Tokyo, October 27th. Morning.
"Sir, your coffee."
Shiratori Seiya blinked, surfacing from the depths of his own thoughts like a diver breaking through still water. He pulled his gaze away from the rain-streaked window glass and offered a small, courteous nod to the waitress who had materialized beside his table. As she withdrew, he glanced down at his wristwatch.
10:18 AM.
Twelve minutes remaining until his scheduled meeting with the producer.
When it came to discussions of genuine importance—conversations where the stakes were real and the outcomes uncertain—Shiratori Seiya maintained a personal policy of arriving twenty to thirty minutes ahead of schedule. Always.
This habit wasn't born from mere politeness, nor was it simply a neurotic fear of unforeseen delays—a stalled train, a sudden downpour, an unexpected detour. Those were surface-level concerns.
The deeper truth was that arriving early granted him a pocket of sacred time. A quiet buffer zone where he could reconfirm his purpose, mentally rehearse his key points, refine exactly what he wanted to express, and—perhaps most crucially—anticipate the other person's disposition. What might they say? What objections might they raise? How should he pivot, counter, or concede?
Shiratori Seiya had never once deluded himself into believing he was intellectually superior to others. He wasn't some genius protagonist blessed with preternatural wit and silver-tongued improvisation. Because of this, he obsessed over preparation. He aimed for ninety percent readiness at minimum. Ideally, one hundred percent.
After all, the real world—the adult world—wasn't a schoolyard. Society wouldn't cradle his mistakes with an indulgent, "There, there, you're still learning." Mistakes carried consequences. Heavy ones.
Today's meeting was with a producer from M TV, a man named Fujikawa Shunpei. Shiratori Seiya had only managed to secure this audience through the slender thread of a previous collaboration—he had once penned the theme song for a television drama the man had worked on. It was a connection, a door left slightly ajar, but nothing more.
An opportunity for a conversation. Nothing guaranteed. The outcome hinged entirely on how the next hour unfolded.
Ever since he had formally committed to cultivating Takahashi Mio's career, Shiratori Seiya had been meticulously mapping out their potential trajectory. The blueprint wasn't difficult to conceptualize; he simply needed to reference the template of his previous partnership with Hojo Shione, then adapt it to a different medium.
Back then, his dynamic with Shione had been that of a lyricist/composer and a singer. Applied to Takahashi Mio, the parallel was obvious: the relationship between a producer and an actress.
The logic was straightforward. In the world of television drama production, the initial, pivotal decision-maker—the person who set the entire machine in motion—was the producer.
The process, broadly speaking, flowed like this: A producer conceived an idea or fell in love with a particular script. They would then submit a formal proposal up the chain of command for approval—department heads, directors, the station's top brass. Once the green light was given, they would assemble a core team: selecting scriptwriters (if needed), directors, lead actors, and so on...
Of course, just as Takahashi Mio couldn't simply poof into existence as a seasoned, in-demand actress overnight, Shiratori Seiya understood he couldn't magically transform into a full-fledged producer with a snap of his fingers.
If he followed the orthodox, by-the-book path, his next step would be to enter a scriptwriting competition and win. But the timeline was brutal. From the submission deadline to the final announcement of winners, the process could consume an entire year. A full revolution of the Earth around the sun.
He couldn't afford to wait that long. Takahashi Mio's three-year countdown was already ticking, each second a precious, non-renewable resource. And beyond the simple drag of time, there were countless potential complications lurking along that path—unexpected delays, behind-the-scenes politics, simple bad luck.
Moreover, it would be the height of foolishness to ignore the connections he did have. Leveraging his existing relationship with Fujikawa Shunpei—fragile as it might be—to bypass the formalities, join a production team as a scriptwriter first, and then gradually ascend to a producer role based on the strength of subsequent works... that was the objectively more efficient route.
As Shiratori Seiya turned these calculations over in his mind, the coffee shop door swung open with a soft chime. A middle-aged man in a well-tailored but unremarkable business suit stepped inside, his eyes scanning the quiet interior. He approached the counter and exchanged a few quiet words with the waitress, who gestured toward the corner of the room.
