"For the record," George said, "Kate and I were never even legally married. No certificate, nothing. And I never updated my will. Which means she won't get a single cent of my estate."
"Oh…" Inoue muttered.
"That's why I want you to guide her talent. Think of this as another request."
"Talent? What talent…?"
"You know, don't you? Kate may have the looks, but her acting has always been poor."
"Uh… yes…"
Poor was an understatement. Kate was infamous in Hollywood as a beautiful but wooden actress, a symbol of bad acting. Recently, she hadn't even been cast in anything. And now this ghost was asking him to fix her acting? It made no sense.
"Wait a second. Do you even know what I do?" Inoue asked.
"Aspiring film director," George replied without hesitation.
"…How do you know that?"
"You find out certain things when you die. And another thing—when you're dead, you can pass on your abilities to someone else."
"…Wow."
It sounded absurd, but what could Inoue say? George Bradley had appeared before him even after death. If that was possible, then maybe this, too, was true.
"Well… fine. I don't know about much else, but if there's one thing I'm good at, it's keeping promises. First, I'll find your hidden treasure and split it with Kate. Correct?"
"Not all at once," George warned.
"Huh?"
"If she starts spending openly, she'll attract the flies. Always people sniffing around when money's in play. Best she doesn't even know the treasure exists."
"Ah… got it. Okay. Second promise: help Kate find her acting talent?"
"That's right. I'm counting on you."
Inoue had no confidence in that one. If a legendary director like George Bradley hadn't been able to fix her acting, what chance did he have? But George looked relieved just hearing the words.
Guess I should at least say it, so he can leave in peace…
George chuckled and finally revealed the location of his secret.
"You know the bed you and Kate made love on? There's a safe beneath it."
"Ah—yes, thank you. But the passcode…?"
George smirked. "Orgasm."
"…Ha…"
Inoue groaned inwardly.
What a lecherous old man.
But outwardly he forced a grateful smile.
George gave a weary sigh, as if closing the chapter of his life.
"Well… it's time. And you know, I'm thankful to you. Because of you, my last moments on earth were ecstatic."
Right until the end, he was a strange, perverse old man.
"No, sir. Thank you."
"Take care. And please… take care of Kate."
"Yes, sir. Then rest in—"
Before he could finish, George vanished before his eyes.
Inoue sat frozen. It felt like a dream, but it wasn't—he hadn't fallen asleep or woken up.
Then… have I gone insane?
It didn't feel real: George's death, the gifts he claimed to leave behind, the promise of treasure. Too absurd.
"How can I be sure…? News! It might be on the news!"
He scrambled for the TV and flipped it on. Local channels sometimes carried breaking updates. And this wasn't just any man—it was one of the world's most famous directors. If he had died, surely it would be headline news.
Nervously switching channels, he finally landed on a local station. "Breaking News" flashed across the screen as the anchor spoke gravely:
"We bring you shocking news. World-renowned film director George Bradley was found dead early this morning at his Los Angeles residence."
Inoue's eyes went wide.
"What?! It's real!"
He leaned closer, turning the volume up.
"Initial reports suggest a heart attack," the anchor continued, "but the exact cause is still under investigation. Hollywood has been rocked by the sudden passing of such a towering figure."
The screen showed photos of George Bradley alongside clips of his most famous works.
"His wife, actress Kate Bretzel, has yet to release an official statement," the anchor added.
Inoue sat stunned, unable to close his mouth. He needed time to absorb that everything he had just experienced was, in fact, reality.
And then—he noticed something strange.
"Wait… I'm understanding everything in English?"
How?
He realized he had followed the TV broadcast flawlessly. Just this morning, during his night with Kate, he had struggled to catch even half her words. And now he was understanding English perfectly.
George's words echoed back in his mind: When you die, you can pass your talents on to someone else.
"Could it be…?"
Maybe along with film sense, George had passed on his language ability too.
Well, if I'm going to direct in Hollywood, I'll need to talk to actors clearly…
Inoue's chest began to thump with excitement. He tested it out, speaking carefully in English.
"Hello, my name is Inoue Tachibana, a director from Japan. My latest film is an homage to the esteemed George Bradley, whom I deeply respect."
