"Any ideas of directing this script yourself, Aqua-kun? You seem to have a real talent for writing—and I can see the ambition behind it just by the fact you're simultaneously drafting the script for Sword Art Online. I don't believe being 'just a scriptwriter' is the limit of your ambition."
Haruno Yukinoshita's voice cut through the quiet of the private lounge.
She had just closed the bound script in her hands, setting it down on the polished mahogany table with a soft, deliberate thud.
When she looked up at me, her gaze wasn't just assessing—it was penetrating, a cool, analytical scrutiny that held a faint, unmistakable spark of interest.
She wasn't making conversation.
She was making an offer.
"Even if you agreed," I rolled my eyes, a lazy, half-joking smirk playing on my lips, "would your mother? This isn't exactly a small decision."
"She will. I oversee this entire project." Haruno's reply was immediate, her tone leaving no room for doubt.
She leaned forward slightly, the ambient light catching the sharp line of her cheekbone.
"I won't pretend to understand why she's placed this level of trust in me so suddenly, but the reality is this: we don't lack funds. What we lack is genius. What we lack is someone who can grant us more than profit—someone who can earn us fame and genuine recognition within the elite circles."
"This script," she said, her fingertips resting lightly on the manuscript, "can deliver both. It's a guaranteed entry into this industry on our own terms, not as dilettantes to be exploited by half-baked writers who see us as nothing but a money-printing machine."
Her words hung in the air, stark and serious. This wasn't a vanity project for her. It was a calculated move for legitimacy.
Beside me, Arima Kana shifted subtly.
She leaned in, her voice a hushed, urgent whisper near my ear, warm with concern and excitement. "Aqua-kun… she's serious. This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance. To direct your own script… to be the director. Should you take it?"
I let out a low, quiet chuckle, meant only for her. "I could, Kana. Technically, I could."
My eyes flicked back toward Haruno, who waited, poised and patient. "But look at her. Look at the trust in her eyes. It's not just an offer—it's an investment. I'd only accept if I were confident I could command the set, control the vision, and own the process."
I shook my head slowly, the reality of my position settling like a weight. "But I have no connections. No crew of my own. The actors and actresses in this industry have no reason to respect a newcomer, no matter how good the script is. Right now, I'm nothing but 'the singer guy' with a decent reputation. That's not enough to steer a ship this big."
I turned my full attention back to Haruno Yukinoshita, meeting her scrutinizing gaze with one of my own—just as serious, just as direct.
"I'm sorry, Lady Yukinoshita. For the stability of the project, and for a much stronger final product, I believe you should place this in the hands of a more experienced director."
Haruno studied me for a long, silent moment.
Then she sighed, a soft exhalation that held less disappointment and more a kind of resigned pity. "I see. Very well. Do you have a recommendation, then, Aqua-kun?"
"I do." The name came without hesitation. "Masaya Kaburagi. He's a trustworthy man in this specific context. Is he shady in his personal relationships? Predatory, even? Absolutely. But in business?"
I paused, ensuring the distinction was clear. "In business, he is ruthlessly pragmatic. He will prioritize sponsors and manage behind-the-scenes opinions above all else. He won't let ego cloud the project's commercial viability. For this script, and for your goals… he is the perfect partner."
A soft, knowing smile touched Haruno Yukinoshita's lips. "You have sharp eyes, Aqua-kun. I hope you succeed with your Sword Art Online movie. Truly. And I look forward to more cooperation between us in the future."
"The pleasure is mine, Miss Yukinoshita," I replied, returning her smile as I reached across the table.
We shook hands.
Her grip was firm, cool, and final—a seal not just on a declined offer, but on the beginning of a different kind of understanding.
The loli goddess's voice chimed in my mind, a mischievous ripple in my consciousness. "Aqua-kun, it seems we need a pokéball, doesn't it? Gotta catch 'em all, right~?"
I ignored the naughty loli's teasing entirely, pushing her amusement to the quietest corner of my thoughts as I refocused on the conversation at hand.
The real negotiation was just beginning.
"Since I've already promised that Arima Kana will have a role in My Youth Romantic Comedy Is Wrong, As I Expected," Haruno began, her tone shifting to the practical, "which character do you believe would best suit her potential?"
I didn't need to think long. "Ebina Hina. Kana has a natural, expressive warmth and a sharp comedic timing that's layered with genuine empathy. She wouldn't just play Ebina—she would unlock her. She could bring out the character's hidden depths, the genuine care beneath the fujoshi theatrics. It's a role where she could showcase her full range."
Haruno didn't comment, simply absorbing the assessment before posing her next, more pointed question. "And Yukino? Any recommendations there?"
I met her gaze steadily. "Your sister would be the ideal choice, Miss Yukinoshita. And you could play the older sister, Haruno. It would be… authentic. It would show the world you're not just another out-of-touch elite hiding behind a brand, but a real person with real family dynamics. That kind of authenticity is priceless."
A faint, intrigued gleam flickered in Haruno's eyes.
"An interesting perspective. We shall see," she said, neither confirming nor refusing, her diplomatic evasion perfectly polished.
Her attention then shifted fully to Arima Kana beside me. "May she stay? I'd like to discuss her role in more detail."
I nodded my consent.
With that, our business was effectively settled—a deal cemented not with a signature yet, but with a clear, mutual understanding.
I didn't linger.
A prior commitment was waiting: the dating show set, where Director Kaburagi was still filming.
A contract was a contract, after all. Even though Kaburagi had given me the green light to leave early and skip the full runtime, I had no intention of doing so.
Walking out early would brand me as an arrogant, out-of-touch upstart.
Showing up, staying through the grind, sweating under the same lights—that's how you build real connections.
That's how you show everyone, from the sound technician to the lead producer, that you're someone who fights in the trenches alongside them.
The moment I stepped back onto the familiar set, the atmosphere shifted.
"Aqua-kun, we are on fire!" Mem-cho chirped, bouncing over with her phone thrust toward me. Her screen was a blur of notifications. "Look! All my fans are flooding my official accounts! They want your content, they want updates—they want to support you!"
Her closeness was overwhelming, a torrent of affectionate energy that would short-circuit any innocent, androscendent boy who'd never dated.
No wonder the two other male on the show seemed to orbit her nervously but never dared to close the distance.
I could see it clearly now—they were virgins, lacking the confidence to match Mem-cho's relentless, affectionate pace.
Yuki Sumi joined in with a softer, but no less eager, smile. "My classmates are all asking for your autograph too, Aqua-kun. I hope you don't mind."
Even Akane, who had been quietly observing, added her voice, calm but sincere. "I would like one as well, Aqua-kun."
The two guys—the very ones I'd just psychoanalyzed—grinned and clapped me on the shoulder as if I were a returning war hero. "Welcome back, brother! Looks like you had a good vacation."
Their seamless adjustment was impressive.
In the span of a breath, they'd recalibrated, matching my energy, absorbing my sudden re-entry into the show's ecosystem without a single misstep.
No wonder they've survived in this industry, I thought.
They know how to read a room and pivot instantly.
I grinned back, summoning what I hoped was a genuinely friendly, approachable smile—a tool I was still honing.
"Yeah," I said, my voice carrying across the set. "I'm back."
And just like that, the filming resumed.
But the dynamics had irrevocably changed.
This time, I wasn't just a participant; I was the gravitational center.
The cameras, the conversations, the subtle glances—they all orbited around me.
Mem-cho and Yuki Sumi, smiling and laughing, began a silent, fierce competition for proximity and attention, their rivalry masked perfectly beneath the bright, bubbly facade of the show.
Watching it unfold, a dry, amused thought surfaced.
What a youth…
...
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