Chapter 1: The Genius Girl with a 50-Million Debt
2595words
She had just screened her course assignment—a five-minute black and white short film. The story was simple: a little girl loses her red balloon on a rainy night, only to discover, in dawn's puddles, the reflection of an entire city bathed in morning light. Not a single line of dialogue—just light, shadow, and direction telling a poetic tale of loss and discovery.
The final frame lingered on that illusory red in the water's reflection. The classroom held its breath for several heartbeats before scattered applause broke the silence, swelling like gathering storm clouds.
"Brilliant, absolutely brilliant!" White-haired Professor Moriyama pushed up his reading glasses, not bothering to mask his admiration. "Ms. Natsume, your grasp of cinematic language has transcended student work entirely. Commercial considerations aside, this pure artistic sensibility is extraordinarily rare. In your work, I see the primal poetry of light and shadow—a raw instinct for visual storytelling."
Professor Moriyama was legendary in the industry for his brutal critiques; to hear "poetry" from his lips was the highest possible praise.
Hibiki bowed deeply, an irrepressible smile lighting up her entire face. "Thank you, Professor! I'll keep pushing myself!"
She felt the mixed gazes of admiration and envy from her classmates—a silent coronation. In her mind's eye, she could already see the red carpet unfurling beneath her feet. After graduation, she'd join a prestigious studio, start as an assistant director, and within a few years, direct her first feature. She wanted to capture moments that touched people's hearts, to use her camera to immortalize those overlooked, luminous fragments of existence.
"No sweat," she told herself, mentally pumping her fist with her usual mantra, "As long as I can keep filming, everything else will fall into place."
Her radiant confidence shattered against reality the moment she turned the knob of her rickety apartment door.
The scene transition was jarring—like the most abrupt jump cut in cinema history. One moment: a bright hall filled with applause. The next: this dim six-tatami room, bisected by fading sunset into light and shadow. The air reeked of what could only be called "poverty"—a pungent cocktail of cheap ramen and damp wood.
On the table, a letter and a folded piece of paper sat prominently displayed, impossible to miss.
Hibiki's heart plummeted. Her alcoholic father—a man whose whereabouts were as predictable as lottery numbers—hadn't shown his face for nearly two months. Each ghostly appearance and disappearance inevitably left trouble in its wake.
She approached slowly and picked up the letter. Cheap draft paper, covered in flamboyant handwriting that screamed "still half-drunk."
"My dear daughter, Hibiki: By the time you read this, I'll be chasing my dream! Life isn't meant for standing still. Remember that old movie? 'Some birds aren't meant to be caged, their feathers are just too bright.' Well, I'm off to find my brightness. Don't worry about me or try to find me. When I create my world-shaking masterpiece, I'll be back. Take care. —Love always, your soon-to-be-famous director father"
Hibiki finished reading, her face blank—no anger, no sadness—just bone-deep numbness and a sense of the absurd. The corner of her mouth twitched with an urge to laugh. Dreams? Masterpieces? What dreams could he possibly chase when he couldn't afford a decent camera and spent his days haunting pachinko parlors and dive bars?
She crumpled the letter and tossed it into the trash. Her gaze fell on the folded paper that had been tucked under the envelope. A chill ran through her as her fingertips touched its edge.
She unfolded it.
It was a formal loan contract. At the top, "Acknowledgment of Debt and Repayment Agreement" burned into her vision. At the bottom, an enormous figure stamped in red ink stopped her breath cold.
"Fifty million yen."
Fifty million Japanese yen.
Hibiki's brain buzzed like a detonated depth charge. The world spun, her ears ringing like air raid sirens. She staggered backward, colliding with the cold wall. Fifty million... what did that even mean? She couldn't scrape together a fraction of that amount if she sold herself piece by piece.
That irresponsible bastard hadn't just left her with a mess—he'd gifted her with a mountain of debt she could never climb out from under in her lifetime.
All those beautiful fantasies about art and future glory she'd built in class now lay pulverized by this cold, hard number. Future? Hell, she didn't even know where next month's rent would come from.
*Knock. Knock. Knock.*
The knocking was measured and deliberate—neither too light nor too heavy—yet carried an undeniable weight of authority.
Hibiki's head snapped up like a startled rabbit. Who could it be at this hour? The landlady only collected rent at month's end. Holding her breath, she crept to the door and peered through the peephole.
Three people stood outside. Leading them was a tall man in an impeccably tailored dark gray suit with subtle patterns. His hair was meticulously combed, gold-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, eyes betraying nothing. Behind him loomed two burly men in identical black suits and sunglasses, their muscles stretching the fabric taut—like two small mountains that had learned to walk.
The scene could have been lifted straight from a yakuza film's debt collection sequence.
