Chapter 7: We are Hibiki Dingdang Film!
2636words
Hibiki Natsume sat in front of the monitor, but the screen was completely blank. She had been sitting here idly for two whole days, going through stack after stack of draft paper, yet unable to write even a decent story opening. Those once easily accessible, wildly imaginative B-movie ideas now seemed to have been washed away by the downpour, leaving nothing but a chaotic muddy mess in her brain.
Her father's secret weighed on her heart like a heavy block of lead. The surname Saionji had transformed from a simple symbol representing "creditor" and "sugar daddy" into a complex enigma filled with questions, betrayal, and even hatred. She could no longer, as before, spend Akira Saionji's money with a clear conscience to pursue her creative dreams, because the foundation of these dreams might have been built upon the ruins of another person's dreams—someone with the surname "Natsume."
This contradiction and sense of being torn apart made it impossible for her to concentrate on conceptualizing her entry for the "Golden Hummingbird" competition. She had tried writing about domineering CEOs, campus zombies, fantasy adventures... but every story seemed so pale, fake, filled with cheap dramatic conflicts that she herself couldn't believe in.
"Can't write anything?"
A hoarse voice came from behind, interrupting her thoughts. It was Ren Kurosawa. He had sat up from the sofa at some point, holding a can of iced coffee in his hand, looking at her with a complex expression as the work light outlined her tired profile.
"Hmm." Hibiki didn't turn around, just responded weakly.
Ren Kurosawa walked to her side, placed the cold can of coffee next to her hand, and remained silent for a moment, as if organizing his thoughts. The rain outside grew more intense, making the silence in the room even more deafening.
"I might... be leaving," he finally spoke, his voice somewhat unsteady against the sound of the rain.
Hibiki's hand holding the mouse froze. She slowly turned her head to look at Kurosawa. His face no longer showed his usual mockery and impatience; instead, there was an expression she had never seen before—one mixed with struggle and apology.
"Producer Osumi came to see me." Ren Kurosawa didn't avoid her gaze, telling her word for word about the invitation from the film company, including the additional condition of "making a complete break from the 'Hibiki Chime' Studio." He spoke calmly, as if narrating something unrelated to himself, but his hands gripping the coffee can tightly, with knuckles turning slightly white, betrayed the turmoil in his heart.
Hibiki listened quietly, her face showing no expression. No surprise, no anger, not even the sadness of betrayal. Her calmness, on the contrary, made Kurosawa feel inexplicably anxious.
"That... is a great opportunity," Hibiki finally spoke, her voice soft yet exceptionally clear. "The Silent Rails, I've heard about that script. Being able to film it is every director's dream. You should go."
"You..." Ren Kurosawa was stunned. He had imagined all possible reactions Hibiki might have—she might cry, accuse him of ingratitude, or try to persuade him to stay. He had even prepared responses for these scenarios. But he never expected that she would so calmly, even with a hint of encouragement, tell him to go.
"Hibiki Dingdang has come this far with a lot of help from you," Hibiki stood up, walked to the window, and gazed at the streaks of rainwater flowing down the glass. The city's neon lights became blurred behind the water curtain. "You never belonged here. You're Ren Kurosawa, the genius director who should be standing on the podium at international film festivals, not someone cooped up in this shabby warehouse, like a... babysitter who helps turn my garbage ideas into something watchable."
By the end of her speech, she couldn't help but give a small laugh, her smile tinged with self-mockery, yet without any resentment.
"I won't try to keep you here." Hibiki turned around and looked at him seriously. In those eyes that always burned with flame, there was now an unprecedented, clear frankness. "Go where you need to go, do what you truly want to do. This is the best choice for you, and for everyone."
Hibiki's words hit Ren Kurosawa's heart like a gentle hammer. Her willingness to let him go, her understanding, her selflessness—all of these made him feel more lost than any angry questioning could have, and even... painful. This made him realize that the girl before him had, without his knowing, grown to a height that he now had to look up to. She was no longer the rookie who needed his sharp tongue to spur her forward, but a true director who could stand on her own.
"But," Hibiki changed the subject, and that familiar, unyielding determination rekindled in her eyes, "before that, you need to help me complete this last work. Consider it... severance pay you owe me."
Ren Kurosawa looked at her, at her forced casual smile, and that hint of undisguisable fatigue and vulnerability in her eyes. He suddenly understood that she wasn't indifferent, but rather choosing to face their parting in a more mature, stronger way.
