"Do you want to smoke, future superstar?"
Masaya Kaburagi offered the cigarette from his pack, a gesture that was less about the nicotine and more about the unspoken ritual.
When an older man in this business offers you one, it's a signal—the prelude to a conversation that's going to be raw, transactional, and steeped in that particular brand of masculine toxicity.
It's never just a cigarette. It's an invitation to talk where the smoke can hide your expressions and the shared vice can fake camaraderie.
I accepted without hesitation, taking the proffered cigarette and letting him light it for me.
The first drag was sharp, chemical, grounding.
"So," I said, exhaling a slow stream of smoke between us. "What do you want to talk about, Director?"
He mirrored me, taking a long pull before answering, his eyes calculating behind the haze. "Well. It seems you're adapting fast to how things work in this industry. Good."
"Because after the bomb you dropped—that little phenomenon you stirred up—people at the top have started talking. They can smell value."
"I'm looking out for you, so I brought the best offer to the table first. There's a woman. Old money. High position. She's… intensely interested in you. Would you be open to a conversation?"
He chuckled, a low, knowing sound, as if he'd just handed me a winning lottery ticket.
Then we just stood there, smoking in silence, the offer hanging in the air like the smoke between us—potent, suffocating, and waiting for a reaction.
After a few long moments, I finally spoke, my voice flat. "If she wants to talk about me singing on stage, or about the copyright to that song, I have to disappoint you, Director Kaburagi. I've already sold it."
His relaxed posture stiffened.
He furrowed his brows, and his eyes flashed with something sharp—not quite anger, but a frustrated, proprietary disappointment. Like he'd caught me burning money.
"Why?" The word was clipped, demanding an explanation for what he saw as sheer stupidity.
"Because everyone wanted it," I stated bluntly, holding his gaze through the smoke. "They don't just want the song. They want to turn me into their brand. Then into their obedient boy scout."
"And if I still held the rights and refused? They'd find a way to blacklist me for 'not knowing what's good for me.' They've done it before. They did it to Arima Kana. They did it to Ai. You knew her, Director. You know I'm not lying."
I took another drag, letting the truth settle like ash.
"And even if this woman of yours doesn't play that game, the people behind her will. You're talking about old money. That means she's likely still solidifying her own position, which makes her dangerous."
"Her world is a chessboard of capital and political favors. I'm not stepping onto that board right now. It's a quick way to become a pawn, or worse, collateral damage."
"Oh, for god's sake, lad," Kaburagi sighed, slapping his own forehead in theatrical exasperation. "I don't know what you've been through, but it's never that cutthroat."
"You form a temporary contract. You use her resources, her reach. Fame first, power later. That's the rule of the industry—it should be obvious to someone as sharp as you. You're leaving leverage on the table."
I didn't bother arguing the point further.
Instead, I crushed the spent cigarette under my heel and delivered my final line, clean and definitive.
"If she's serious about cooperation, she can reach out to Director Gotanda. He's my patron. My teacher. All roads to me go through him."
I left the words—and the unlit second cigarette he might have offered—hanging in the stagnant air between us.
The message was clear: I wasn't a free agent to be brokered.
I had my own gatekeeper, and it wasn't him.
Inside my head, Tsukuyomi's voice was a dark, approving chuckle. "Yes. That's it, Aqua. Never walk into the trap. Don't act like some desperate, wide-eyed actor drooling over old money and their empty promises of fame, cash, and power. Promises are just air."
"You bypassed the whole discussion about contracts, copyright, and a personal meeting. Instead, you made her wait."
"You forced her to talk to your representative. You sent a clear message to her and every vulture circling behind her: if they want something from you, they ask for permission first. And they'll pay for it with their own flesh and blood. A brilliant power play. I am proud of you."
Masaya Kaburagi let out a long, slow sigh that reeked of genuine regret—or at least a convincing performance of it. "What a pity, then. I'll let her know."
But in the next instant, that regretful expression vanished from his face as if it had never been there.
He flicked the remains of his cigarette away with a sharp, dismissive motion. "Anyway. You've fulfilled your contract. We're more than satisfied with the ratings and the fame the show has garnered, kid."
"Which reminds me… I did promise you information. About that boy—the one that girl… Ai… yes, her. The boy she met back then…"
"No need, Director." I cut him off cleanly, my voice leaving no room for negotiation. "I already have my answer."
He blinked, a flicker of genuine surprise breaking through his polished demeanor. "Huh? You know? Well, whatever. A debt is a debt, and a favor is a favor. You did me a solid by making this show a success. The sponsors are happy. So, what do you want, kid? Name it."
"I sold the copyright to Arima Kana," I stated, watching his face closely. "She will be my representative. The forefront singer. Make her famous, Director. And make sure no agency, no backroom deal, no one touches her. She climbs clean."
He immediately put on a troubled look, the kind of practiced concern men like him use when they're about to list why something is impossible. "It's not that simple. She can't just smoothly climb to the top without backing, without a proper contract. Her track record is… shaky. One film after a long hiatus, and that film wasn't exactly a masterpiece. The industry has a memory, and it's not a forgiving one."
He paused, stroking his chin as if the idea had just occurred to him—though I knew it was calculated. "That said… I might be able to arrange something. But it wouldn't be up to me. This would depend entirely on the First Lady of the Yukinoshita Family."
"There's a new film in the early planning stages—a big project by some very connected people. Whether Arima Kana gets a role, whether she even gets considered, hinges on whether the Lady accepts her."
I kept my expression neutral, but my focus sharpened. "So, what film is this?"
"I don't know," he shrugged, the gesture deliberately casual, but his eyes were sharp, watching for my reaction. "A lot of geniuses in the industry have already submitted scripts to them. But none have passed muster with the Yukinoshita Family. They're not just looking for entertainment—they're looking for a public image campaign."
"They want to be portrayed as authentic, benevolent, close to the people… all without coming off as hypocrites or deliberate. It's a tightrope walk. Well, I suppose that's politics for you."
Inside my mind, the Loli Goddess's voice chimed in, bright and opportunistic. "Good opening, Aqua. I know their future script. Why not show them something they can't refuse? Use this."
"Don't tell me that family also has one of my so-called soulmates," I thought back, rolling my eyes inwardly. "You aren't stopping me from walking straight into political territory. It's almost as if you already know I'll come out on top—that I hold a kind of leverage they can't even see."
She let out a light, knowing laugh. "Maybe… maybe not. Maybe more than one. Who knows, Aqua? Go. Use them. They're the dominant family in Chiba. There's no downside to selling them the right script."
I turned my attention back to Kaburagi, my decision made. "I want to meet with them, Director. Arrange it. After that, we're even."
A slow, satisfied nod. "Yes. We'll be even. I'll arrange a time. And be respectful when you meet the First Young Lady. She isn't just a client—she's also the boss and the biggest sponsor behind this show."
His tone carried a clear warning: this wasn't just a creative meeting; it was an audience with a benefactor.
He was already pulling out his phone, his attention shifting to the call he was about to make.
I didn't wait around to overhear the conversation. I turned and left the restaurant, stepping out into the night.
The city lights blurred around me as I melted into the shadows, the cool air a welcome contrast to the smoky, transactional atmosphere inside.
Tomorrow was a new day.
And with it would come a new kind of game—one played not on a soundstage, but in drawing rooms where power wore the mask of patronage.
I welcomed it.
The darkness outside felt less like an end and more like the quiet before a different kind of performance.
...
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