The extra appeared to be around eighteen or nineteen, likely fresh out of high school and newly stepping into the world. Her actions carried a certain naive sincerity, untouched by the scheming and manipulations often seen in adults. She seemed genuinely grateful, embodying an almost childlike purity.
Watching her leave so readily after delivering her heartfelt thanks, Chihara Rinto felt a pang of guilt for misjudging her intentions earlier. He wasn't entirely jaded; beneath his polished exterior lay remnants of the idealistic college student he once was. Though life's trials had tempered him somewhat, he hadn't fully developed the thick skin required to navigate this industry without occasional twinges of conscience.
He hesitated for a moment before calling out to her. "Wait," he said gently. "I don't even know your name yet. Would you mind telling me?"
Her earnestness struck him again, reminding him of something rare—like spotting a panda in the wild. Perhaps it was worth giving her some advice, steering her away from unrealistic expectations.
At his words, Hitomi promptly sat back down, bowing deeply with evident respect. "My apologies for forgetting to introduce myself earlier," she murmured. "My name is Konoe Hitomi. I'm nineteen years old and come from a small fishing village in Tokushima Prefecture on Shikoku Island. I'm the second daughter in my family and only arrived in Tokyo this November. I've recently joined TEB's background actor program. Please take care of me moving forward."
Chihara sifted through fragments of memory, recognizing Tokushima as one of Japan's poorest regions—a place tourists rarely visited unless they sought solitude amidst poverty. The ancient island of Shikoku itself bore scars of centuries-old conflicts, its history steeped in bloodshed and betrayal, earning it a reputation as both remote and impoverished. It wasn't exactly prime real estate.
So, she'd left rural poverty behind to chase dreams in the big city? Not unlike countless others flocking to bustling metropolises like Beijing, Shanghai, or Guangzhou back in his original world. If he were sent back to 1994 China, he'd probably do the same.
Curious, he asked, "Why did you decide to become an actress?"
Hitomi's wide, guileless eyes reflected her innocence. Her response came quickly, unfiltered and straightforward: "I want to make something of myself! I want everyone back home to see how far I've come!"
She elaborated further, her voice tinged with determination. "When I left the village, they all laughed at me, saying I wouldn't last a year in Tokyo—that I'd slink back home in shame. I don't want them mocking me anymore! And besides…" She paused, wrinkling her nose. "…I refuse to become an ama."
"An ama?" Chihara echoed, puzzled.
"Yes, an ama," she confirmed. "My grandmother was an ama, my mother is one, and so is my older sister. They wanted me to follow in their footsteps, but I hate the sea. I can't stand fish!"
Chihara blinked, trying to process this revelation. Logically, her reasoning made sense, albeit unconventional. But wait—her family practiced such an ancient profession?
Suddenly, pieces clicked together. No wonder she referred to herself as a "daughter of the sea." Initially, he'd assumed it was some romanticized notion inspired by fairy tales about mermaids. Now it seemed literal. No wonder she swam like a fish—diving half the length of a river without breaking a sweat. To someone accustomed to diving deep into ocean waters, rivers must feel like bathtubs.
The term ama might sound unfamiliar to many, but the occupation dated back over two millennia, found across various cultures worldwide. In Japan, these female divers went by several names: tomo, ama-onna, tomo-fu, shinjo, shinpu, and even shiraiso. Some scholars speculated that the practice originated from Quanzhou, China, where the character spring was split into components to form related terms.
Interestingly, Japan's ama shared striking similarities with China's dan people—both communities lived partially on land and partially at sea, relying on boats for shelter and the ocean for sustenance. Both revered dragon deities, leading some historians to theorize that Japan's ama descended from Song- and Yuan-era migrants fleeing Quanzhou. However, lacking archaeological evidence, much remained speculative.
Could she be distantly related to his roots? Chihara studied Hitomi more closely, searching for any resemblance to his hometown—but no, she looked every bit the quintessential Japanese girl-next-door, albeit one burdened by financial hardship. He dismissed the fleeting thought.
Historically, amas dived deep into the ocean to harvest marine treasures—everything from jellyfish and seaweed to pearls, lobsters, and abalone. While men occasionally participated, women dominated the field due to their greater caution and endurance. By 2019, however, technological advancements in aquaculture and commercial fishing rendered the profession nearly extinct. With dwindling profits, younger generations showed little interest in carrying on the tradition.
Given this context, Hitomi's desire to abandon her ancestral trade appeared reasonable. Yet choosing acting as an alternative seemed wildly impractical.
Her features fell short of conventional beauty standards, and even if they didn't, acting involved far more than standing in front of a camera. Most underestimated the complexities of the craft. On set, dozens—if not hundreds—of eyes scrutinized each performance, ready to pounce on mistakes. Directors loomed menacingly, demanding perfection. For anyone lacking professional training, maintaining composure under such pressure proved nearly impossible. Stress-induced adrenaline surged, rendering movements stiff, voices shaky, and expressions unnatural.
This defensive reaction stemmed from innate human instincts—not inherently shameful but unacceptable for actors. Through rigorous training, performers learned to shed inhibitions, embracing vulnerability in front of audiences. Whether crying, laughing, crawling like animals, or portraying exaggerated caricatures, skilled actors seamlessly embodied their roles, adapting effortlessly to direction.
