Chapter 4: A Dull Romance Radar
2893words
"This is so delicious!" In the end, she chose to respond with the brightest smile, hiding all her questions and gratitude within those simple words. "Yusuke, you're absolutely brilliant! The red bean filling is sweet but not cloying, and the crust is baked to such perfect crispness!"
"I'm glad you like it." Yusuke watched her eating like a little hamster, the smile in his eyes deepening. "Eat slowly, don't choke."
He didn't say anything more, just stood with her at the roadside, watching the bustling traffic and flickering neon lights. This wordless companionship was, for Hibiki, a more effective way of recharging than any comforting words could be.
The phenomenal success of "The Secret History of Bonsai" turned "Hibiki Dingdong," a previously unknown amateur troupe, into an overnight sensation in the short drama circle. Various commercial collaboration invitations flew into Hibiki's inbox like snowflakes, from snack advertisements to beauty products, and even game companies wanting to hire them to shoot promotional short films. Hibiki's phone was ringing almost twenty-four hours a day. While dealing with the heavy coursework at school, she also had to screen through the diverse commercial offers, making her life unprecedentedly busy yet fulfilling.
The warehouse studio also underwent a major upgrade. Hibiki used project bonuses to purchase more professional cameras and lighting equipment, a pile of brand new prop materials appeared next to Kenta Suzuki's mountain of junk, and Ai Sato's makeup table was filled with various high-end special effects cosmetics. Though Ren Kurosawa still lay on the sofa every day, muttering "all soulless commercial garbage," the furrowed brow he displayed when reviewing scripts and storyboards was more serious and focused than ever before. He had completely integrated into the team, becoming the de facto artistic director and quality controller in a "complains verbally but acts responsibly" manner.
That afternoon, while Hibiki was racking her brain for ideas for a potato chip commercial, Ren Kurosawa approached her expressionlessly, holding a gold-embossed invitation.
"There's an industry salon tonight," he said concisely, his tone revealing no emotion whatsoever, "Come with me."
Hibiki looked up from a pile of potato chip flavor options, pausing in surprise: "Huh? Why should I go? Those places are full of important people, and I'm just a student..."
"You're a director, I'm a director too, what's stopping you from going?" Ren Kurosawa interrupted her, slapping the invitation on the table, "I need an assistant. You, come with me, and be responsible for handling drinks and handing out business cards."
His reasoning sounded noble, but Hibiki felt something was off. Ren Kurosawa, as an art-first purist, despised these social occasions full of commercial flattery and fake pleasantries, and had always sneered at such invitations before. Why would he actively want to go today, and even make the unprecedented move of bringing her along?
Before she could figure it out, Ren Kurosawa had already added impatiently, "It's decided then. Six o'clock, meet me at the warehouse entrance. Dress... somewhat presentably." After saying this, he turned and walked away, leaving Hibiki with a cold back view, though his slightly reddened ears betrayed his inner turmoil.
The so-called "dress presentably" was a huge challenge for Hibiki. The most expensive clothing in her wardrobe was a dress bought at a 70% discount for the school opening ceremony. When she appeared nervously at the warehouse entrance wearing this dress, Ren Kurosawa was leaning against an expensive-looking black sedan. He had changed out of his unchanging black T-shirt into a well-tailored dark gray suit, appearing less dejected and more elegantly dignified.
He looked Hibiki up and down, his brows furrowing almost imperceptibly, but ultimately said nothing, just opened the car door, gesturing for her to get in. "Not bad," he commented insincerely.
The salon was held in the top-floor banquet hall of a high-end hotel in the city center. Brilliant light cascaded down from the enormous crystal chandeliers, as elegantly dressed guests mingled and glasses clinked, with the air permeated by the scent of expensive perfume and money. Hibiki followed behind Ren Kurosawa, feeling like a child who had wandered into the adult world, completely uncomfortable. The outfit on any random person here was probably worth enough to pay off one of her loan payments.
Ren Kurosawa's appearance immediately caused quite a stir. As the youngest genius director in the industry, his works were regulars at major film festivals, but his reclusive and cold personality was also well-known. Many people held their wine glasses, wanting to approach and get acquainted, yet were repelled by the unapproachable aura surrounding him.
"Ren, you're really hard to get a hold of!" A middle-aged man with a balding hairstyle walked over with a smile. He was a producer from a well-known Japanese film company. "I heard you've been taking a break lately. I thought you were hiding away to conceptualize some earth-shattering artistic masterpiece? So, who is this..." His gaze fell on Hibiki with a hint of curiosity.
"My assistant, Hibiki Natsume." Ren Kurosawa introduced flatly, while inconspicuously pulling Hibiki half a step behind himself, shielding her from the other's scrutinizing gaze.
"Hibiki Natsume?" Another director wearing glasses, who appeared quite scholarly, showed an expression of sudden realization upon hearing this. "Oh! I remember now! You're the director from that trending short drama studio... 'Hibiki Chime' Studio, right? My daughter watches your... what was it... 'The Secret History of Bonsai' every day?"