"...Fine." A thousand words ultimately condensed into just one. He drained the can of iced coffee in one go, then accurately tossed the empty can into a distant trash bin. "Where's the script? Let me see it. I want to know what shocking new ideas that garbage-filled brain of yours has come up with this time."
His tone returned to its usual sharp-tongued manner, but beneath that harshness lay a gentle undertone that even he himself hadn't noticed. This final work would be the only thing he could do for her now.
Just as Hibiki and Ren Kurosawa reached this "final agreement," at the other end of the city, in the top-floor CEO office of the Saionji Group, Akira Saionji stood alone before a massive floor-to-ceiling window, gazing down at Tokyo shrouded in heavy rain.
He had just finished a video call with the family elders, and the angry roars and naked threats from his grand-uncle still lingered in the air. He removed his gold-rimmed glasses and tiredly pinched the bridge of his nose. The inheritance rights—this heavy and tedious shackle he had borne since childhood—for the first time made him feel a tangible, irritating pressure.
He could certainly choose to easily give up that small, vibrant studio and abandon that debt-ridden female director who always brought him endless joy and surprises, just to keep his position. For a qualified businessman, this would be the most rational and correct choice.
But somehow, at some point, the words "rational" and "correct" had become so pale and powerless when he faced Hibiki Natsume. What floated in his mind were images of her arguing forcefully in the meeting room, her flustered appearance on the film set, the way her cheeks puffed up like a small animal's when she ate, and every time she looked at him with those undefeated eyes, as if saying "just you wait and see"...
These vivid, lively images were ten thousand times more interesting than the cold numbers on the group's financial reports.
If the price of inheriting all this is giving up the only joy that makes him feel "alive," then this inheritance right might as well be abandoned.
Akira Saionji put his glasses back on, his eyes regaining their usual clarity and sharpness. He sat back at his desk, opened the online banking interface on his personal computer, and his fingers quickly typed on the keyboard. Moments later, a huge sum of money was silently transferred into a special account labeled "Golden Hummingbird Competition Committee" through a complex, untraceable anonymous account.
After finishing all this, he picked up his phone and sent a brief message to Hibiki:
"Fifty million, deposited into the competition's public account. This is a personal loan, with compound interest. When you win, pay it back to me with interest. What do those old fossils who only understand financial statements know about happiness?"
After sending the message, he tossed his phone aside, leaned back in his chair, and let out a long sigh. He didn't know how big a storm his decision would bring, but at this moment, he felt an unprecedented sense of relief and liberation.
Hibiki's phone vibrated once. She picked it up and saw the message from Saionji, followed immediately by an official bank notification confirming that a huge amount of funds had been deposited into her competition account as an "anonymous donation."
She stared at the dizzying string of numbers, momentarily lost in thought. Fifty million... he had actually invested this money in such a way. What did it mean? A show of force? A provocation? Or was it truly... unconditional support regardless of consequences?
She recalled the blurry contract among her father's belongings, remembered the words "Saionji Investment." The man before her, his actions were filled with contradictions that defied interpretation. He was like a king wearing a jester's mask—you never knew what true intentions lay beneath his laughing expression.
But regardless, this money completely freed her from worries. She could now create without considering commercial returns, without catering to anyone's tastes, and make a truly pure work that belonged solely to herself.
She turned off her phone and sat back down in front of the monitor. All her previous confusion and uncertainty seemed to be washed away completely by the confidence that came with that enormous sum.
She opened a new document, her fingers dancing across the keyboard. This time, she was no longer crafting those false stories that belonged to others. What she wanted to tell was a story she knew most intimately, and also the most painful one.
A story about an irresponsible father who chased his dreams, an enormous debt that fell from the sky, and a debt-ridden girl who struggles to survive in a quagmire, using a garbage bin as her helmet.
A story about a sharp-tongued, tsundere genius director, a bored but funny CEO, a gentle and understanding childhood friend... A story about how a group of misfit "losers" launch a counterattack against this fucked-up world with passion and creativity from an old, dilapidated warehouse.
The core of the script is no longer about any fancy techniques or bizarre gimmicks, but the most authentic, raw emotions filled with blood and tears. She wants to infuse all her past embarrassment, struggles, despair, and hope into this work.
