Chapter 33: The Troublesome Apprentice
"If there's nothing else to revise, I'll submit it directly to the review department," Murakami Iori said, clicking off the TV with the remote. She turned to her two colleagues from the creative team, her expression grave.
Chihara Rinto shook his head, signaling he had no objections. Besides, the question wasn't really directed at him. Under the production bureau system, the final editing rights rested firmly in the hands of the producer. A director with enough seniority might be able to push for some control, but a screenwriter like him? Practically powerless.
The real question was aimed at Fujii Arima, the director. And since Fujii had already been involved in the editing process, he naturally didn't have any major concerns. He replied casually, "You've done great work, Murakami-san. Let's send it in for review."
Murakami nodded, ejecting the videotape and locking it into a small case she carried by her side. Instead of leaving immediately, she sat down at the table and hesitated before asking, "Do you think... do you think the ratings will be good? Will people like it?"
Neither Fujii nor Chihara responded. Murakami didn't press further. The room fell silent, heavy as a tomb.
From a professional standpoint, the film was undeniably high-quality—far surpassing the usual late-night drama standards. But the problem was that audiences weren't professionals. Their tastes varied wildly, and whether they'd enjoy it or not was anyone's guess.
Even Chihara Rinto, who had traveled through time and space to land here, couldn't predict the outcome. Sure, the movie was well-made—the cinematography solid, the music decent, and the theme song passable (though budget constraints meant they couldn't afford a top-tier singer). In his opinion, this version surpassed the original. But would the ratings reflect that? Who knew how such drastic changes would resonate with viewers?
Would they watch eagerly, or scoff in disdain?
Impossible to say.
After a long pause, Fujii pulled out a pack of cigarettes, offering one to Chihara. He hesitated before deciding whether to extend the same courtesy to Murakami, but she reached out first, taking both the cigarette and the lighter. With clumsy motions, she lit it up, first handing the flame to Fujii before attempting to light Chihara's. He declined with a shake of his head—he just wanted to savor the aroma without enduring secondhand smoke.
Murakami didn't insist, lighting her own instead. She took a drag and immediately began coughing.
It was ironic, really. Those most confident in their work often hadn't put much effort into it. The more effort you poured in, the more anxious you became about its reception, fearing all your hard work might amount to nothing. The emotional turmoil was indescribable.
They'd done everything within their power, given their utmost effort. And now, as they approached the moment of truth, the pressure mounted unbearably. Murakami's thick makeup did little to hide her dark circles; her face looked puffy, her eyes sunken with shadows beneath them. Fujii, meanwhile, had failed yet again in his attempt to quit smoking.
Among their trio, the only one who appeared remotely normal was Chihara Rinto, the wild-card newcomer. Even so, without the psychological cushion of "historical achievements" to fall back on, he might not have fared much better.
The stress was suffocating.
Murakami barely touched her cigarette after that first puff, while Fujii chain-smoked through several in quick succession. Finally, crushing his butt in the ashtray, he exhaled deeply and asked, "Can the station give us any more support?"
Their new series needed promotion, but broadcasting had only allocated a single 30-second preview during the finale of Terror Ward, another late-night show—and that was it.
Murakami's face dimmed as she shook her head. "I've applied multiple times, even asked friends from my batch to put in a good word. They said there's no room left. Winter season is starting, and there's no extra promotional time for us."
"Not even an additional 15-second ad?"
"No."
"What about adjusting the premiere slot temporarily? Could we get a prime-time lead-in?"
"I checked. No dice."
Fujii had braced himself for rejection, but the harsh reality still stung. Late-night dramas were truly the neglected stepchildren of television—given scraps and expected to survive.
The atmosphere in the room grew heavier still. Despite their best efforts, despite knowing they'd created something worthwhile, doubt lingered like a storm cloud overhead.
Murakami crushed her cigarette in the ashtray and forced a smile. "Tomorrow night is the premiere. Want to watch together? If so, I'll grab a few beers beforehand."
"I can't," Chihara replied promptly. "I need to write." Whether he watched or not wouldn't change anything. Better stick to the plan: go home, keep working. Maybe brainstorm contingency plans if the show flopped—that felt productive, at least.
Fujii echoed his sentiment. "I'll pass too. Shooting tomorrow morning—I should rest early."
Murakami sighed. "Alright, then let's wait until the ratings come out."
"That's all we can do."
"Don't stress too much. Focus on tomorrow's tasks. Even if the initial ratings aren't great, don't worry. We're playing the long game here."
Fujii nodded, though Chihara found himself resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Stop trying to comfort us, he thought. You look like you haven't slept in days. Her face was visibly swollen, exhaustion written all over her features. Go home and sleep. Otherwise, you'll wake up looking like a balloon.