Shiratori Seiya raised his hand in a subtle wave. The man's face registered recognition, and he returned the gesture with a warm, professional smile before making his way over.
Before he even reached the table, Fujikawa Shunpei was already speaking, his voice carrying a note of genuine apology.
"Ah, I'm terribly sorry, Sensei A! Have you been waiting long?"
"Not at all. I arrived a bit early myself."
"A-Sensei is as punctual as ever. Truly reliable."
Fujikawa Shunpei smiled, the expression crinkling the corners of his eyes. He pulled out the chair opposite Shiratori Seiya and settled into it with a small sigh of relief. Turning to the waitress who had followed him over, he ordered, "A cup of Decaf please. Thank you."
"Of course, sir. Right away."
As the waitress retreated beyond earshot, Fujikawa Shunpei turned his full attention to the young man seated before him. His gaze was complex—a mixture of professional assessment and something that looked almost like wistful envy. He shook his head slowly.
"Ahh... sometimes I really do envy you, A-Sensei . So young, and yet so staggeringly talented..."
He leaned back slightly, his tone turning conversational.
"Miss Hojo's new single is dropping soon, isn't it? And I've heard whispers about a solo concert in the works. She's really cementing her place in the industry now. Honestly..." He let out a low chuckle. "If I were a woman, I don't think I'd be able to resist the urge to marry you either."
Shiratori Seiya allowed a faint, self-deprecating smile to curve his lips. "You flatter me too much, Fujikawa-san. Those are just empty titles. Window dressing. My well of inspiration has long since run dry."
Fujikawa Shunpei's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. His voice dropped to a more confidential register.
"A-Sensei... I did hear about your retirement from songwriting. You might not realize this, but there are people out there—serious people in the industry—who say that a genius like you stepping away is a genuine, irreplaceable loss to Japanese music."
Shiratori Seiya accepted the words as what they almost certainly were: polite flattery. Social lubricant. He paid them little genuine mind.
The truth of the matter was far less romantic. The music industry's pie was only so large, and every slice claimed by one artist was a slice denied to another. His peers—those envious, ambitious souls scrabbling for their own footholds—were probably secretly thrilled at the news of his early retirement. One less titan to compete against.
He maintained his pleasant, neutral smile.
"Fujikawa-san, please don't tease me. I genuinely don't possess that level of ability anymore. That chapter is closed."
Sensing that Shiratori Seiya had firmly shut the door on further discussion of his musical past, Fujikawa Shunpei smoothly pivoted to the matter at hand. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table.
"Well then, perhaps it's acceptable for the music industry to suffer a small loss... if it means the literary world might gain a brilliant new star. I must admit, I'm genuinely looking forward to seeing this script you mentioned, A-Sensei ."
The words were polite, professional, and almost entirely performative. Shiratori Seiya recognized the ritual for what it was. Fujikawa Shunpei was here today primarily as a gesture of respect—a nod to their previous collaboration. A courtesy call.
If the script turned out to be amateurish drivel, the man would likely offer a few gentle, non-committal pointers, finish his coffee, and depart without a backward glance. The next time Shiratori Seiya requested a meeting, he'd be lucky to get past Fujikawa's assistant.
Understanding this unspoken reality perfectly, Shiratori Seiya simply nodded. He reached into his satchel and withdrew a modest stack of paper—a neatly bound manuscript.
"This is the script and accompanying plot outline I've been working on recently. I would be honored if you would take a look, Fujikawa-san. Please, correct any flaws you find."
"Mm."
Fujikawa Shunpei accepted the bundle with practiced ease. His gaze dropped first to the title page.
"The Kidnapper's Daughter."
A suspense crime drama. A popular, if crowded, genre.
His eyes drifted down to the writer's credit line, where the name "Suspect X" was printed in clean, unadorned font. A flicker of amusement danced in Fujikawa's expression.
"Heh. 'Suspect X,' is it? It seems I'll have to start calling you X-Sensei from now on."
