Chapter 6: Shadows Before the Competition
2338words
The unprecedented success of "Summer Soda and Zombie Boy" had completely freed Hibiki Natsume and her "Hibiki's Bell" studio from the "internet celebrity" label, catapulting them to become the industry's hottest dark horse. The studio's bank account balance was growing at a rate Hibiki had never seen before. The fifty-million debt that had once suffocated her now seemed less like the unreachable Mount Everest and more like a peak that, with effort to climb, could possibly be conquered. Both her reputation and income had reached unprecedented heights.
More importantly, she saw an opportunity that could help her get rid of the debt shackles once and for all—the "Golden Hummingbird" National Short Play Creation Competition jointly organized by the Japan Agency for Cultural Affairs and several top media companies.
This was not just a competition, but the "Oscars" of the short play world. Its jury consisted of the industry's top directors, screenwriters, and critics. The winning works would not only receive generous prize money but also meant that the creators would get a ticket to enter the mainstream film and television circle. What made Hibiki's pupils dilate was the champion's prize of 30 million yen.
30 million! With her existing savings and subsequent commercial income, paying off all debts at once no longer seemed like an impossible dream.
"We are going to participate," Hibiki slammed the competition brochure on the table during their regular studio meeting, her voice filled with uncontrollable excitement and determination, "and we have only one goal—to win the championship."
Kenta Suzuki and Ai Sato stared at the promotional brochure showing the star-studded list of judges and introductions of previous award-winning works, their faces flushed with excitement. For those who had always been considered "non-mainstream," this was an excellent stage to prove themselves.
"Let's do this! Sister Hibiki!" Kenta Suzuki pumped his fist in the air. "This time I'll use all my special skills, and the props will absolutely be movie-quality!"
"My special effects makeup will be completely upgraded too!" Ai Sato was also raring to go. "I guarantee the judges won't be able to tell what's real and what's fake!"
Only Ren Kurosawa remained lazily sprawled on the sofa, not even bothering to lift her eyelids. She just let out a light snort from her nose, which served as an expression of disdain.
"This kind of officially organized competition favors those clichéd entries that praise the establishment without any originality," he said leisurely. "If you want to win a prize, you have to create what they like. Those chaotic cult-like creative ideas of yours won't work here."
"Who said I'm going to cater to them?" Hibiki turned around, meeting his gaze with eyes burning with fighting spirit. "I will conquer them in my own way. I want to show them that short plays aren't just Digital Pickles, they can also be works of art!"
This was the first time she had so explicitly uttered the word "art." Not just for survival, but for a belief.
Ren Kurosawa looked at her face, flushed with excitement, and at the pure, almost naive determination in her eyes, and fell silent. He opened his mouth, but that habitual word "garbage" ultimately didn't come out. Instead, he buried his face in the sofa cushion and muttered glumly: "...Whatever you want."
From that day on, the entire studio entered an unprecedented state of competition preparation. Hibiki turned down all commercial collaborations and devoted all her energy to creating the script. She was determined to polish it into a flawless work that would silence everyone. The lights in the warehouse remained on almost all night.
However, just as Hibiki and her team were sprinting with all their might toward their bright goal, shadows were also silently enveloping them from all directions.
A crisis first descended upon Ren Kurosawa.
The one who found him was the renowned producer in the Japanese film industry, Masakazu Osumi. A movie mogul known for his sharp eye and strong tactics. He didn't contact through phone or email, but personally came to this dilapidated warehouse, which in itself represented a great deal of importance.
Masakazu Osumi ignored the messy environment of the warehouse and walked straight to Ren Kurosawa's sofa, placing a thick script in front of him.
"Kurosawa-kun." He got straight to the point, his voice steady and powerful, "I've seen all your previous works, and also those 'little things' you've been involved in... recently. Your talent shouldn't be wasted in such places."
