Summary of Her Case
The more Akane talked, the clearer the picture became—and it was the same ugly portrait I'd seen painted a hundred times before in this industry.
The higher-ups who ran the agencies, the producers who pulled the strings, they didn't care about art.
They didn't care about craft. They cared about one thing and one thing only: hype.
The kind that generates buzz, that trends on social media, that fills their pockets with sponsor money and advertising revenue.
Every genuine actor, every real actress who actually loved this industry—who breathed it, bled for it, who saw acting as something sacred—got crushed under that very system they'd sacrificed everything to climb.
It's a cautionary tale as old as entertainment itself. Not everything about the film industry is bright lights and sunshine and standing ovations.
That truth has been told again and again, in a thousand different ways, for who knows how many decades.
Yet people still jump into it.
I jumped into it.
Akane jumped into it.
Even Ruby, my own sister, yearns for that tiny sliver of light on the brightest stage, blind to the shadows swallowing everyone around it.
Akane's situation was depressingly specific.
Her actual manager?
The one who handled her career logistics, who negotiated contracts and managed schedules?
He was fine.
Decent, even.
He had no problem with her using this dating show as a platform to grow, to occasionally show her face on television and build a little fame, a little recognition.
Slow and steady.
The smart way.
But her president?
That was a different beast entirely.
Her president was the kind of entitled parasite that infested this industry like cockroaches in old studio walls.
The kind who genuinely believed that because they signed a few checks and made a few phone calls, they owned their actresses.
That the talent under their thumb was property, not people. They felt that they'd thrown huge amounts of money and sponsorship weight behind getting her on this show—and therefore, she owed them results.
Immediate results.
Instead of being understanding like her manager, her Agency President had given her one simple, crushing directive: do whatever it takes.
Any means necessary.
Steal the show.
Become the brightest star on that stage, even if you have to claw your way over everyone else to get there.
That's why she'd looked so desperate during our filming.
That's why she kept forcing herself into every conversation, every interaction, every camera frame.
She wasn't being genuine—she was following orders.
Trying so hard it hurt to watch.
What a farce.
Here's the thing: I already knew the truth about this show.
I'd done my research, made my connections.
Getting on this program didn't require massive effort or mountains of money. It required one thing and one thing only: the green light from Director Kaburagi.
That was it. If he liked your face, if you had decent acting skill and didn't trip over your own feet in front of a camera, you were in.
The director's requirements for this dating show were brutally simple—pretty faces and handsome ones with enough talent to fake chemistry.
That was the whole price of admission.
But her agency had spun it differently to her.
They'd exaggerated, dramatized, made her believe they'd torn flesh from bone, spilled blood and treasure just to get her a seat at this table.
They'd made her feel indebted, obligated, owned.
And for someone like me, who knew the truth? Who had the connections, who understood exactly how little it actually cost?
Honestly?
I wanted to punch something.
Preferably the face of the piece of shit who'd done this to her.
Because here's the thing about garbage like that President—they're not just bad at their jobs. They're not just incompetent or greedy. They're poison. They know nothing about art.
They've never once in their miserable lives understood what it means to create something real, something that touches people.
All they understand is spreadsheets and bottom lines.
And in their relentless pursuit of profit, they're slowly strangling the very industry they claim to love, choking it to death with mediocrity and manufactured hype.
I get it when someone with genuine skill rises to the top. I respect it, even when I don't like the person.
Director Kaburagi, for all my personal feelings about him? I acknowledge his connections, his talent, his decades of experience.
He earned his place.
But this President?
I have nothing to relate to. Nothing to understand. I don't know his face, don't know his name, don't care to learn either.
All I know is he's garbage.
Pure, unadulterated garbage.
And Akane deserved better than being someone's trash compactor.
"That's a lie, actually. A deadly lie. But a lie, nonetheless."
I told her the truth bluntly, watching confusion ripple across her features as I continued. "Anyone who has a connection to Director Kaburagi and at least meets his standards for looks and acting ability can basically enter this show. That's it. That's the whole secret. Arima Kana herself was offered this opportunity previously—she turned it down for her own reasons, but the offer was there."
Akane's eyes widened, processing this new information, the foundation of her belief cracking beneath her.
"Now," I pressed on, relentless but not cruel, "you also made the right moves to please your agency, even if those moves turned out disastrous for your mental state. Your immediate manager might be fine—he might even protect you if things go sideways. But the one above him? The one actually in charge of your career trajectory?"
I let the pause hang heavy in the air between us. "He may very well sabotage you because he's already decided you're a waste of his precious resources. That's the cold truth of agencies, Akane. They're predatory by nature. They'll promote you, commercialize your talent, make you big—but they'll also demand everything in return. Most of your time. Most of your money. Most of your self."
Akane slumped in her seat, the fight draining out of her body like someone had pulled a plug.
Her shoulders curved inward, making her look smaller, younger, more vulnerable.
When she looked up at me, her eyes were glassy, tears threatening to spill but not yet falling.
"So what should I do, Aqua-kun?" Her voice was barely a whisper, stripped of all pretense. "What can I do?"
I met her gaze without flinching. "Quit. Seek out a better agency before you make it big and they have too much leverage over you."
I held up a hand before she could protest. "But they're also right about one thing—you need to give this show your best effort. It's a platform, and platforms matter. We'll help you. I'll explain the situation to Mem-cho and the others—if you don't mind me sharing, of course. You won't have to carry this alone."
Akane fell silent.
The seconds stretched, each one heavy with the weight of her decision.
When she finally spoke, her voice was steadier, but the uncertainty hadn't fully left.
"You're right, Aqua-kun. I do have enough savings to walk away. But where would I even go?" She shook her head slowly, a bitter smile touching her lips.
"The agency I joined... it seemed respectable. That's why I chose it. That's why my parents allowed it—because their reputation was solid, because they seemed like the safe choice. If I quit now, what guarantee do I have that the next agency won't be just as predatory? Just as willing to chew me up and spit me out?"
I understood.
This was the eternal dilemma of actors and actresses in this industry.
You search your whole career for an agency that prioritizes your interests over their bottom line, that sees you as a human being instead of a revenue stream.
And you almost never find one.
Because the system isn't designed for artists to win—it's designed for them to be consumed.
I stared at her a beat longer than I intended, something shifting behind my eyes. "Do you trust me?"
She looked at me nervously, caught off guard by the intensity of the question. "I... I don't know, Aqua-kun. I think I do? I think I want to?"
"That's not trust," I said gently. "That's hope dressed up as trust. And hope is dangerous when you're making life-altering decisions."
I leaned back, giving her space. "Stay where you are for now. Don't make any drastic moves until you're certain—until you actually trust me, not just want to. For now, take a deep breath. Let go of the tension in your shoulders. We're going to head to the set, and we're going to talk this out with Mem-cho and everyone there. Believe me when I say they'll help you too. You're not alone in this anymore."
She took that deep breath, shaky at first, then deeper. Her shoulders dropped incrementally.
"I trust you, Aqua-kun."
This time, the words came stronger.
More certain.
Like she'd made a decision somewhere in that silence and committed to it.
I nodded once, sharply.
Then I reached out and took her hand—not romantically, not possessively, but firmly.
Anchoring.
Guiding.
I led her toward the door and out of Director Gotanda's house, pulling out my phone to call a taxi as we stood on the quiet morning street.
The sun was fully up now. The city was waking.
And we were heading back into the ridiculous circus of that dating show, armed with the truth and, hopefully, each other.
...
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