COLD HEART in TOKYO: Chapter 1

While you may already be familiar with these terms, I’ve provided their English definitions for those who may not be.

さん (san): This is a general, respectful suffix used to address or refer to someone. It's similar to "Mr.," "Mrs.," or "Ms." in English. It's commonly used for people of all ages and social statuses in both formal and informal contexts.

君 (kun): This suffix is often used for addressing younger males, or in a more familiar or casual setting. It can be used with people of the same or lower status, and it's commonly used among friends, students, or in professional settings where there is a clear hierarchy (like between a superior and a subordinate). 

Content warning: This novel contains descriptions of explicit sexual content. I will not be adding a trigger warning to each chapter with graphic content, so please consider this a general warning.

Translator’s Note: Some illustrations are available only in the EPUB version.

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"That concludes the audition. We’ll be contacting your agency with the results at a later date. Thank you very much for your time today."

At the voice of Miyamoto, who was serving as the facilitator, Masahiko Kusuda snapped back to reality. The five men seated across from him on folding chairs stood up in a scattered rhythm, bowed in unison as if rehearsed, and exited the workshop.

The moment the door shut behind them, Masahiko’s older brother, Masamitsu Kusuda—who had been seated beside him—let out a long, humid sigh and pinched at his chin beard. With a grim expression that already seemed to guess the outcome, he asked, “So? What did you think?”

Still with his arms crossed, Masamitsu let out a low grunt.

“Mind if I speak bluntly?”

“…Go ahead.”

“Not a single one of them gave me any inspiration.”

Masahiko felt the same. He couldn’t imagine picking even one from among those five.

“I thought number three was kind of handsome,” Miyamoto offered from a woman’s perspective. Number three had light brown hair and looked like he could be in some second-rate visual kei band. If they had to choose someone, he probably came the closest to matching the image of the accessories Masamitsu designed.

“That number three guy… didn’t he feel a little too slick?”

Masahiko knew exactly what he meant. There was something overly familiar about him—like he was too used to the environment. Masahiko casually flipped through the documents.

“Says here he’s been modeling for ten years… wait, ten years? He’s a veteran.”

The guy was twenty-four, which meant he’d started in the industry at fourteen. Expecting him to still seem fresh was a big ask. Masamitsu tapped his ballpoint pen rhythmically against the desk.

“Ideally, I want someone we can work with for ten, even twenty years. That’s why I don’t want to compromise on choosing our model.”

After the three of them talked it over, they decided—since Masamitsu wasn’t convinced, all five were rejected. With the verdict settled, Masamitsu dismantled the audition setup—just a couple of chairs and a table thrown together in a corner of the workshop—and briskly returned to work.

Masahiko went back upstairs with Miyamoto to the second-floor office, which doubled as a reception area and was about twenty tatami mats in size (roughly 33 square meters). He already felt a headache coming on just thinking about how he’d have to call each candidate directly to tell them they didn’t make the cut—unlike the first and second rounds, which had been handled by mail.

Masamitsu was the president and designer of a men’s accessory brand called CRUX. He’d originally worked for a label called Delhart, but eventually broke off to launch his own brand.

When he started the company, Masamitsu had asked his younger brother Masahiko, “I’m thinking of starting a company—could you help me?” Masahiko had spent three days agonizing over the decision. He had a steady job at the time—some minor complaints, sure, but the income was stable. Starting a business meant bigger profit potential, but also taking on all the risk. If it failed, he could end up saddled with debt.

People might say it was overly pessimistic to be thinking about bankruptcy before the company even existed, but Masahiko believed in planning for the worst. His then-girlfriend, Miyabi, had also warned him, “You’d better think this through.” The anxiety never truly went away, but compared to carrying out orders like a machine, the appeal of doing work he could shape with his own ideas was stronger. Masamitsu had promised, “If you help me, I’ll leave all the management to you.”

“Even if it fails and goes bankrupt, it’s not like you’re going to die.”

