Even after finishing the meal, Chihara Rinto remained restless. Several times, he considered striking up a conversation with the waitress but hesitated, feeling it inappropriate. Caught in this cycle of doubt, he completely abandoned his plans to help Konoe Hitomi chart her career path—nothing concrete came to mind.
Konoe Hitomi, however, wasn't bothered by this. As they left the restaurant, she reassured him, "I don't have many skills, so finding work was always going to be hard. Please don't stress too much over it, Chihara-sensei."
Her specialized skills were… unusual. She could swim fast, dive deep, handle fishing rods and nets with ease, catch fish barehanded, and even gut them decently enough. But in a modern city like Tokyo, these talents didn't seem particularly useful. Moreover, she resisted taking jobs related to fish unless she was on the brink of starvation—she simply didn't want anything to do with them anymore.
This was quite the challenge.
Chihara nodded, smiling faintly. "Such things can't be rushed. Tomorrow, I'll ask around for you."
"You're so kind," Konoe Hitomi said earnestly, genuinely touched. Since arriving in Tokyo, no one had shown her such care or respect before. Though not eloquent, she repeated, "Thank you so much."
She resolved to repay Chihara once she made something of herself—but mentioning that now would sound hollow, like empty talk.
"It's nothing," Chihara dismissed casually. It cost him nothing—just pointing her in the right direction. Whether she succeeded depended entirely on her own efforts.
As they parted ways, two figures suddenly called out from behind them. "Hitomi-neesan, wait for us! We'll walk back together!"
Chihara turned to see the two high school girls from earlier—the ones with long black hair and short hair. The shop owner's daughter wasn't among them.
Hitomi tilted her head, puzzled. "Aren't you supposed to be having your sleepover?"
Nishino Sagiri caught up, grinning brightly. "We canceled last minute. Hitomi-neesan lives near Akashi Pier, right? Could you walk us partway? It'd be safer."
The sleepover hadn't been canceled—they simply felt the entertainment industry was shady, and Chihara Rinto's character was questionable. He might have falsely claimed to be a lead writer when he was probably just an assistant. On top of that, his lecherous gaze set off warning bells. They couldn't confirm his intentions, but caution was necessary. So, the pair chased after Hitomi, planning to stay with her briefly before doubling back, careful not to leave her vulnerable.
If there was no threat, fine. But if their suspicions proved true, they'd nip any trouble in the bud. At their age, meddling in others' affairs felt righteous—they believed good people shouldn't suffer.
Hitomi didn't object. Bowing slightly to Chihara, she said, "Chihara-sensei, I'll escort them home first."
Chihara hadn't thought much about it, but he approved. Ever since Japan's economic bubble burst, crime rates had surged by 200%. While crackdowns eventually helped, traveling in groups was still safer than going solo.
He smiled. "Be careful on your way."
With that, he watched the three girls leave. After a moment, he sighed softly, standing there silently as he gazed at the restaurant for a while longer. Finally, shaking his head, he turned and headed toward his apartment.
Was this fate?
If not, why had they crossed paths? He'd already resigned himself to moving on…
Or had he? Why did his thoughts keep circling back to her? Was this subconscious compensation for failing to achieve his past goal—a search for a substitute?
Uncharacteristically sentimental, Chihara walked with his head down, occasionally glancing up at the moon and sighing. Before he realized it, he was already seated at his desk in his apartment.
He pulled out a sheet of paper and began writing: If I want to win that girl…
Halfway through, he crumpled the paper and tossed it into the wastebasket. Pulling out another sheet, he started again: If I pursue that girl, I need…
Pausing, he frowned. The word "pursue" didn't sit well with him. Crumpling the second attempt, he grabbed yet another sheet and wrote: If I want to win that girl and fill the void in my heart, the current situation is…
But the pen tip bled ink onto the page, ruining it. He stopped mid-sentence, tossing this draft away as well.
There was no point seeking a replacement. She wasn't her—it wasn't fate, merely coincidence. Pursuing her would only reek of dishonor.
One could calculate meticulously, but kindness was still essential.
He decided to stick to his original plan. There was no reason to waste energy chasing what wasn't meant to be.
Chihara retrieved his career roadmap and reviewed it. His self-promotion efforts were going smoothly, the script was in production, and his writing schedule was on track. Once he gained recognition, he'd aim for long-term contracts and strive to become a producer, maximizing the benefits of his transmigration advantage. Murakami Iori seemed reliable enough to form a genuine friendship with—not just mutual exploitation. When the time came, he'd ensure their parting was amicable, safeguarding her professional future.
After reviewing and annotating his plan, he cleared his mind, determined to forget the fleeting emotional turbulence. He pulled out fresh sheets of paper and worked late into the night, catching up on the half-day he'd lost. By the time he finally rested, he'd surpassed his daily progress.