He sighed audibly. "Murakami-san, don't shoulder all the pressure yourself. Everyone's counting on you."
"I know!" she replied, nodding emphatically.
The three of them—destined to take the fall if things went south—had locked themselves away in this room, quietly consoling each other. Whether it relieved their stress was debatable, but their camaraderie certainly deepened. There was a newfound warmth between them, forged in shared hardship.
With the serious talk concluded and mutual reassurances exchanged, Fujii stood up, stretching lazily. Smiling wryly, he said, "Time to head home. Otherwise, my wife will start nagging me again!"
And with that, he led the way out. It was past time to leave anyway. Today's shoot had dragged on till nearly nine PM, and then Murakami had insisted on screening the episode, eating up almost two hours. If they didn't hurry, they'd miss the last train.
Chihara and Murakami followed silently. As they descended the stairs, Murakami headed toward the main building, carrying the locked case to submit the tape for review. The audit department operated on a 24-hour shift schedule, so someone would always be available to receive it.
At the gate, Chihara bid farewell to Fujii. Just as he turned to leave, a voice called out behind him. Turning back, he saw Maegawa Kenichiro, one of the security guards.
"Chihara-san!" Maegawa shouted cheerfully from afar. "Heard your program's airing soon. Wishing you massive success!"
The guards regarded Chihara with a mix of awe and curiosity. To them, he was something of a legend—a mysterious figure who'd wandered onto set and somehow become the lead screenwriter. During idle chatter, they often brought him up, marveling at his peculiar rise.
Chihara liked these guys. Without their intel, he might never have convinced Murakami Iori to join the project. Despite his gloomy mood, he didn't want to ignore their kindness. Walking over to the guard booth, he leaned against the window frame and grinned. "If it does turn out to be a hit, I'll treat you all to drinks."
"It's a deal!" Maegawa grinned back.
"Definitely going to be a hit. You can do it!"
"Will tune in for sure!" the guards chimed in, laughing and shouting encouragement.
"Thanks, thanks!" Chihara laughed along, waving his gratitude. Realistically, their viewership wouldn't make or break the ratings—those were determined by automated surveys across thousands of households. Still, their goodwill was heartening.
After chatting briefly, he resumed his journey home. Catching the train, he disembarked in the bustling commercial street near where he lived. His steps slowed as he walked, glancing skyward. All he could see was a crescent moon and Jupiter—Tokyo's infamous light pollution obscured everything else. On a clearer night, he might have spotted Aries.
Eventually, he paused near a cozy-looking restaurant. Its warm glow beckoned invitingly. Alone in this foreign land, burdened by mounting pressure, he yearned for company. Someone to talk to.
Or perhaps… to see his "girlfriend."
But no, that wasn't right. Treating a stranger as a stand-in—it made no sense, no matter which way he spun it.
After lingering for a moment, he turned and headed back to his apartment, resuming his meticulous work on his career blueprint.
---
As the premiere drew closer, its impact rippled beyond the creative team, affecting even the ordinary crew members. For them, it was a matter of livelihood—whether they'd remain temporary hires or secure longer-term positions. If the ratings tanked and the show got canceled, they'd need to scramble for new gigs. Worse still, being associated with a flop could tarnish their resumes, severely impacting future earnings.
Understandably, nerves frayed. Mistakes cropped up during the day's shoot, slowing progress considerably. Fujii Arima erupted in frustration, creating an unbearable tension on set. Eventually, Murakami had to intervene personally. By now, she resembled a pale ghost, her face swollen and her eyes bloodshot. Insomnia had clearly claimed another victim.
Not wanting to add to the chaos, Chihara retreated to headquarters to continue writing. At four o'clock, his apprentice Michiko arrived, her expression weighed down by worry.
Though their interactions remained superficial, they'd grown somewhat familiar over the past week. Chihara cut straight to the point. "What's wrong?"
Michiko settled at her desk, pulling out her sketchbook. "Tonight's the premiere," she murmured.
"You're feeling the pressure?" Chihara felt a flicker of warmth. At least the girl had a conscience, worrying about her mentor's success.
Maybe I should buy her another burger.
"Yes," Michiko admitted, her delicate features clouded with melancholy. "But what if it becomes super popular? What happens then? My mom will go crazy... I'll end up doing more shows..."
Chihara tuned her out. Here he was, fretting over poor ratings and financial ruin, unable to stomach instant noodles, while his apprentice worried about becoming too successful and having to act more.
What a troublesome disciple.
It had been over ten days since she started relaxing. Perhaps it was time to consider kicking her out.
Lost in thought, Chihara returned to his work. Soon enough, Michiko's relaxation period ended, and she reluctantly departed, heading home to munch on her leafy greens. Meanwhile, the clock's hands crept steadily toward midnight, marking the countdown to the premiere.
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