Those were the words of his friend, Tohru Takahisa, which gave him the final push. Masahiko took the leap into entrepreneurship.

Their parents, who viewed Masamitsu’s job as an accessory designer as only marginally better than working nightlife, were shocked when they found out their younger son was getting involved too. Their mother burst into tears; their father was furious.

Because of how things had turned out, they couldn’t borrow money from their parents. Using Masamitsu’s savings and a loan from the bank, they managed to rent a single apartment unit to serve as both office and workshop, gather the bare minimum of equipment, and launch CRUX as a two-man company run by brothers.

Masamitsu focused solely on making the products, which meant Masahiko had to handle everything else aside from “designing and crafting the accessories.” The sources for materials and the stores that agreed to carry their products had been arranged through Masamitsu’s connections, but with only two retail partners, it wasn’t nearly enough to make a living.

After much thought, Masahiko decided to build a homepage for CRUX and start offering custom-made wedding rings, exclusively online and by reservation. The idea came while flipping through another company’s jewelry catalog—he noticed all the wedding ring designs looked the same and felt uninspired. He thought, maybe there were people out there who would want the kind of unique wedding rings Masamitsu could create. When he brought it up, Masamitsu was immediately on board. They gave it a try—and it was a hit.

Because it was by reservation, Masamitsu could work at his own pace without overexerting himself. And since they were wedding rings, customers always ordered two. On top of that, most people requested platinum, which was expensive, so they could price accordingly. Just from those wedding ring orders, the two of them were able to earn enough income to scrape by.

Though the revenue stabilized, the amount of miscellaneous tasks and clerical work snowballed, and every day felt like a blur. Masahiko barely had time to go back to his apartment, practically living in the office/workshop. The only time he could even sleep was during train rides, where he’d conk out the moment he sat down. There was no time to see his girlfriend. Even when Miyabi sent him an email saying she wanted to break up, he was so swamped he forgot to reply. When he finally responded two days later with “Please reconsider,” she fired back with a furious “Don’t screw with me”—and that was that.

Four years ago, back when all Masahiko hoped for was to keep the business from folding or going into the red, they ended up collaborating with a perfumer friend of Masamitsu’s who had his own indie fragrance brand. They released a limited-edition set that paired accessories with a fragrance—and it sold like crazy, far beyond their expectations, instantly boosting CRUX’s reputation as a brand.

The spark that set it all off was a photo used in the promotional poster, taken by Masahiko’s photographer friend, Tohru Takahisa. It was a nude shot of two figures with their faces obscured. The man in front was slender enough to blur the sense of gender, and the photo stirred curiosity—was it two men? A man and a woman? The ambiguity made it a hot topic and even landed them a spot on TV.

Of the two men in the photo, one was Tohru himself, and the androgynous figure who caused such a stir was his lover, Keishi Fujishima. The photo hadn’t even been taken for the poster—it was a personal shot. Tohru had strongly objected to using it, but Masamitsu had fallen completely in love with it, saying, “I can’t imagine anything else.” In the end, they begged and convinced him to let them use it.

Masahiko had also thought it was a great photo, but never imagined it would become such a huge success that it would completely flip their lives upside down.

Thanks to that collaboration, they pulled in massive profits and were able to acquire a small four-story building to serve as their own shop, workshop, and office. They even managed to hire about four employees, including jewelry artisans.

CRUX released new collections twice a year—in spring/summer and fall/winter. The promotional posters and novelty photography were always handled by Tohru. But ever since that collaboration poster, they hadn’t used a person as a model even once.

The company was finally on track. Every now and then, they even got inquiries from overseas. Masahiko found himself idly daydreaming—if they could just keep things running like this, maybe someday a stylist or celebrity from abroad would fall in love with CRUX accessories, and it would spark a global boom. But while he was off fantasizing like that, a crisis quietly crept in from beneath his feet.

