The afternoon shoot wrapped up unusually early, a testament to the production bureau's efficient system and Fujii Arima's adept management. By just 6:15 PM, they had completed the day's planned progress.
Fukazawa Michiko continued to impress, breezing through most scenes in single takes. Only a few shots required multiple attempts at the director's insistence. Her seamless performance belied her status as a first-time actress. Credit went not only to her natural talent but also to years of rigorous training—and likely countless practice sessions with her mother, Nambu Ryoko.
As for the overly enthusiastic extra from earlier, she remained subdued throughout the afternoon, thanks to Tsumura Haruki keeping a close watch on her. He strategically positioned her in corners where she couldn't steal focus even if she tried.
The smoothness of the day's work brought collective relief among the crew. Everyone had braced themselves for late-night filming—a common occurrence given tight schedules and frequent overtime. Sometimes, delays forced them to outsource parts of the production, adding stress and complexity. But today? No overtime. An unexpected blessing.
Such small mercies were enough to satisfy these overworked souls. As they packed up, conversations turned to post-work drinks, their faces glowing with "narrow escape" joy. Meanwhile, Chihara Rinto gathered his notes, preparing to head home.
He'd spent half the day drafting an apology gift—a script for Michiko—and now intended to adjust his schedule, sacrificing a few hours of sleep to catch up. However, just as he was about to leave, Nambu Ryoko approached, leading Michiko by the hand.
Curious, Chihara asked, "Nambu-san, is there something I can help you with?"
Perhaps she wanted to butter him up? Maybe invite him out for dinner?
Turns out, he overthought it. Nambu Ryoko beamed, bowing deeply before expressing gratitude—despite Chihara having done little more than sit idly all day, occasionally glancing around. She then brightened further, asking excitedly, "I heard that Chihara-sensei gave Michiko a script and praised her writing talent?"
"It wasn't misplaced praise," Chihara replied honestly. The script had been gifted, and considering Michiko's acting skills alone, this girl teetering on the edge of rebellion could easily rank among the top ten child stars nationwide. Calling her talented wasn't far-fetched.
Nambu Ryoko grew even more delighted, glancing back fondly at her daughter before covering her mouth with a soft laugh. "Michiko mentioned it earlier, but I didn't believe her. Turns out I misjudged my own child." After a pause, she ventured cautiously, "So… does this mean Chihara-sensei intends to take Michiko as your disciple?"
"Disciple?" Chihara echoed, caught off guard. His gaze instinctively shifted to Michiko behind her mother, trying to decipher what this clever girl was plotting now.
Michiko met his eyes calmly, her expression guileless. Then she lowered her head, clasping her hands together in front of her chest in silent prayer. She'd thought long and hard after returning home. If anyone might understand her plight and sympathize, it was Chihara Rinto. This was her chance for freedom. With no time to spare, Michiko hadn't been able to slip away from her mother's watchful gaze to communicate privately with Chihara Rinto. She had no choice but to take the risk and proceed this way.
Chihara Rinto's reaction differed from what Nambu Ryoko had expected, leaving her momentarily bewildered. Hesitant, she ventured, "Is that not the case? Michiko just told me that Chihara-sensei believes she has talent in writing and expressed an interest in taking her as a disciple. You even gave her half a script to try completing…"
Chihara Rinto shifted his gaze back to Nambu Ryoko, then suddenly amended his earlier stance with a smile. "Ah, so that's what you're referring to. Yes, I remember now—it did happen. But I'm still learning myself, so teaching someone else feels a bit presumptuous. I was hesitant to bring it up directly."
He had read Michiko's silent plea loud and clear. This clever girl likely sought refuge under the guise of studying screenwriting—a way to carve out fragments of a normal childhood, even if only for a few hours each week.
She was asking for help in her own unconventional way, perhaps as a last-ditch gamble before surrendering completely to despair.