With these words, the people around all revealed meaningful smiles. In the eyes of these self-proclaimed "film artists," the term "short drama" itself carried an original sin, viewed as something disreputable, a commercial fast-moving product chasing views.
"Young people nowadays are becoming more and more impetuous," the Balding Producer shook his head, speaking with seeming regret, "With a bit of cleverness, they rush to make quick money. Miss Natsume, with such a spirited name, yet what you produce is... hehe, such a pity. True art requires time to mature, it's not achieved through such opportunistic gimmicks."
Although his words were polite, the contempt and sense of superiority flowing between the lines were like tiny needles, pricking Hibiki's heart. She lowered her head in embarrassment, feeling her cheeks burning. She knew what he said was true—her work was indeed made to "earn a living," full of commercial calculations, and couldn't be considered art at all.
Just as she was about to force an awkward smile to cope with the situation, Ren Kurosawa, who had been silent all along, suddenly spoke up.
"Even flowers can bloom from a garbage can," his voice wasn't loud, but like ice dropped into a warm wine glass, it instantly quieted the air around them, "You people don't understand."
Everyone was stunned, looking at him with incredulous expressions. Did they hear correctly? That arrogant Kurosawa, who valued art above everything else, was actually speaking up for a yellow-haired girl who shot "rural-style short dramas"?
Ren Kurosawa ignored everyone's surprise. He turned his head and looked at those industry bigwigs who had been flattering him just moments ago, his gaze cold and sharp: "Using materials you all looked down upon—the cheapest materials—under the most harsh conditions, she created something that millions of people would pay for and celebrate. And what about you? With your investments of tens of millions, you produce a bunch of pretentious artistic garbage that can't even recover its costs, and you still have the nerve to talk about artistic depth here?"
His words were like a resounding slap across the faces of everyone present. The Balding Producer's face instantly turned ashen, yet he didn't dare openly contradict this industry-acknowledged genius.
Ren Kurosawa stopped looking at them. He grabbed Hibiki's wrist, his tone still maintaining that impatient manner: "Let's go. The air here is too foul, it's affecting my appetite."
He pulled the still-dazed Hibiki through the crowd, heading straight to the buffet table, and skillfully picked a plate of her favorite fried chicken and pudding for her, then thrust it into her hands.
"Eat, to keep your mouth shut." He said irritably, while picking up a glass of champagne for himself and turning around, using his back to shield her from the complex gazes behind them.
Hibiki held the plate of fried chicken, staring blankly at Ren Kurosawa's back. His back was still slender and proud, but at this moment, Hibiki felt it was more reassuring than any solid wall. Somewhere in her heart, something gently struck, creating warm ripples that even she herself hadn't noticed.
If Ren Kurosawa's way of showing favor was like a sudden storm of protection, then Akira Saionji's approach was continuous harassment full of pranks and humor.
On a weekend after the salon incident, Hibiki was checking accounts in her small rented apartment, calculating the budget for the next play. Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.
She got up to open it and saw Akira Saionji standing outside. He was wearing casual home clothes, holding an empty soy sauce bottle in his hand, with a perfectly appropriate, slightly embarrassed smile on his face.
"Good evening, Director Natsume," he waved the bottle in his hand, "Sorry, I ran out of soy sauce while cooking. Could I borrow some?"
Hibiki was stunned. She looked at Saionji's expensive outfit, then at the brand new password-protected door behind him that seemed completely out of place in this rundown apartment building, and an absurd thought came to her mind.
"Mr. Saionji... you... live here?"
"Yes indeed." Akira Saionji smiled like a cat that got the cream. "I'm living right next door to you. I believe that in order to better supervise your debt repayment progress, and to facilitate work discussions at any time, we need to close the physical distance between us. As neighbors, it's only right to help each other, don't you think?"
Hibiki's brain stalled again. Buying the apartment next to hers? Just to make debt collection convenient? What kind of ridiculous reason was that? What made this rundown apartment worthy of a CEO of his caliber stooping so low?
"Um... I think... I'm also out of soy sauce." Hibiki attempted to refuse in the most tactful way possible.
"Is that so? Let me check." As Saionji spoke, he brazenly squeezed sideways into Hibiki's small room and walked straight to her kitchen, skillfully opening the cabinet.
"Look, here it is," he held up a bottle of soy sauce that was almost full, with a smug "caught you" expression on his face.
Hibiki was completely speechless. She could only watch helplessly as this creditor lord poured half a bowl of soy sauce as if he were in his own home, then left contentedly, leaving behind one last remark: "Thanks, neighbor. Next time your Wi-Fi is down, you can connect to mine, it's not password protected."
From that day on, Akira Saionji began appearing frequently in Hibiki's life with various excuses that were painfully contrived to the point of being outrageous.
