Prioritize low-cost actors, even if their skills are middling," Murakami conceded. Limited means necessitated sacrifices—farewell to big-name actors and flashy effects. Tomorrow's auditions would prioritize affordability over perfection.
Yoshizaki, ever optimistic, chuckled. "Don't despair. The script's engaging, and Arima's direction will shine. Small productions can achieve big success!"
Murakami laughed, declaring, "If we pull that off, drinks on me at Ginza!"
Fujii, rubbing his head, hesitated. "Ginza clubs? My wife forbids those places…"
Murakami faltered, about to amend her offer, when Fujii turned to Yoshizaki. "Don't tell your wife—she'll inform mine, and I won't be allowed."
"Relax, when have I betrayed you?"
"Yesterday."
Murakami let the banter slide, turning to Chihara. "Chihara-kun, will you attend tomorrow's auditions?"
Small crews lacked dedicated casting directors—selections required producer, director, and writer approval. Today, however, Chihara seemed disinterested. Perhaps returning to scriptwriting suited him better? Writers, after all, were encouraged to produce prolifically. Excess material allowed cherry-picking; scarcity left gaps unfilled.
Though unfamiliar with the actor circuit, Chihara remained intrigued. "I'll come."
Murakami, mildly disappointed but unable to object, nodded. "Alright. I'll have… your assistant notify you."
That assistant… what was his name again?