Masamitsu—the pillar and cornerstone of CRUX—lost the ability to design.

“Nothing’s coming to me…”

It had been five years since they started the business, and during that time, Masamitsu had been creating accessories nonstop with everything he had. Now that sales had stabilized and he finally let his guard down for a moment, it was as if everything inside him had been drained away. His mind went completely blank. Seeing someone online comment that his designs had become “dated” only deepened the slump.

They were supposed to start planning the sales strategy for next year’s spring/summer line, but the design sketches Masahiko had been waiting on never came. And when he asked, this was the answer. Masahiko was at a total loss.

They tried various things to help refresh his mindset—got him to take up sports, sent him on a family trip overseas—but nothing worked. If Masamitsu couldn’t design, there could be no new products.

For the upcoming spring/summer season, they could maybe scrape by by calling it a “revival” and re-releasing updated versions of past popular pieces. But what if Masamitsu still couldn’t design by the next season? A jewelry brand that can’t present new work has no future. They were completely cornered.

While Masahiko was stuck, brooding over whether CRUX could even survive, Masamitsu showed up in the second-floor office with a rare look of brightness on his face and said:

“Why don’t we get a dedicated model for CRUX?”

“I’m turning thirty-five this year, right? Once you hit a certain age, your sensibilities start to age with you, whether you want them to or not. But then I realized—it’s not just me. Everyone in my generation is aging the same way. I want people who are getting older to keep wearing cool accessories that match their age, not just whatever’s trendy. And I want to keep making those kinds of accessories from now on. That’s why I want someone who’ll share that concept with me—someone who’ll grow with our customers for twenty, even thirty years. Someone who’ll be the face of CRUX. If I have a partner like that, I think I can stop comparing myself to other people and keep moving forward without getting stuck.”

If your brand targets teenagers, you lose your fans as soon as they age out of that group. Beyond getting bored, it’s that edgy, avant-garde accessories start to feel mismatched with the fashion and lifestyles of the next generation.

What Masamitsu wanted was to keep the original CRUX fans from drifting away—he’d change the designs in step with their aging tastes and turn CRUX into a brand that grew along with them.

That strategy definitely made sense. But the problem was, the generation most likely to buy accessories was the late teens to twenties group. Shifting away from them would probably hurt sales. …Or maybe not—if they could successfully bring in new fans from that older demographic, they could make up the difference.

Masahiko accepted Masamitsu’s proposal and agreed to bring in a dedicated model. And almost comically, the very next day, Masamitsu’s eyes lit up with energy as he said, “I think I’ve got a new design idea.” They decided to wait on the next collection until that design was ready.

If just one or two models could get them out of this crisis, it was a small price to pay.

Masamitsu hadn’t specified anyone in particular, so Masahiko immediately began looking for potential candidates.

At first, he considered musicians. But in that world, trends came and went even faster than in fashion—and unless the artist had a strong, unique identity, their image would get stuck to whatever hit song made them famous. Professional models were the safer option, but the question was—could any of them really stick around for twenty or thirty years, like Masamitsu wanted?

No. They had to.

Even after checking through the homepages of every modeling agency he could find, Masahiko still couldn’t find a single model he felt was the one. Masamitsu, for his part, offered no suggestions, yet kept pressuring him with, “Found anyone good yet?” Masahiko realized it was impossible to handle both work and this search all on his own, so he finally decided to hold an audition. He figured it would be easier if the candidates came to him. That assumption, however, was far too naive. The auditions ended up taking more effort than doing the search himself.

Since they hadn’t set any restrictions aside from age, they received over 1,500 applications. Going through each and every one was absolute hell.

“CRUX got a lot of buzz for that poster with a person as a model, right?” Miyamoto said, calmly analyzing the situation while sorting through the mountain of paperwork. “I bet a lot of models applied thinking that if they got cast, their face would get out there.”