Ren Kurosawa lifted his eyelids, glancing at the cover of the script—"Silent Rails." This was a screenplay that had circulated in the industry for years, hailed as "the literary masterpiece most difficult to adapt to screen," telling the story of a train driver who falls into an existential crisis after witnessing numerous suicide attempts on the tracks. Profound, depressing, full of philosophical contemplation—a typical art film subject that could win directors international awards.
This was a temptation that no director with artistic aspirations could resist.
"For this project, there is no budget limit," each of Masakazu Osumi's words fell like heavy weights on Kurosawa's heart. "As for the cast, you can freely choose from Japan's top-tier actors. I have only one requirement—you must direct it."
Ren Kurosawa's breath stopped for a second. He reached out, his fingertips almost touching the script.
"However," Masakazu Osumi shifted his tone, his gaze becoming sharp, "I'm investing in the genius director Ren Kurosawa, not that young man obsessed with 'viral short dramas.' Before the project begins, I need you to make a thorough and public break from that amateur group called 'Hibiki Bell.' I don't want my work of art tainted by any commercial, cheap flavor."
Break. This word was like a cold knife, instantly piercing through Ren Kurosawa's heart. He abruptly raised his head, looking at Masakazu Osumi, and for the first time, those eyes that were always filled with drowsy sleepiness showed clear and intense struggle.
On one side was the true palace of art he had always dreamed of, an ideal realm where he could express his talents to their fullest extent. On the other side was that noisy, troublesome, dilapidated warehouse, which gave him his first experience of "teamwork" and "the vibrancy of ordinary life"—and that girl who, despite having a head full of trashy ideas, used a kind of savage vitality to forcibly crack open a fissure in his gray world.
How should he choose?
Almost simultaneously, another storm was brewing in the luxurious conference room at the top floor of the Saionji Group.
Akira Saionji sat casually in the main seat, listening to several formally dressed, serious-looking family elders across from him delivering their routine "admonishment" in a condescending tone.
"Akira," the leading grand-uncle, Kenichiro Saionji, slammed a printed internet report heavily onto the table, which was news about the social buzz generated by "The Secret History of Bonsai," "Look at what you've been doing lately! Our Saionji family is a century-old financial group, a pillar of the real economy, not some influencer incubator chasing internet traffic!"
"Indulging in these 'trivial' short drama investments, mixing with questionable grassroots teams, and turning yourself into an internet laughingstock! This seriously damages the group's image!" another elder vehemently agreed.
Akira Saionji merely picked up his coffee, gently blew on the steam, his face maintaining that same irreverent smile: "Uncle, respected elders, this is just a personal hobby, a small investment that does no real harm. Besides, in terms of commercial returns, it's performing much better than that new energy project our group invested in last year."
His remarks were like pouring oil on fire.
Kenichiro Saionji slammed his hand on the table and stood up, his expression extremely stern: "Akira Saionji! Let me make this clear today! Your father entrusted you with the group because he hoped you would bring honor to our family name, not ruin our family reputation! I'm giving you one month to immediately withdraw all investments from that small workshop and cease all contact with that woman called Hibiki Natsume! Otherwise, we will convene a meeting of the family elders to formally discuss your inheritance rights to the group!"
Inheritance rights. These words finally made the smile on Akira Saionji's face completely disappear. He put down his coffee cup, and the look in his eyes behind his glasses instantly turned cold and profound. He knew these old men weren't joking. They had coveted his position for a long time, and his "neglect of proper business" provided them with the perfect excuse to make their move.
The atmosphere in the conference room suddenly became extremely tense.
At this moment, Hibiki Natsume remained completely unaware of all this. Due to the expansion of her studio, she had to start sorting through her father's belongings—those long-sealed relics she had put away.
Her father, Ichiro Natsume, was a typical dreamer whose ambitions exceeded his abilities. He didn't leave much behind, mostly expired film magazines, notebooks filled with messy concepts, and a collection of empty liquor bottles. Hibiki had no interest in these items and just wanted to clear them out as quickly as possible.