But sleep eluded him. Barely a few hours passed before his alarm blared—it was barely five in the morning. After washing up, he headed straight to TEB.
Today, he planned to observe filming on location. One scene featured "Miho" rushing to the hospital at dusk, scheduled for early morning to match natural lighting and reduce post-production workload. Hence, they needed to reach the site early.
Arriving at the studio, he found Murakami Iori already there, clad in her signature padded-shoulder coat, directing Fujii Arima and a group of crew members loading actors and equipment onto vehicles. This marked the team's first outing, and she intended to tag along to oversee operations.
Soon, preparations were complete. The small convoy set off through the winter mist, led by the director, followed by equipment and actors, with the producer bringing up the rear.
Chihara naturally shared a car with Murakami Iori. To his surprise, she immediately leaned forward with interest. "Chihara, I heard you're taking on apprentices?"
He hadn't expected her to know so soon. Quickly, he assured her, "It won't affect my work—I promise."
"Honestly, it's fine. You should've taken on apprentices sooner," Murakami replied approvingly. She hoped Chihara would start mentoring newcomers—Shiraki Keima, whom she'd assigned to assist him, was meant to be his apprentice. Unfortunately, it seemed Chihara misunderstood, using him merely for odd jobs instead.
In the production bureau system, screenwriters trained juniors through mentorship. Assistants helped with research and revisions, learning on the job until they were ready to try episodic writing. Eventually, they might join other productions or rise to co-writers or dialogue specialists.
Murakami wanted more writers in the team—if something happened to Chihara, like a car accident, she'd be devastated for weeks. Even if someone like Michiko seemed useless, establishing this precedent was valuable.
"Thank you," Chihara said gratefully, though he swiftly changed the subject. He recounted Konoe Hitomi's situation, seeking Murakami's advice as a native Tokyoite.
Murakami listened silently, then fixed him with a knowing look.
"What's wrong, Murakami-san?" Chihara asked, puzzled.
Smiling faintly, she regarded him with the indulgent gaze of a senior observing a junior. "Chihara, society isn't school. Being soft-hearted isn't a virtue."
Chihara paused, shaking his head. "I understand that. But I figured helping her wouldn't inconvenience me, nor delay anything. If I can lend a hand without effort, why not? Consider it making a friend."
Isn't networking important? Having more friends is better than none, right?
Murakami disagreed. In her view, someone like Michiko held investment potential, but aiding Konoe Hitomi was futile. Still, she understood Chihara's mindset—he was fresh out of school, still carrying traces of student idealism. He hadn't yet learned to overlook certain things or categorize people into social strata—the essence of navigating Japanese workplaces.
Despite her disapproval, she offered practical advice. "If she wants stable work without qualifications, she'll have to endure hardships others can't. A few days ago, I heard complaints from a radio station peer about cleaning communication towers—it's dirty, exhausting work. Young hires quit within days, forcing constant recruitment of temps. Perhaps she'd fit there."
"As a cleaner?"
Murakami shrugged nonchalantly. "Pursuing dreams comes at a price. No workplace is easy. Without you, she wouldn't even have this chance. Besides, the radio station offers voice acting workshops open to auditors. If she's ambitious, she'll attend after work. If not…" She trailed off dismissively. "Let her fend for herself. Such people aren't worth associating with."
In her estimation, within a year or two, Chihara would stop meddling in such matters altogether. Extras were mere props—why bother befriending them?
Still, despite his maturity, he was young, lacking proper workplace mentality.
Chihara mulled it over, concluding this solution sufficed. For an ordinary acquaintance, it was generous enough. If she couldn't handle the hardship, she could always return to Shikoku Island. Gratefully, he thanked her. "I appreciate it, Murakami-san."
He'd intended to consult her about suitable jobs for Konoe Hitomi, but Murakami took charge directly. Perhaps this was her way of investing—or perhaps she truly viewed him as a friend, given how bluntly she spoke.
"It's nothing—just a small favor," Murakami dismissed lightly. Workplace camaraderie was strong in Japan; supporting peers was an unspoken duty. Making a call was trivial. Smiling, she added, "Don't worry about it. I'll handle everything. Focus on your writing… How's the script progressing?"
Chihara handed her his shorthand notebook for review. Despite giving away half a short drama, his workflow remained unaffected. Tales of the Unusual, in its original world, spanned nearly 700 episodes and thousands of short stories. His task was selecting the best dozens. Losing one or two mattered little.
Murakami flipped through, noting the slightly messy handwriting but recognizing the quality remained above standard. She sighed inwardly—she still wanted to lock Chihara away to prevent accidents. With only one screenwriter on the team, losing him would be catastrophic. Yet, finding a valid excuse proved impossible.
As she continued reviewing, the convoy arrived at their destination…