"Director Natsume, the light bulb in my house is broken, could you help me take a look? I'm afraid of getting electrocuted."—Then Hibiki watched as this CEO who managed a hundred-billion-dollar conglomerate stood clumsily on a stool, so clumsy that he couldn't even unscrew a light bulb.
"Director Natsume, I don't know how to use my microwave. Could you teach me how to heat up my lunch box?"—Then Hibiki discovered that his so-called lunch box was actually kaiseki cuisine from a Michelin-starred restaurant, packed in an exquisite lacquerware container.
"Director Natsume, it's thundering outside. I'm scared being alone. Can we watch a horror movie together?" — and throughout the entire viewing experience, it was Hibiki who kept screaming, while Saionji watched her reactions from the side with great interest, providing real-time commentary.
Hibiki was nearly annoyed to death. She felt that Akira Saionji wasn't there to collect debt, but to add pressure to her life. Yet he was her financial backer, so she couldn't afford to offend him. Her life had been thrown into complete disarray by this man with his peculiar way of thinking.
Compared to these sudden emotional onslaughts, Yusuke Tachibana's café was the only place where Hibiki could find peace. Because of the fame of the "Hibiki's Bell" studio, Yusuke's café had also become a pilgrimage site for fans, making business exceptionally good. But he would always reserve a special seat for Hibiki and her team in the quietest corner.
That night, Hibiki was once again pulling an all-nighter at the café, editing and preparing for her next project. The café had already closed, leaving just the two of them. Yusuke didn't go home, quietly keeping her company, helping her organize materials or brewing her a cup of coffee to keep her awake.
During a break from editing, Hibiki rested her head on the table for a short nap. In her drowsy state, she felt someone gently brushing the strands of hair from her forehead. She opened her eyes to see Yusuke's face, gentle and close.
"Hibiki," Yusuke gazed at her with an emotion she had never seen before—deep and serious, "I have something I want to tell you."
"Hmm?" Hibiki rubbed her sleepy eyes and yawned, "What is it? Did the coffee beans get more expensive again?"
Yusuke laughed at her confused appearance, but quickly composed himself, took a deep breath, as if gathering immense courage.
"I like you," he said, his voice soft yet unusually clear. "I've liked you for a very long time. The reason I opened this café here wasn't because I'm particularly passionate about coffee, but because... this is the place closest to you. I wanted to have a place where you could always come back to whenever you're tired or weary."
The air seemed to freeze in that moment. Outside the window, the city remained noisy, but inside this small café, time appeared to have stopped flowing.
Hibiki was stunned. Her brain struggled to process the information she had just received, but those words were like scrambled code, impossible for her system to properly recognize. "Like"? "The place closest to her"? These phrases underwent a distorted decoding and reorganization in her brain, which had been formatted by "debt" and "work."
After a few seconds, she finally reacted. She sat up abruptly, her eyes flashing with a light of sudden realization, and her face broke into an enthusiastic, business-like smile.
"Ah? So that's it!" She clapped her hands, suddenly understanding, "I get it! You want me to help you make a promotional video, right? With the theme 'A Coffee Shop Opened for a Loved One'! This idea is brilliant! It will definitely go viral!"
She immediately became energized, took out her small notebook, and began to brainstorm rapidly: "We can make it into a series, with the first episode called 'My Boss Has Been Secretly in Love with Me for Ten Years,' guaranteed to catch everyone's attention! Don't worry, considering how close we are, I'll give you an 80% discount! No, 50%! Friendship price!"
Watching the girl in front of him instantly enter work mode, her eyes lighting up as she muttered to herself, Yusuke Tachibana's expression changed from bewilderment to resignation and finally to a mixture of amusement and exasperation. He reached out his hand, wanting to say something, but in the end, it only transformed into a long, affectionate yet helpless sigh. He knew that on the journey to open her heart, which was tightly wrapped in survival pressure, he still had a long way to go.
The series of strange incidents plunged Hibiki Natsume into unprecedented confusion.
Ren Kurosawa, that self-important artistic elite, actually stood up for someone like her, a "commercial hack." Akira Saionji, that lofty creditor, actually moved in next door and harassed her with all sorts of clumsy excuses. And then there was Yusuke, her childhood friend who had always taken care of her like a brother, actually saying such strange things to her.
All of this was beyond her comprehension. In her eyes, these people were "all so strange," and their behavior couldn't be explained by any normal logic. She had no idea that she had unwittingly placed herself at the center of an emotional whirlwind.
These chaotic emotions that she couldn't process made her feel irritated. She chose the simplest and most effective way to deal with them—avoidance.
She poured all her energy into the studio's next project. It was a youth-themed short drama set in a high school campus, funded by a beverage company.
Under the dim lights of the warehouse, she spread out a fresh sheet of paper, blocking out all the outside noise and distractions. The tip of her pen made a rustling sound as it moved across the paper.
There, she wrote down the name of the new script: "Summer Soda Water and the Baseball Boy."