Even basic skills like enunciation required practice. Clear articulation, standard pronunciation, natural intonation—all demanded conscious effort. Most amateurs spoke too quickly, mumbled, swallowed syllables, or slipped into regional dialects when reading lines aloud. Listening back revealed glaring flaws: monotone delivery, misplaced emphasis, lack of emotional nuance.
Hitomi currently exuded confidence, eager to dive headfirst into acting. Yet her enthusiasm masked fundamental shortcomings. Audiences in Shikoku might overlook her imperfections, but those in Hokkaido would cringe at her heavy accent and garbled speech. Worse still, conveying nuanced emotions tied to specific psychological states required advanced technique—skills she sorely lacked.
Thus, Chihara Rinto wasn't belittling her when he had doubts about her prospects. As a background actor, she could blend seamlessly into crowds. But thrust into prominent roles? She risked being berated mercilessly by directors—or worse, freezing up entirely under intense scrutiny, leaving lasting psychological scars.
Mindful of the six steamed buns she'd brought, Chihara offered gentle counsel. "You're right to avoid becoming an ama if that's not your passion. But acting is incredibly challenging. Have you considered other paths?"
Hitomi straightened her posture, resolve etched onto her face. "No."
Chihara sighed internally. Was she deliberately obtuse? Ambition was admirable, but blind optimism bordered on recklessness. Setting lofty goals without laying foundational groundwork resembled building skyscrapers atop quicksand.
Seeing his silence, Hitomi added emphatically, "I'll work hard! Effort always leads to success!"
Chihara resisted the urge to groan. While exceptions existed—background actors who clawed their way to stardom—they represented one in ten thousand. Success stories typically combined relentless self-improvement, countless auditions weathered despite repeated rejections, and sheer luck. Each audition chipped away at fragile egos, testing mental fortitude. Without resilience, few endured.
Reluctant to dissuade her outright—after all, strangers owed each other nothing—he glanced at the buns, recalling her sincerity and unwavering determination. Sighing, he pressed on. "Without formal training, succeeding in acting will prove exceptionally difficult. I recommend exploring alternatives first…"
Before he finished, Hitomi interrupted excitedly. "But I've trained!"
"Oh?" Chihara raised an eyebrow.
"I taught myself!" she exclaimed proudly. "I can cry on command! And I've been studying acting theory from New Filmmaker magazine."
True to her dramatic inclinations, she demonstrated her self-proclaimed skill, squeezing tears from her eyes within seconds. They streamed down her cheeks, pooling awkwardly.
Chihara stifled another sigh. This display barely scratched the surface of acting fundamentals. Frustration bubbled beneath his composed demeanor, though years of politeness prevented him from snapping. Instead, he patiently explained what acting truly entailed—the minimum requirements aspiring performers needed to meet.
As Hitomi listened, realization dawned slowly. Dropping out of high school during her sophomore year to train as an ama, her education remained limited. Growing up in an isolated fishing village meant exposure to external influences came primarily via three communal televisions. Television captivated her imagination, inspiring dreams of appearing on screen someday—to prove wrong those who mocked her ambitions.
Never before had anyone detailed the steps necessary to achieve such aspirations. After absorbing his explanation, she sat silently for several moments before murmuring, "Oh… So becoming an actress involves so much more than I realized?"
Chihara nodded solemnly. "It's an intensely specialized profession requiring immense dedication. Even then, opportunities remain scarce because countless others possess equal talent and work harder still. Luck plays a significant role too. Therefore, I strongly advise reconsidering this path… Speaking of which, where do you currently work?"
Background acting alone couldn't sustain life in Tokyo. She must hold another job—perhaps something closer to her true interests.
"At Akashi Pier. I gut fish."
"Fish?" Chihara recalled encountering her mid-delivery last time. "So you slaughter them first, then deliver?"
Hitomi sighed heavily. "I despise fish, yes, but I excel at processing them quickly and efficiently. The pay's decent enough to cover rent—at least better than starving."
"Is it long-term employment?"
"No, just temporary gigs whenever money runs low."
Chihara rubbed his temples, sensing complications ahead. "After everything I've explained, are you still adamant about pursuing acting? You lack even the most basic qualifications…"
Hitomi didn't hesitate. To Chihara's dismay, his earlier efforts seemed wasted. She nodded fervently. "Yes! I want to appear on television. I want to rise above my circumstances."
Resigned, Chihara forged ahead. "Then approach this systematically. If I were in your shoes, I'd secure stable employment first—consistent income is crucial. Simultaneously, enroll in reputable acting classes while honing standard Japanese pronunciation—you carry a noticeable accent. Additionally, commit to fitness regimens aimed at slimming down and refining facial structure…"
A planner by nature, he relished outlining strategies, dopamine surging as he mapped potential trajectories. Mid-explanation, however, Hitomi interjected, scratching her head. "Um… How does one find stable work?"
Chihara faltered, momentarily forgetting the economic downturn gripping society. Securing jobs posed challenges even for seasoned professionals like himself; what hope did a novice ama-turned-actor have?
Regrouping, he pondered solutions anew. Just then, a loud rumble broke the silence. Glancing up, he saw Hitomi's sheepish expression—it was nearly eight o'clock, and hunger pangs were inevitable.
"You're probably hungry," Chihara conceded. "Let's eat first."
What rotten luck—forced into unpaid career counseling and feeding duties. Truly, karma deemed him a saint incarnate. Still, hospitality dictated treating guests respectfully. Besides, her gesture—six precious buns purchased with her last yen—deserved acknowledgment. Such earnest gratitude stood rare in today's cynical world.