Shiratori Seiya responded with a silent, enigmatic smile. Fujikawa Shunpei chuckled softly and turned his attention back to the pages.
He read the first half-page.
Then, his brow furrowed. The wrinkles on his forehead deepened, forming a character that looked remarkably like the kanji for 'river'—川. His reading pace slowed. He flipped back a page, cross-referencing something, then glanced up at Shiratori Seiya with a newly appraising look.
He hadn't expected much. Truly, he hadn't. But this...
The script was mature. Shockingly so. From the overarching narrative architecture to the granular details of scene structure and dialogue formatting, everything was meticulously organized. This didn't read like the fumbling first attempt of a novice. This read like the work of someone who understood the craft intimately.
Fujikawa Shunpei opened his mouth, then closed it again. His gaze lingered on the young man's calm, unreadable face. After a moment of visible hesitation, he asked a question that was less about curiosity and more about professional due diligence.
"A-Sensei... have you registered the copyright for this material yet?"
Shiratori Seiya understood the subtext immediately. The unspoken question: Did you actually write this? Is this truly your original work?
Without a flicker of offense, he pulled out his phone, navigated to a pre-loaded website interface, and placed the device on the table in front of Fujikawa Shunpei.
"I initiated the registration process two days ago. It hasn't been fully processed yet, as you can see."
In Japan, a script automatically enjoyed copyright protection from the very moment of its completion. Formal registration with the Tokyo office was merely a bureaucratic formality—a legal timestamp that typically took about a month to process. Shiratori Seiya had filed the paperwork the instant he had exchanged for the script within the System. He had anticipated this exact moment of scrutiny, preparing his defense in advance to silence any potential doubters.
Truthfully, Fujikawa Shunpei and his ilk didn't genuinely care who had physically typed the words onto the page. The origin story was irrelevant. All that mattered was that the material was legally unassailable and commercially viable—capable of generating profit without inviting a lawsuit. They were far too pragmatic to waste energy questioning the source of a golden goose.
"Ah, I see. Of course."
Fujikawa Shunpei's professional anxieties visibly settled. His shoulders relaxed, and a note of genuine admiration crept into his voice. "As expected of A-Sensei. Always so meticulous. Always so prepared."
Then, dismissing all remaining doubts, he returned his full attention to the manuscript.
Line by line. Page by page. Fujikawa Shunpei read with an intensity that gradually shut out the world around him. The ambient noise of the coffee shop—the hissing steam wand, the murmur of distant conversations, the soft clink of ceramic cups meeting saucers—faded into a distant, irrelevant hum. He was pulled under. Submerged in the world of the story.
About ten minutes later, he surfaced. Reluctantly. His expression was that of a man torn away from a compelling dream. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully with his fingertips, his eyes still tracing the final paragraphs he had just consumed. Then, he flipped back to the attached plot outline, scanning it with quick, hungry movements.
He looked up at Shiratori Seiya. The earlier professional detachment in his gaze had been replaced by a sharp, unmistakable spark of genuine interest.
"There's more, isn't there?" he asked, his voice carrying a new weight.
Shiratori Seiya allowed a small, measured smile to curve his lips.
"It's still being refined. But the script for the third episode should be ready by next week."
This was, of course, a calculated half-truth. The complete script for the entire drama—along with its accompanying original novel—was already secured in a locked drawer at his apartment. The reason he had brought only this carefully portioned sample was singular: to whet Fujikawa Shunpei's appetite. To dangle the hook. This, too, was a fundamental part of the negotiation dance.
"Ah."
Fujikawa Shunpei made a low, contemplative sound. He tapped the edge of the manuscript against the table, his thoughts visibly churning.
"I'll need to take this back and discuss the specifics thoroughly with my team, of course..."
Shiratori Seiya's script had blindsided him. Completely exceeded every expectation he'd walked through the door with.