From the 1,500 applicants, they narrowed it down to 50 in the first round. For the second round, those 50 submitted one-minute self-introduction videos. They showed all of those to Masamitsu, who selected five finalists to proceed to the final round. Even after all that time and effort, they ended up with no one suitable.

Masahiko Kusuda figured: Might as well get the unpleasant part over with quickly! He placed the five candidates’ files in front of him and was about to start making the calls—then hesitated. The models probably hadn’t even made it back to their agencies yet. Getting hit with a “You didn’t make it” the moment they walked in the door felt too cruel. Maybe it would be better to wait until tomorrow afternoon, give it a day.

He grabbed his wallet and stood up.

“I’m gonna grab some food.”

“Roger that~,” Miyamoto replied, raising her right hand.

Lately she’d declared she was “on a diet” and started bringing her own lunch.

“Make sure you take your phone with you,” she added.

Startled, Kusuda reached for the smartphone he’d left abandoned on his desk. He’d once forgotten it at the office while out on a meeting, and even though it had been an urgent matter, no one could reach him. Miyamoto had absolutely torn into him afterward.

At twenty-six, Miyamoto was the youngest in the company, but incredibly dependable. She used to be a web designer—CRUX had hired her to build their homepage, and that’s how they met. She had great taste and even had experience with bookkeeping. They ended up poaching her from the web design firm and bringing her on as a full-time employee.

He headed downstairs and exited through the back door. The scorching sun hit him like a hammer, and his head started to spin. It was only early July—the rainy season hadn’t even ended—and it was already this hot. He dreaded the full force of summer.

Rounding the building to the front, he peeked into the ground-floor shop and saw two sets of customers inside. Not bad for a weekday afternoon. Come on, please buy something… he silently urged as he looked across the street at the cluster of fast food joints.

The final interviews had started at 11:00 and wrapped up by 1:00 p.m. Naturally, he was starving. Gyudon? Ramen? Burgers?

As he decided on gyudon and began to cross the street, he spotted a familiar face entering a hamburger place, head slightly lowered. He quickly followed.

“Hey, Tohru.”

The tall man stopped in his tracks and turned around slowly, like a cow. The square black case slung over his shoulder was a camera bag.

“Long time no see. If you were working around here, you should’ve dropped by. You heading to lunch now? Or meeting someone?”

Tohru replied curtly, “Lunch.”

“Then let’s eat together. Man, today’s been rough—lemme tell you about it.”

The first floor was crowded, so they went up to the second. Only two customers were there: a college-aged guy with books and notebooks spread across his table, and a heavily made-up woman absorbed in her smartphone.

They settled into a window seat, and Kusuda launched into a full account of how the audition had gone. Tohru, seated across from him, listened with his usual unreadable expression, offering the occasional absentminded grunt or nod. That was just how Tohru was—quiet by nature.

Between venting his frustrations, Kusuda bit into his hamburger. Watching the man across from him quietly munching on fries, he thought, Tohru's actually really good-looking. Tall, composed, not exactly friendly—but his features were well-defined. If he had the slightest interest, he could’ve easily made a living as a model instead of a photographer.

Model… model…

What if Tohru modeled for CRUX?

The moment the idea crossed his mind, his brain screamed: Nope nope nope—no way in hell.

Tohru was the type who wouldn’t lift a finger for anything he wasn’t interested in. Plus, he absolutely hated having his face appear on TV or in magazines.

“What?”

Tohru must’ve noticed Kusuda staring. “Nah,” Kusuda said, brushing it off with a nervous laugh.

“The creative world’s… I dunno. Pretty tough.”

Tohru grumbled, “That doesn’t make any damn sense,” and took a gulp of Coke.

“Masamitsu’s in a slump. Said something about how his own sense of style is getting outdated. That really hit me.”

“Same goes for any profession,” Tohru said flatly.

“Even you, huh…”

“It’s the truth. You just figure out where you stand at that moment and do your best. If you can’t make peace with it, you quit.”