Hibiki's heart hammered against her ribs. Had they found her already? She clutched the IOU, palm slick with cold sweat. What now? Call the cops? Pretend she wasn't home? But they clearly knew she was inside.
While she panicked, the man outside lost patience and knocked again, harder this time.
"Miss Hibiki Natsume? I'm Akira Saionji from Saionji Financial Group. I know you're in there. We need to discuss your father Ichiro Natsume's debt situation." The man's voice penetrated the door, clear and unnervingly calm.
No escape now. Hibiki took a deep breath like a prisoner facing execution and unlocked the door with trembling hands.
"...Hello." She attempted steadiness, but her pale face and rigid posture betrayed her.
Saionji pushed his glasses up, his gaze lingering on her nervous face before scanning her sparse apartment. The corner of his mouth curled into something resembling a smile.
"Charming place. Very... lived-in." His tone was flat as he gestured sideways. His two bodyguards sprang into action like professional movers, hauling an obviously expensive leather sofa through the doorway. They positioned it carefully in the narrow open space, even wiping the armrests with white handkerchiefs.
Akira Saionji sat down elegantly, crossing his legs. His aura clashed violently with the shabby apartment—a king inspecting his slums.
"Miss Natsume, please sit." He gestured toward Hibiki's own small stool.
What is this? A cuckoo commandeering a sparrow's nest? Hibiki fumed inwardly but dragged over the stool and sat down before him like a defendant awaiting sentencing.
"I assume you've discovered the 'surprise' your father left behind." Akira Saionji cut straight to the chase, fingers drumming lightly on the sofa's armrest. "Fifty million yen. Per the contract, interest accrues at 0.05% daily, compounding. Today marks the third day past due."
"I..." Hibiki's throat dried up, words failing her. Despair crashed over her like a tidal wave, leaving her mind blank.
"Ah, I forgot to introduce my associates." Saionji gestured to the sentinels behind him. "This is Saemon, and this is Uemon."
At the sound of their names, the two giants removed their sunglasses in perfect unison, revealing eyes that contradicted their intimidating frames—innocent and clear as a child's. They bowed simultaneously to Hibiki, movements perfectly synchronized, voices booming: "Pleased to meet you!"
This unexpected comedy cracked the tension. Hibiki wondered if she was hallucinating.
"Mr. Saionji..." Hibiki finally found her voice. She forced herself to meet his gaze. "The money... my father's debt... I'll find a way to repay it. But I'm just a student. I can't possibly—"
"I understand," Saionji cut her off, displaying what might generously be called a "smile"—though it resembled more the satisfaction of a predator watching prey stumble into a trap. "I've researched you thoroughly. Top student in the Directing Department at Toto Arts University. Multiple scholarship recipient. Quite talented."
How did he know so much? A chill slithered down Hibiki's spine.
"I didn't come here to hear 'I can't.'" Saionji leaned forward, radiating pressure like a collapsing star. "I'm here to collect, not offer charity. Of course, our company prides itself on being 'humane.' Given your... unique situation, traditional repayment methods seem unrealistic."
He paused, savoring the confusion and fear playing across Hibiki's face.
"Truth is, my life's grown rather dull lately," he abruptly shifted tone. "Endless meetings, reports, money-making—bland as tap water. And chasing debtors like your father, with their excuses and disappearing acts, has lost its thrill entirely."
Hibiki couldn't follow his train of thought and could only stare blankly.
In that moment, survival instinct ignited a spark in her desperate mind. Talent... he'd mentioned her talent...
A wild idea erupted in her mind.
"Mr. Saionji!" Hibiki shot to her feet, nearly toppling her stool. "Since you're bored... would you consider a more interesting debt collection method?"
"Oh?" Saionji's eyebrows arched, clearly intrigued. "Do tell."
"I can shoot videos! Create content!" Hibiki's brain fired at warp speed, connecting every possible resource. "This is the age of viral videos, and views mean cash! I can shoot commercials, promos, short dramas—anything that makes money! I'll use my talent to earn for you, then use that money to pay off my debt!"
To prove her point, she whipped out her phone, fingers dancing across the screen to pull up a fifteen-second promo she'd shot for a ramen shop. Though filmed on a phone with zero budget, her rapid editing, mouthwatering close-ups, and perfectly matched soundtrack made ordinary soy sauce ramen look worthy of Michelin stars.
"Look!" She thrust her phone toward Saionji. "I can create maximum impact with minimal investment! I'll work for any of your businesses, or let me shoot trending short-form content—low investment, quick returns! Isn't that more interesting than waiting for payments? Think of it as... as a venture investment!"
Akira Saionji stared at the steaming ramen on screen, saying nothing for what felt like eternity. Hibiki's heart lodged in her throat; this was her only shot.
Finally, Saionji burst into laughter—not his earlier mocking chuckle, but genuine, hearty amusement that seemed to bubble up from somewhere authentic.