Surprisingly, fluent words and clear pronunciation flowed from his mouth. It was as if he had been speaking English his entire life.
"This… this actually works…"
Inoue tried to calm his excitement, but the truth was undeniable: everything George Bradley's spirit had told him was real.
And of course, thoughts of the hidden treasure flashed through his mind.
Suddenly, laughter burst out of him.
"Heaven finally acknowledges how much I've suffered! I'm rich! Hahaha!"
He hurriedly threw on his clothes and rushed outside. He couldn't waste time—not when someone might move the bed and stumble across the safe before he did.
"Should I grab a taxi?"
He had no money, but his trademark recklessness kicked in. He went straight to the Japanese motel owner and asked to borrow some.
"What?"
The owner, a woman in her early forties with a sultry smile, gave him a curious look. Her eyes hinted at something more than refusal.
"When will you pay me back?" she asked.
Sensing opportunity, Inoue answered quickly, "Tonight. I'll even leave my passport as collateral."
"And if you don't?"
There was something in her tone, as though she expected another kind of offer. Inoue blurted out, half-jokingly, "Then I'll work it off with my body."
"Oooh~ good answer." She chuckled, playing along with his joke.
He could have teased further, but time was too precious. Taking the cash, he dashed out and hailed a taxi, giving George Bradley's address.
After a long drive, the sprawling mansion came into view—majestic even in daylight.
"Wow… I didn't realize it was this massive when I saw it before dawn."
But the moment he stepped out of the cab, a new problem struck him: how would he even get inside?
"Damn it… everyone's probably at the mortuary right now."
The news earlier had shown George's house, followed by footage from a hospital morgue. Which meant no one would be there to open the gates for him. His only option might be sneaking in like a thief.
He spotted a CCTV camera and swallowed nervously.
"Well… to hell with it."
But just as he braced himself, the gates creaked open.
A woman stepped out.
"…!"
It was Kate Bretzel, dressed all in black. Was she preparing for a funeral? He couldn't be sure.
She noticed him instantly, frowned, and walked closer.
"What are you doing here?"
"…Pardon?"
"Why are you here? Don't tell me—you came expecting something from me?"
She seemed to suspect he was there to demand money.
Inoue quickly waved his hands.
"No, no! Absolutely not!"
Even as he denied it, he couldn't help reacting to her voluptuous figure. Last night's memory—the wall of passion they had built together—returned vividly, and his body betrayed him.
Glancing down, he realized with horror that his track pants were bulging noticeably.
When he looked up again, Kate's eyes had also drifted downward.
Mortified, Inoue clutched both hands in front of him, trying to cover himself.
"Come inside," Kate said suddenly.
"…What?"
"Inside. Quickly. You never know when paparazzi might be lurking."
She glanced around before turning back toward the mansion. Inoue followed, walking the long stretch from the gate to the main doors.
"This place is even bigger than I thought…" he muttered.
Trailing behind, he found even the swaying strands of her golden hair unbearably alluring. Treasure was on his mind—but so was she.
I want her again.
He shook his head hard, chasing the thought away.
After passing a swimming pool, they entered the mansion. Despite the daylight, the interior lights were on. Every window was shrouded with heavy curtains, likely to shield against paparazzi.
So luxurious…
The opulence overwhelmed him again—pristine floors, lavish furnishings, not a speck of dust. Only one imperfection caught his eye: several large suitcases stacked near the bedroom where he and Kate had been together the night before.
Without thinking, he asked, "Are you going somewhere?"
"That's none of your business. More importantly, I asked first—why are you here?"
Time to use the lie he had prepared.
"George told me often: if anything ever happened to him, I was to look after you."
Kate froze mid-step, turning to face him.
"…What did you just say?"
"I knew George," he insisted. "We were close."
Her eyes hardened, disbelief written across her face. She looked at him as though he were insane.
And then—
Suddenly, an image burst into Inoue's mind. Not his own memory, but someone else's—clear, sharp, like a scene from a film.
He blinked, stunned, then spoke with newfound certainty.
"Do you remember your thirty-third birthday? The gift George gave you? A screenplay—written just for you. That night he opened a bottle of champagne and said, 'This is for the most beautiful actress of my life.'"
Kate's face went pale. Her lips trembled.