However, just as she was about to throw away a dust-covered old leather trunk, a small package wrapped in kraft paper fell out from a hidden compartment.
Hibiki curiously opened it to find a stack of yellowed old photographs and several water-damaged papers with partially faded writing.
In the photo was her father in his younger days. He stood on a film set, looking spirited and confident, surrounded by a group of crew members. In one of the group photos, a detail caught Hibiki's attention. In the background of the photo was a slate board with the film's title written on it, four characters flamboyantly inscribed—"Yesterday's Flame."
This name was like a key, unlocking a dusty corner deep in Hibiki's memory. She seemed to recall that when she was very young, her father had mumbled this name while drunk, saying it was his masterpiece into which he had poured his entire heart and soul, only to have it destroyed by evil capitalists.
She entered this name into the search engine, and the screen only displayed a few vague old news articles from over a decade ago. Most were about a film called "Yesterday's Flame" that had been shelved due to investors suddenly withdrawing funds, causing the producer to lose everything and ultimately disappear. And this producer was none other than her father, Ichiro Natsume.
Hibiki's heart sank sharply. So her father's disappearance years ago wasn't as casually explained as he had written in his letter—it wasn't about "pursuing dreams," but rather a complete and utterly disgraceful failure that ruined his reputation.
Her gaze fell once more on those blurry sheets of paper. They appeared to be a draft of a contract. She struggled to make out the incomplete writing, and when her eyes focused on the "Investor" column, her pupils contracted instantly.
Although the handwriting had been blurred by water stains, she could barely make out those few characters—"...Saionji...investment..."
Saionji? Could it be that Saionji?
A terrifying thought slithered into her mind like a venomous snake. Could her father's failure and the enormous debt he left behind be connected to the Saionji family? And what about Akira Saionji's current "investment" in her? Was it some kind of belated compensation? Or was it a long-planned game of cat and mouse?
Hibiki felt a wave of dizziness, and the papers in her hands became as heavy as a thousand pounds. This discovery turned her once clear world into a chaotic fog of confusion. She had always thought she was fighting against simple "debt"; but now, she discovered that behind it might lurk a deeper past involving family, conspiracy, and betrayal.
As she sat dazed on the warehouse floor, her mind in complete disarray, Yusuke Tachibana pushed open the door and walked in, carrying his signature insulated lunchbox.
"Hibiki? What's wrong? You look terrible," the moment Yusuke saw her, he immediately put down his lunchbox and quickly walked to her side, his face showing undisguised concern.
Hibiki raised her head and looked at him, at that face that was always gentle and always made her feel secure. In the past, no matter what difficulties she encountered, she would confide in him first, because she knew that Yusuke would always be her most solid support.
But this time, she opened her mouth, yet couldn't say a single word of what was on the tip of her tongue.
What could she say? That her sugar daddy might be the son of the enemy who destroyed her family? That was too absurd, too heavy a burden. This secret was something she couldn't tell anyone, not even Yusuke, who was closest to her.
"...It's nothing." For the first time, Hibiki forced an extremely stiff smile at him. She lowered her head to avoid his concerned gaze and hastily gathered up those papers. "Just... I'm a bit tired from working on the script. It's nothing serious."
Yusuke quietly looked at her, at her evasive eyes and unnatural movements. He didn't press further, but the light in his eyes dimmed imperceptibly in that moment.
He knew she was lying. This was the first time she had ever hidden something from him.
A silent, subtle estrangement, like a crack on glass, silently appeared between them. Hibiki realized that from now on, some burdens must be carried by her alone. And Yusuke understood for the first time that the girl who had always rushed toward him like a small sun no matter what happened, seemed to have walked alone into a deep shadow he couldn't reach, without him knowing.
He silently arranged the food from the lunchbox, then quietly sat beside her. The warehouse was very quiet, with only the old exhaust fan humming. Outside the window, the city lights remained brilliant, but that light seemed unable to penetrate into the crevice of their current silence.