"Hahaha! Fascinating! Absolutely fascinating!" He slapped his thigh, nearly crying with laughter. "Paying debt by shooting videos? Hibiki Natsume, what the hell is your brain wired with? In twenty-eight years, I've never heard such an outrageous yet... captivating repayment proposal!"
He stood and paced the tiny room, unusually animated.
"Merely recovering 50 million yen means nothing to me. But turning debt collection into entertainment? Watching a broke college girl with crushing debt create videos to earn her way out? That process is ten thousand times more valuable than the money itself!"
He stopped abruptly, spun toward Hibiki, and pointed at her, eyes gleaming like a child with a new toy.
"It's settled! I approve!" he declared on the spot. "As of today, we establish the 'Saionji Debt Collection Entertainment Project'! You, Hibiki Natsume, are hereby appointed sole executive director and chief debtor!"
Hibiki stood stunned. Not happiness exactly... but the sudden hope of survival left her speechless.
"Well then," Saionji slipped back into CEO mode, his tone turning businesslike, "your first KPI for project launch: one week timeframe and... 100,000 yen seed funding."
He extracted an envelope from his inner suit pocket and tossed it onto the table.
"Within one week, I want to see a short drama generating actual revenue. Platform profit-sharing, ad placement, viewer tips—I don't care how you do it, but I need to see returns. If you fail," his voice chilled several degrees, "we'll resort to traditional, boring, but for you, extremely painful collection methods."
One hundred thousand yen? For a short drama? That wouldn't even cover decent equipment rental! An impossible task!
But Hibiki had no options. She stared at the thin envelope and nodded firmly: "I understand. You'll have results in a week."
"Excellent." Saionji smiled with satisfaction, adjusted his glasses, and turned toward the door. "Saemon, Uemon, we're leaving. Don't forget the sofa."
The two bodyguards bowed in perfect unison, then effortlessly hoisted the luxury sofa and followed Saionji out. The door closed, and silence reclaimed the world.
Hibiki collapsed to the floor, clutching both the IOU and the envelope with 100,000 yen. One cold and heavy, one thin and burning hot. From this moment, her life had veered onto a bizarre path she never could have imagined.
To stretch every yen, Hibiki explored the forgotten corners of the city. She eventually secured an abandoned warehouse in the port district—scheduled for demolition—for the rock-bottom price of 30,000 yen monthly.
The warehouse overflowed with discarded junk and thick dust, the air heavy with rust and mold. But the space was ample, the ceiling height workable, and most importantly—it was dirt cheap.
Hibiki donned a mask and attacked the space with a dollar-store broom, cleaning with manic energy. To her, this wasn't a ruin but an ark from which her dreams would sail again. Starting from scratch? No problem. That was her specialty.
While cleaning a far corner of the warehouse, she discovered a surprisingly comfortable-looking old sofa beneath a pile of worn canvas. Beside it lay a thick stack of scattered papers.
Curious, she picked up the papers, blew off the dust, and discovered a hand-drawn script. Each page contained meticulously detailed sketches—professional-grade storyboards with precise notations for camera angles, character blocking, and lighting design. The style was sharp and dynamic; even as sketches, they pulsed with creative passion.
Who left these? Hibiki found herself captivated, flipping through page after page, completely absorbed. This wasn't just professional work—it surpassed anything she'd seen from her university professors.
"Hey, what are you looking at?"
A hoarse, cold male voice suddenly materialized beside her, making Hibiki jump.
She whipped around to find a man sitting up on what she'd thought was just junk—the broken sofa. He looked about twenty-four or twenty-five, with disheveled black hair and a complexion pale from sunlight deprivation. His black T-shirt was wrinkled, his eyes heavy-lidded and irritated at having his sleep disturbed.
Only then did Hibiki realize her cleaning had awakened someone who'd been sleeping here.
"I'm sorry! I had no idea anyone was here!" she quickly apologized, instinctively hiding the script behind her back.
The man's gaze locked onto her hands like a hawk spotting prey. He lunged forward and snatched the script from her, his movement rough and unapologetic.
"Who said you could touch my stuff?" He glared at Hibiki, eyes sharp with contempt.
"Yours?" Hibiki blinked in surprise. "I'm sorry, I thought someone had abandoned it..."
The man ignored her explanation, his gaze dropping to the shopping bag of cleaning supplies at her feet, then to her makeshift "shooting plan"—covered in red pen notes about converting trash cans into futuristic helmets and creating sci-fi lighting effects with tin foil and flashlights.
He snorted—a sound dripping with contempt.
"With this garbage, you want to make a film?" He flipped through her proposal, then tossed it to the ground like the trash he clearly thought it was. "A trash can as a helmet? Flashlights for lighting? You call this filmmaking? Don't insult cinema. This is, at best, soulless industrial waste rushed off an assembly line."