She gave this work a name—"The Comeback of Hibiki."
When Hibiki distributed this screenplay outline filled with autobiographical elements to everyone in the studio, a long silence fell over the warehouse. Kenta Suzuki and Ai Sato looked at those events they had personally experienced, now written down by Hibiki with a humorous yet bittersweet touch, their eyes reddening.
"Hibiki-nee..." Kenta Suzuki's voice was somewhat choked.
"This... this is what we should be filming." Ai Sato wiped her eyes forcefully.
Ren Kurosawa held the thin outline for a very long time. He saw the girl who, at their first meeting, stubbornly claimed she would create miracles with a trash can; he saw the rookie director who dared to talk back to him for the sake of light and shadow in a shot; he saw the figure who lowered her head in embarrassment when mocked by everyone at the salon... These images flashed through his mind one by one with unprecedented clarity.
"...cliché." He finally uttered this word, but his voice lacked its usual contempt. He picked up a red pen and began marking the script outline, each stroke precise and forceful.
"The opening rhythm is too slow. Use quick cross-cutting to directly present the conflict between debt and dreams."
"For this plot, use handheld follow shots to increase the documentary feel and instability."
"For the ending, don't linger on 'success,' but conclude with the imagery of 'continuing forward.' That's where the power lies."
He never again uttered the word "garbage," but instead devoted himself completely, contributing all his life's learning and understanding of film art unreservedly to this work he had called "cliché."
In the final preparation stage before the competition, this hastily assembled amateur troupe demonstrated unprecedented cohesion.
Ren Kurosawa became the de facto executive producer and technical director. He polished every detail of the script with the most rigorous standards and designed the arrangement of every shot. Hibiki, as the director, demonstrated unprecedented maturity and control. She was no longer the rookie who needed to be pushed along by Ren Kurosawa; she had learned how to transform her emotional intuition into precise instructions that the team could execute. A remarkable chemistry formed between the two—a glance, a gesture was all they needed to understand each other's thoughts.
Kenta Suzuki and Ai Sato also brought two hundred percent enthusiasm to the project. They maximized every bit of the budget, using the most realistic props and the most exquisite makeup to perfectly recreate those absurd yet authentic memories from the script.
The entire warehouse transformed into a high-speed, passion-filled dream-making machine.
On the day of the competition, the screening hall at the Tokyo Cultural Center was packed without a single empty seat. The air was filled with a tense yet anticipatory atmosphere.
When the words "Work No. 17, 'Hibiki Dingdong's Counterattack'" appeared on the big screen, Hibiki sat in the last row of the audience, her palms covered in cold sweat.
The lights dimmed, and the story began.
The film opened with a rough, shaky, almost documentary-like quality. A girl faced a room full of debt collectors and a five-hundred-thousand debt note, her face showing numb despair. This was followed by rapid flashbacks of her awkward attempts: using a garbage can to fashion a helmet, illuminating scenes with flashlights, and scrounging for props in dollar stores. These images were accompanied by her self-narrated inner monologue in a mocking tone, instantly capturing all viewers with an atmosphere both absurd and heartbreaking.
The story neither beautified poverty nor dramatized misery. It simply presented, in an extremely sincere and even self-deprecating way, the naked struggle of a "loser" in desperate circumstances for everyone to see.
The audience sometimes burst into laughter at those outrageous money-saving techniques in the play, and sometimes felt a lump in their throats when the female protagonist shed a tear while eating instant noodles and looking out at the city lights through her window.
The film's quality isn't perfect; some shots appear rough due to budget constraints, and some lighting isn't refined. But it's filled with primitive, fierce, and vibrant vitality. That stubbornness of "even if I'm stuck in the mud, I'll still bloom" precisely strikes the heart of everyone in the audience who once had dreams but was beaten down by reality.
The final scene of the film freezes in an abandoned warehouse. The female protagonist has completed her work; she turns around, looking directly at the camera, her face still bearing the exhaustion and smudges from staying up all night, yet she displays a brilliant smile mixed with tears and hope.
The lights come on, and the entire audience falls silent.
A deathly silence lasted for a full ten seconds. Then, from some inconspicuous corner, the first applause abruptly rang out. Immediately after, a second, a third... The applause spread like wildfire, instantly connecting into a unified sound, ultimately converging into a thunderous, prolonged wave.