“Yeah, but quitting’s not that easy.”

“Quitting doesn’t change who you are.”

His words were blunt—but they slid right into Kusuda’s chest. Tohru’s eyes were unwavering. No hesitation. He was strong. Always had a clear backbone. Whenever Kusuda stood in front of someone like that, his own troubles felt like tiny pebbles by the roadside.

The reason he’d finally made the decision to quit his last job and go into business with Masamitsu was because of something this man had said. Talking with Tohru always made life feel simpler. That was what he liked about him.

“You really are something, you know that?”

Tohru tilted his head at an awkward angle. His ears were red. ...He’s definitely embarrassed.

“Seriously, just talking to you makes all my problems feel stupid.”

“…Are you mocking me?” Tohru muttered, pouting a little.

“No way. I’m being totally honest.”

Kusuda leaned forward and smacked Tohru on the shoulder a few times. He wasn’t someone who created things himself, but he felt like he could understand, just a little, what kind of resolve it took to be a creator.

“That dedicated model you’re looking for—does it have to be a model?”

Maybe he was getting shy—Tohru changed the subject.

“Not necessarily,” Kusuda replied. “I thought about musicians, but they end up tied too strongly to the image of their songs.”

“What about an actor?”

An actor… Kusuda rolled the word around in his mouth.

“Actors tend to stay in the profession for life. As they age, they move into roles that suit their age. Isn’t that closer to what your brother wants?”

A shiver ran down his spine, like he’d been struck by divine revelation. Why didn’t I think of that before?

Tohru had solved the question Kusuda had been struggling with for days—in just a few minutes.

“…You really are amazing.”

Tohru frowned openly. “Flatter me all you want, it won’t get you anything.”

◇:-:◆:-:◇

Back at the office, Kusuda immediately began shortlisting suitable actors. As expected, the ones who stood out most were the current hot names. He narrowed it down to three and showed them to Masamitsu.

Masamitsu was fully on board with the idea of using an actor as CRUX’s exclusive model, and he liked all three picks.

The next afternoon, after informing the agencies of the five model finalists that they hadn’t been selected, Kusuda picked up the phone and contacted the agency representing his top-choice actor.

Maybe it was the lingering buzz from the limited-edition poster that Tohru had shot—whatever the reason, every agency he called was extremely receptive. That part went well.

But—there was a problem.

The contract fees.

The first-choice actor’s asking price was way too high, and Kusuda had to give up on him. The second actor wasn’t much better. And the third? Of the three, he had the highest fee of all.

Kusuda clutched his head. He hadn’t expected the prices to be this steep. Aside from that one limited-edition poster, CRUX had never used a person as a model. Tohru always did their shoots at a friends-and-family rate, so advertising had been cheap.

They kept expenses down and funneled profits into their staff’s wages. Masamitsu’s philosophy was: “If a craftsman does great work, they deserve to be paid accordingly.” They’d been thrifty across the board, so a huge talent fee was a painful blow. The amount they were being quoted was more than the entire yearly advertising budget.

Masamitsu was excited about the idea, and Kusuda wavered—maybe they could stretch the budget and hire one of the three, just this once. But after agonizing over it, he said no.

Sure, they could maybe hold on for a year or two… but there was no way they could sustain those fees long-term. What Masamitsu wanted was someone who could work with CRUX for ten years or more.

With fees like this, hiring a big-name, currently popular actor was out of the question.

Kusuda decided to shift his focus to newcomers or completely unknown actors. That way, the contract fees would be much lower.

He started watching DVDs of movies and dramas nonstop, desperately looking for someone who fit the CRUX image. If he found an actor with a good vibe, he’d immediately look them up online.

At first, he figured acting skill didn’t matter—this was just a modeling role, after all. But partway through, he changed his mind. Since this was a long-term exclusive deal, the actor had to have some staying power. If they were terrible, they’d stop getting work and disappear from the industry altogether.

