Chihara Rinto had only been in the industry for less than two weeks, yet he managed to rescue a rebellious young girl from under the thumb of "Five Fingers Mountain," gaining his first disciple. With this milestone, he felt like he was ready to embark on a journey akin to the classic tale of Journey to the West. If he could pick up two more disciples like her and maybe acquire a white horse, it seemed like everything would be set.
He politely declined Nambu Ryoko's invitation to a formal "master-disciple banquet," agreeing instead that lessons would begin the next day with a month-long trial period before any long-term commitments were made. Afterward, he finally allowed himself to head home. He didn't dare touch that banquet; if Nambu Ryoko ever discovered the truth about him, even someone as mild-mannered as she might feel tempted to draw blood.
Before leaving the studio, Chihara summoned his ninja assistant, Shiraki Keima, instructing him to bring another desk to headquarters while also purchasing some miscellaneous supplies. As for occupying space at the broadcasting station and using work hours for personal tasks, he figured he'd smooth things over with Murakami Iori tomorrow. After all, as long as he delivered high-quality scripts on time, the producer wouldn't sweat the small stuff. Besides, he hadn't insisted on staying at an expensive hot spring inn just because of stress—that alone proved he was a model screenwriter, right?
After wrapping up these errands, Chihara headed straight home. But along the way, he couldn't shake the feeling that someone was following him. Was Shiraki Keima tailing him again? Yet no matter how hard he looked, there was no sign of the stealthy assistant anywhere.
Must be paranoia, he thought. Perhaps the accumulated stress from recent events had finally caught up with him. Adapting to life in this strange country hadn't been easy—it was exhausting, despite the perks of having crossed over into this new world. The problem was, those benefits took time to materialize, which only added to his frustration.
Lost in these musings, Chihara unlocked the door to his apartment, changed into casual clothes, and started boiling water to make instant noodles. Before the kettle whistled, however, he heard a soft knock at the door.
The previous occupant of the apartment hadn't been much of a social butterfly, so visitors were rare. Curiosity piqued, Chihara opened the door to find none other than the overly dramatic extra from earlier that day standing awkwardly outside.
Chihara blinked. "You?"
The extra bowed deeply, visibly flustered. "Good evening, Chihara-sensei. I'm sorry to intrude without warning—it's very rude of me."
"No need to apologize," Chihara replied evenly. "But how did you know where I live?"
She hesitated, fidgeting nervously. "I… followed you here."
Ah. So it was stalking. Fantastic. Was she some kind of creep?
Japan wasn't exactly short on eccentric personalities, given the societal pressures and cultural sensitivities. Still, something about her demeanor tugged at his conscience. She wore thin clothing ill-suited for the sudden drop in temperature, shivering slightly in the cold night air. Against his better judgment, he stepped aside and gestured for her to come in. "What brings you here?" he asked, trying to keep his tone neutral.
At least she'd shown courage by helping out others. He couldn't be too harsh.
The extra slipped off her shoes at the modest entryway, still looking painfully self-conscious. "I wanted to thank you, Chihara-sensei… for what you did this afternoon. You saved me from being kicked off set."
"It wasn't a big deal," Chihara said dismissively, motioning for her to sit down. Just then, the kettle clicked off, and he moved to pour a glass of water. Handing it to her, he added, "Just try not to make mistakes like that again. I won't always be able to cover for you."
He meant every word. Helping her once was one thing, but if she thought she could take advantage of him moving forward, she'd quickly find herself unceremoniously booted out of the production.
She accepted the cup gratefully, cradling it in her hands for warmth. "Thank you, Sensei. I was worried you'd be angry when I came, but you're actually really kind."
Chihara raised an eyebrow. Kind? Him? He prided himself on maintaining a professional yet approachable demeanor. When had he ever given off vibes of severity? Clearly, this girl was green behind the ears.
As he mused silently, she suddenly remembered something and rummaged through her backpack. Pulling out a brown paper bag, she placed it reverently on the tatami mat and pushed it toward him. "Please, accept this."
Chihara eyed the bag suspiciously. Was this her way of buttering him up for a role? His initial impression of her as a "good person" began to waver. His expression cooled as he asked, "What is this supposed to mean?"
"It's just a token of gratitude."
"A token of gratitude? What does that even mean?"
"It means… well, it's just a gesture."
"A gesture of what?"
"Of thanks!"
Chihara sighed inwardly. This was devolving into a comedy routine—or rather, a manzai skit. Enough. Without further ado, he opened the bag and peered inside. Sure enough, six steamed buns sat nestled within, still faintly warm, likely bought from a nearby shopping street.
He glanced back at the girl, noting her threadbare, outdated autumn coat—a poor choice for early December in Tokyo, especially after days of rain and plummeting temperatures. Her socks, he noticed now, were patched—or more accurately, crudely stitched together, forming an odd little point at the toe. It looked amateurish and uncomfortable.
It was clear she was struggling financially. Chihara closed the bag and shook his head. "I can't accept this. I don't have any roles to offer you. Sorry."