Chihara could have refused. His misstep wasn't grave enough to warrant such responsibility. Yet, on the flip side, offering a small amount of his time to aid a struggling child wouldn't hinder his larger goals either. If anything, it seemed acceptable—perhaps even necessary. What if one day Michiko truly buckled under the weight of expectations? If something regrettable happened, would he bear partial blame for failing to intervene?
After weighing the pros and cons, he chose kindness—primarily because helping came at no real cost to him. With Dual Focus, he could juggle teaching without disrupting his workflow or jeopardizing his objectives. Compassion felt easy here. Whether it would feel as effortless in other circumstances, though, remained uncertain.
Nambu Ryoko visibly relaxed, reassured that things were falling back into place. "Chihara-sensei, you're far too modest!" she exclaimed earnestly. "I've read your scripts—they're excellent! And Michiko insists she truly wants to learn under you. This is rare; she's always been so shy and timid, never once showing interest in anything before. Her eagerness proves how sincere she is. Please, give it serious thought."
She was eager about the prospect. Networking within the industry had always eluded her; otherwise, Michiko would've auditioned repeatedly already. Landing the Tales of the Unusual audition felt like winning the lottery. Now, befriending a lead screenwriter—even an unknown one—was an opportunity she couldn't pass up.
What if this writer became famous someday? Claiming Michiko as his protégé could open doors. Other crews might show favoritism, at least superficially. Moreover, if the writer admired Michiko, he might tilt scripts in her favor, doubling her chances of stardom. Screenwriters wielded subtle power; actors treated them kindly for good reason. Offend one, and who knew when your character might end up comatose—or worse, relegated to endless bedridden scenes?
Conversely, aiding an actor required minimal effort. Nambu Ryoko saw only benefits: Michiko gaining a "young prodigy" persona, perhaps branching into self-written roles someday. A triple threat—writing, directing, acting—would surely dazzle audiences.
It was a dazzling vision indeed!
She wished Chihara would stop being modest and simply agree.
To her delight, he obliged. With a smile, he said, "Since you put it that way, Nambu-san, when is Michiko available? I can try tutoring her, though results aren't guaranteed."
He set expectations low, suspecting Michiko wouldn't commit seriously.
Nambu Ryoko readily acquiesced. "Please, use whatever time suits you best."
"How about 4 to 6 PM daily?" Chihara suggested generously, aiming to ease Michiko's burden. "We'll meet at the production office—it's staffed with women who can keep an eye on her."
More importantly, avoiding private settings ensured propriety. Safety first; no room for misunderstandings.
Nambu Ryoko hesitated briefly—the timing clashed with Michiko's vocal lessons—but quickly decided which opportunity mattered more. Securing a screenwriter as a mentor trumped hiring yet another voice coach. These weren't comparable opportunities.
Bowing deeply, she expressed gratitude. "Thank you, Chihara-sensei. And regarding tuition…"
"That's not urgent," Chihara interrupted. "Let Michiko give it a try first. Writing can be tedious; she may lose interest soon." He had no intention of profiting from this arrangement—or continuing it long-term. Once Michiko found respite and processed her frustrations, the lessons would naturally fade away.
In truth, Nambu Ryoko's dedication to cultivating her daughter's future—though perhaps selfishly motivated—was admirable. Was it wrong to derive pride from a child's achievements? Opinions varied. At worst, she was overly ambitious, neglecting her daughter's emotional limits. Still, labeling her outright malicious felt unfair.
Complicated. Nuanced. Indecipherable.
Nambu Ryoko pressed once more, "But this feels improper, Chihara-sensei. Perhaps double the rate of a vocal coach…"
Chihara cut her off firmly, his polite smile vanishing. "Let's proceed as I suggested, Nambu-san."
His steely resolve silenced her immediately. Turning to Michiko, she urged, "Quickly, thank Chihara-sensei."
Michiko bowed dutifully. "Thank you, Master Shifu. I'll study hard and won't disappoint you."
Chihara stared blankly for a moment. Master? He wasn't founding a school or starting a sect. Besides, the pronunciation…
"Shifu". Oddly disconcerting.