Whether due to Murakami Iori's efficiency or the production bureau system's maturity, by noon the next day, Shiraki Keima had already informed Chihara Rinto about attending the auditions.
Having watched numerous auditions in his previous life, this was Chihara's first time wielding approval power—a novel experience. Eager to immerse himself in understanding the production bureau's intricacies, he quickly prepared and left. Shiraki Keima, hesitating briefly, chose to remain behind, meticulously organizing Chihara's scripts.
What a talented screenwriter… When would he earn his recognition?
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Chihara soon arrived at yesterday's conference room, where two rows of people—men and women of varying ages—awaited. Today's focus was casting the season-long "Narrator (Black Cat)" and key roles for the first two episodes.
The aspiring actors sat quietly on plastic stools along the corridor, reading script excerpts distributed beforehand. A staff member handing out bottled water noticed Chihara's arrival, paused, and bowed slightly. "Chihara-sensei, good day."
His greeting drew attention from both rows. Only one type of person merited the title "sensei" in this context—the head screenwriter.
In unison, the actors stood, bowing deeply. "Good day, sensei."
Though not easily swayed emotionally, Chihara couldn't help but pause at the ritualistic display. After a moment's silence, he bowed in return. "Good day."
The actors remained bowed, heads lowered, as Chihara navigated between them. These were minor actors with little fame or seniority, reliant on the production bureau for livelihood. Their deference reflected the stark hierarchy—renowned or veteran actors likely wouldn't exhibit such behavior.
Entering the room, Chihara found only Murakami Iori and Fujii Arima present among the creative team. Sitting down, he inquired, "Is Yoshizaki-kun not here yet?"
"Oh, he's scouting exterior locations but will join later," Fujii replied absently, eyes still on his papers.
Chihara felt exasperated. Was he always the last to arrive? Perhaps Murakami Iori, haunted by past experiences with procrastinating writers, delayed notifying him to maximize writing time.
Murakami, finishing a conversation with a photographer in the corner, approached, smiling. "Shall we begin?"
"Yes," Chihara and Fujii responded in unison. Staff began calling candidates inside.
Dubbed an "audition," it was more accurately a "screen test." Auditions typically assessed on-camera suitability—not everyone photographed well. Some appeared attractive in person but transformed into unflattering images on-screen.
Screen tests evaluated acting style, personal image, and chemistry with potential co-stars. Given today's candidates were novice actors or minor talents, camera compatibility wasn't a concern—agencies would have already filtered unsuitable candidates.
Thus, the room's cameras were largely ornamental, used sparingly for specific roles, particularly the young girls transitioning from print modeling. For others, recordings weren't necessary.
Murakami had organized everything meticulously. First up was the season-long "Narrator." Each candidate received three monologue excerpts to perform freely—reflecting the character's predominant solo scenes.
The first entrant, Takeda Kazuma, a forty-year-old man with a somewhat sinister appearance, exuded antagonist vibes but delivered a polished performance. His delivery was smooth, imbued with tension.
Impressed, Murakami jotted down notes. Fujii, however, rubbed his bald head thoughtfully. "Something's missing… Dim the lights, add side lighting. Takeda-san, make your movements more pronounced, slow your speech slightly."
Valuing this role, Fujii was willing to invest extra time, also testing ideas conceived on paper.
Staff adjusted the lighting—drawing curtains in this makeshift setting—but side lights and reflectors were available. Television stations stocked these abundantly, even outnumbering toilets.
Takeda, eager for a leading role—even in late-night dramas—performed again enthusiastically, awaiting feedback anxiously.
"Still missing something," Fujii muttered pensively, causing Takeda's expression to falter.
Auditions were grueling; rejection stung. However, production staff prioritized efficiency over actors' feelings. Murakami turned to Chihara, asking, "Chihara-kun, what do you think?"
Screenwriters held significant sway in casting—their mental image of the character was pivotal.
Chihara, distracted, didn't respond immediately. Murakami prompted again, "Chihara-kun?"
Snapping back, Chihara avoided focusing on the ethereal green text hovering in his vision—"Role Spiritual Compatibility Rate: 71%"—and suggested casually, "Try sunglasses?"
Though seemingly trivial, the original narrator wore sunglasses—an aesthetic choice worth replicating.
Murakami promptly instructed staff to fetch sunglasses. Equipped, Takeda performed again, even incorporating a chair for added effect after seeking permission.
"Better than before," Fujii remarked approvingly, jotting notes.
Murakami smiled at Takeda. "Thank you, Takeda-san. Please wait outside momentarily."
Bowing deeply to the trio, Takeda exited, replaced by another candidate. Chihara, however, was preoccupied, attempting to decipher why phantom text now appeared in his vision.
As the actor changed, so did the text: "Role Spiritual Compatibility Rate: 45%." Focusing on it, he mentally "clicked," revealing detailed analysis: This actor's temperament, aura, and performance tendencies align 45% with the scripted role. Probability of standout performance: 1.95%. Likelihood of creating a screen classic: 0.000012%. Recommendation: Do not cast.
Silent, Chihara recognized the text—it mirrored fragments stored in his memory since university. He'd assumed those memories were his sole boon post-transmigration, but to his surprise, that thing also followed him here too, and even turned into something utterly inexplicable.
He truly believed it was bad luck that brought him across worlds. After all, he had worked hard for ten years, with a bright future ahead of him, and had even met someone he couldn't bear to part with. He had his whole life mapped out, right down to the wedding plans—he'd even thought carefully about what gifts to bring when meeting his future in-laws for the first time. And then, just like that, everything was ruined.
A profound loss indeed.
Closing his eyes, Chihara delved into his chaotic memory, seeking the item stored on his freshman-year hard drive.