Her eyes widened in alarm. "No, Sensei, it's not like that! I truly just wanted to thank you. I've wanted to since this afternoon, but Tsumura-san told me not to wander around. I didn't want to show up empty-handed, so I bought these sweets to express my gratitude. You're the only person who's helped me since I came to Tokyo. My mother always taught me to sincerely thank those who help me, no matter how poor or difficult life gets. That's non-negotiable."
She paused, then added timidly, "Maybe it seems too small, but it's all I could afford. Please, don't reject it."
Chihara considered her words for a moment. Finally, he relented. "If it's purely an expression of thanks, then I'll accept them." He decided he'd quietly ask the assistant director to bump up her pay tomorrow, ensuring the value of the buns was covered. He had handed Tokyo Eizo Broadcasting (TEB) a blockbuster script recently—they could afford six measly buns!
Still, he remained skeptical. This girl clearly had ambition written all over her. Surely, she'd seize the opportunity to hint at wanting a minor role or some favor. People rarely acted purely out of gratitude—it was usually a pretext for something else. No doubt, these six buns were her attempt to grease the wheels.
To be fair, Chihara didn't entirely disapprove of such tactics. If necessary, he'd do the same. Why wait around hoping someone noticed your talent when you could actively seek opportunities? The world was vast, and competition fierce. But in this case, the girl simply lacked the skills to act. Choosing her would compromise the quality of the show.
Acting required immense dedication and training. Michiko, for instance, had excelled in her debut performance, but behind that success lay countless hours of grueling practice, tears, and sacrifices. Even now, at such a young age, she teetered on the edge of burnout. Success never came easy.
This girl, however, showed no signs of formal training. Forget the '90s—even in 2019, she wouldn't stand a chance as a rising starlet. It wasn't that she wasn't pretty by ordinary standards, but on camera, appearances transformed drastically. The quirks of 1990s television technology, with its awkward aspect ratios and the flattening effect of converting three-dimensional faces into two-dimensional images, often created what people jokingly called the "on-screen ten-pound gain." Someone who looked perfectly slim in person could appear noticeably heavier on camera, their features compressed and distorted in a way that felt unnatural.
To look good on screen, actors had to be thinner and smaller than the average person. Ideally, they needed to resemble a human clothes hanger—lean, angular, almost skeletal. Achieving this demanded strict discipline: rigorous dieting, endless hours of physical training, meticulous skincare routines, and an unrelenting commitment to fitness. It wasn't just about vanity; it was basic professionalism.
But this girl standing before Chihara? She was built like any ordinary person—average height, average frame, nothing particularly striking. Worse still, she didn't even have the delicate bone structure that might translate well on camera. Chihara Rinto could already picture her on-screen debut: broad shoulders, thickset arms, every flaw magnified under harsh studio lights.
And then there was her face—a quintessentially Asian visage, soft and flat, lacking the sharp contours necessary for dramatic close-ups. On camera, shadows would blur across her features, leaving her looking like a featureless pancake. Fixing this wouldn't come cheap or easy—it would take weight loss, facial slimming exercises, dietary restrictions, perhaps even subtle cosmetic procedures. A truly dedicated actress might go through all of that, but this girl? Not a chance.
A good actress, especially one not specializing in middle-aged matron roles, needed more than anything else a small, refined face with deeply defined features—the kind of face where tears cascaded elegantly down high cheekbones, landing precisely at the hollow of her collarbone. This girl, however, seemed destined for the opposite effect: crying would likely result in snot and tears smeared indiscriminately across her cheeks, creating chaos rather than pathos.
These observations weren't meant to be cruel—they were simply facts of the industry. Talent scouts prided themselves on spotting potential from miles away, but even the most optimistic scout wouldn't give this girl a second glance. That didn't mean she couldn't succeed someday, carving out her own niche against all odds. But if she wanted to make it as an actress, she'd have to work twice as hard for half the reward. And as far as Chihara Rinto was concerned, he couldn't afford to gamble on someone so ill-suited for the craft. Television dramas required quality performances, and casting her would be doing both her and the project a disservice.
Chihara accepted the six steamed buns, fully expecting her to bring up the topic of roles next. He'd prepared a diplomatic speech explaining why she wasn't cut out for acting, planning to send her on her way with gentle encouragement. But to his surprise, after seeing him finally accept the gift, the girl visibly relaxed, bowing once more with quiet gratitude. "Thank you so much for allowing me to stay on set, Chihara-sensei. You're truly a kind person. I've conveyed my thanks, and I don't want to waste any more of your time. I'll take my leave now."
Before he could respond, she rose to her feet and turned toward the door, ready to depart.
Chihara froze.
Wait. That was it? She was leaving without asking for a role?
He'd mentally drafted an entire monologue about the realities of the industry, tailored specifically to let her down gently. Yet here she was, walking away without so much as a hint of self-interest.
You're just going to leave? No attempt to cozy up? No backdoor deal?
I had my rebuttal ready…