The story's premise was deceptively simple, yet brilliantly executed. Twenty years ago, a shocking infant kidnapping case had rocked a prominent hospital. The kidnapper had demanded a ransom of one hundred million yen. However, during the ensuing police pursuit, the two primary suspects had perished in a catastrophic car accident. The investigation had slammed into a dead end, and the infant's whereabouts had dissolved into an enduring, haunting mystery.
Two decades later. Asakura Hiroko—the daughter of one of the deceased suspects, a man named Akio Kyujukyu—had managed to secure a position at the very same renowned newspaper that had originally covered the case. But her fragile new life was shattered when a scandal-hungry weekly magazine exposed her identity with the headline: "Kidnapper's Daughter Infiltrates Newspaper."
Public outrage erupted. A media firestorm ensued. To manage the PR catastrophe and restore its credibility, the newspaper made a bold decision: they would re-investigate the long-dormant cold case themselves. And as the layers of the past were peeled back, the hidden truths from that fateful year began to surface—one dark secret after another.
The plot was relentlessly tight, coiled with suspense. The narrative voice was steady, mature, and utterly confident. This wasn't the work of a hobbyist. This was the work of a craftsman.
"What kind of remuneration are you expecting, A-Sensei?"
Fujikawa Shunpei's question was tentative, probing. Testing the waters.
Shiratori Seiya waved his hand dismissively, a gesture of casual reassurance.
"Those details are all negotiable. We can discuss figures and percentages later. I'm not in a rush."
He paused. His expression sharpened, the easygoing demeanor solidifying into something more intent.
"However... I do have one request. A condition."
Fujikawa Shunpei's eyebrow arched. "Tell me."
"Give a friend of mine an audition opportunity. A real chance. That's all I ask."
"..."
Six o'clock in the evening. The final bell of the day rang through the corridors, a shrill announcement of liberation.
Takahashi Mio slumped back in her chair, exhaling a long, bone-weary sigh. Her body slid down several inches, her spine curving into a posture that would have made her posture-conscious mother weep.
After an entire day of relentless studying—lectures, notes, practice analyses—her brain had officially reached its maximum capacity. The little "Storage Full" warning light was blinking behind her eyes.
It was no exaggeration to say that she hadn't felt this level of comprehensive exhaustion even during the hellish final sprint of her university entrance exams. Back then, the pressure had been about a single, monumental goal. Now, it was the grinding, daily accumulation of knowledge across a dozen different vectors.
Her eyes stared blankly at the clock mounted above the blackboard, its hands moving with infuriating slowness. She only snapped out of her daze when she realized most of the classroom had emptied around her, the shuffle of departing students fading into silence.
With mechanical movements, she tidied the scattered books and notes on her desk, sliding them into her satchel. Just as she was about to rise and make her escape, a face surfaced unbidden in her mind.
Shiratori Seiya.
Her red lips pressed together in a thoughtful line. She fished out her phone and typed out a quick message. Have you eaten yet? Want to grab something together? My treat today.
She hit send.
The message indicator showed 'Delivered.' But it did not flip to 'Read.'
A small, unconscious frown creased her brow.
It had been like this for the past several days. He seemed especially busy—frustratingly, mysteriously busy. She rarely caught glimpses of him on campus anymore, and even her messages would languish in digital limbo for at least half an hour before receiving a brief, functional reply.
What exactly is he so busy with?
Busy... writing a script?
The memory of the notes she had glimpsed in his car that night—those densely packed pages on script structure and character development—surfaced in her thoughts. An involuntary smile tugged at the corners of her lips, soft and warm.
But the smile froze almost instantly, shattering like thin ice.
Could he be... with another girl right now?
The faces of Hojo Shione and Hasegawa Saori cycled through her mind's eye like a carousel of anxiety.
Setting aside Hasegawa Saori for the moment, Hojo Shione had been conspicuously, unnervingly silent ever since their last exchange of messages. Takahashi Mio didn't know if the idol was still reeling from the fallout of the Saori incident, or if she was simply consumed with preparations for next month's highly anticipated concert.
After a moment's internal debate, curiosity and a prickly, undefined unease won out. She decided to probe. Tentatively. She would ask Hojo Shione what was going on—just a casual check-in. Nothing obvious.