“Ugh, my eyes are fried…”

Kusuda collapsed face-down on the sofa in his apartment. Since morning, he’d watched four rented drama DVDs back to back. Before he knew it, it was past 3:00 p.m. His precious day off had been eaten up by a not-even-funny comedy drama. It had a cast full of young actors, and he’d watched it carefully, hoping to spot someone with potential—but it was a bust. All he got was eye strain.

As his tired brain slumped in exhaustion, the sound of an incoming email rang out. It was from Miyabi.

Even though their relationship had ended badly—with her cursing him out—once CRUX took off thanks to the fragrance collaboration, she messaged him like nothing had happened: “How’ve you been?”

He still had lingering feelings for her, so when she reached out, he replied. When she asked him out, he went. But she hadn’t said she wanted to get back together—so they hadn’t slept together.

The email this time was an invite. A new Thai restaurant had opened in Shinjuku. Did he want to go together sometime?

“…Thai food, huh. I’m not good with spicy stuff.”

He closed the message. Miyabi wouldn’t complain anymore if he took a day to reply. He hadn’t changed—so the one who had changed must be her.

He popped out the DVD and switched the screen from video input back to regular TV.

Immediately, a voice rang out from the screen:

“I hate you, Dad!”

A boy who looked to be in third or fourth grade was sobbing uncontrollably. Kusuda recognized the child actor—he’d seen him before. Who was that again…? As he tried to remember, the scene changed.

The boy was walking with a dog along an unpaved country road. There was no explanation, but it was clear—he’d been scolded by his parents and run away from home with his dog.

He was approached by an old man walking by, and the two started talking. The boy's speech felt so natural, it didn’t even seem like acting. His expressions shifted constantly and vividly. While the clothing and makeup of the adult actors gave off a dated vibe and pulled Kusuda out of the moment, he couldn’t take his eyes off the boy.

Kusuda checked the program guide to see what movie it was. It had been made fifteen years ago. The boy on screen looked to be around third or fourth grade, which meant he would now be about twenty-four or twenty-five.

The boy playing the lead was named Kaito Akizawa.

Kaito Akizawa—Kusuda knew that name. At sixteen, he had won Best Actor at the Japanese Film Awards, the youngest to ever do so. The movie he starred in had also been submitted to international film festivals, where it received awards.

After the win, Akizawa had been cast as the lead in a major film by a well-known director, but was removed from the project following some trouble. After receiving such a prestigious award at such a young age, Akizawa had let it go to his head. He reportedly mouthed off to the director, who lost all patience with him. Around that time, talk shows slapped him with headlines like “spoiled actor” and “cocky high schooler,” and commentators tore into him without mercy.

He was younger than Kusuda, yet had already succeeded as an actor and even won awards. At first, Kusuda had admired him with genuine awe, thinking, “What an amazing guy.” But as the news of his removal from the film circulated, that respect soured into contempt. “Doesn’t matter how good an actor he is—if he’s got a crap attitude, he’s no good.”

After being removed from that major film, Akizawa’s name vanished from television. Kusuda figured that was the end of his career. But when he searched online, he found that Akizawa was still hanging on in the industry, working as an actor—albeit quietly.

The only photo on his agency’s website showed him with long bangs hanging over his face, his posture slightly slouched, and a gloomy aura. Kusuda couldn’t help thinking, Is that seriously the best picture they had? He looked completely unapproachable.

But according to the profile, he was 185 cm (6ft) tall with long arms and legs. His face was small and neatly proportioned—the kind of classic, clean-cut beauty common in the entertainment world.

Akizawa’s current work centered around stage performances. He hadn’t had a lead role. But he was appearing in a play currently being performed at a venue just two train stops away from where Kusuda was. The show would start in two hours. It was hot, and going out felt like a pain. Still, he changed into something more presentable and got ready to head out.

He was just a little curious to see what kind of acting that once-magnetic child star was doing now.

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