But just as her thumb hovered over Hojo Shione's chat window, the entire screen of her phone transformed. An incoming call.
The display read: "Mom."
Takahashi Mio blinked, momentarily stunned. Then, a jolt of panicked realization shot through her. She fumbled and quickly hit the answer button, pressing the phone to her ear.
Normally, she was religious about calling home twice a week. A sacred ritual. But now? It had been almost an entire month. So much chaos had erupted in her life recently—the training, the confrontations, the emotional whiplash—that the simple, routine act of calling her mother had completely slipped through the cracks of her overwhelmed brain.
"Hello? Mom?"
There was a beat of silence on the other end of the line. A heavy, pointed silence. Takahashi Mio blinked and pulled the phone away from her ear to check the screen, confirming the call was still connected.
"Mom? Are you there?"
"I thought you had vanished off the face of the Earth."
Her mother's voice finally came through, laced with a potent mixture of resentment and relief. Takahashi Mio bit her lip, an awkward, guilty laugh escaping her.
"Ahh... Mom, I'm so sorry! I've just been incredibly busy lately. It totally slipped my mind to call you back..."
"You were never this busy before, Mio."
Mrs. Takahashi's speaking pace was characteristically slow and measured. Even when colored with complaint, her voice retained a fundamental gentleness, like a soft, worn-in blanket.
"That's precisely why I'm saying this, dear. Even when you're busy, you need to call home. Living alone puts so much pressure on a person, and if you don't tell your mother about it, all that stress will just pile up in your heart. That's not healthy."
A pause. Then, the inevitable question.
"Do you still have enough money? You hardly worked any part-time jobs during high school. Now you're juggling university studies and work. Are you exhausted? Be honest with me."
Hearing those words—so simple, so imbued with unconditional concern—a sharp, sudden ache pierced Takahashi Mio's chest. Hot tears immediately welled up in her eyes, blurring the empty classroom around her. She bit down hard on her lip, drawing a shaky breath, and forced a cheerful lilt into her voice.
"I'm sorry, Mom. Really. I'm doing fine. Everything's okay."
"Sigh... Don't I know whether you're actually doing well or not? Without anyone there to look after you properly, you probably just eat convenience store bento boxes every single day, don't you? Your father and I have been so worried about you. So worried, in fact, that we specifically asked your cousin to go and check on you..."
The first half of her mother's sentence washed over Takahashi Mio like a warm wave. She was deeply, genuinely touched. The tears trembled on the verge of spilling over.
Then, the second half of the sentence registered.
Her heart didn't just sink. It plummeted into a frozen abyss. The tears retreated instantly, flash-frozen by sheer, undiluted panic. Her eyes flew wide open.
"Cousin?! She's coming to see me?! Here?!"
"Yes, dear. You hadn't called in so long, we were beside ourselves with worry. Your father and I specifically reached out to your uncle, and he arranged for her to—"
"When?!"
Takahashi Mio didn't wait for her mother to finish. She was already moving, slinging her satchel over her shoulder and bursting out of the classroom at a dead sprint. Her voice was sharp with barely contained hysteria.
"When exactly is she coming to find me?!"
Even without seeing her daughter's face, Mrs. Takahashi could clearly sense the sudden, inexplicable anxiety radiating through the phone. Her voice took on a note of confusion.
"What's wrong, Mio? She said she was coming tonight. She should be arriving any minute now, actually..."
Hearing those words, Takahashi Mio's expression crumpled into a mask of pure, unfiltered agony. She bit the tip of her tongue, the sharp sting grounding her spiraling thoughts.
"I understand. I'll call you back as soon as I get home."
And with that, she hung up before her mother could utter another syllable. She shoved the phone into her pocket and ran. She ran with the desperate, lung-burning velocity she reserved exclusively for the most dreaded physical fitness tests of her youth.
Kuso... kuso, kuso, KUSO! *Kuso-Shit/Damn/Fuck
If she finds out... it's all over! Everything is over!