COLD HEART in TOKYO: Chapter 3

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The day after making contact, Kusuda was quickly scheduled to meet Kaito Akizawa’s manager, Numata. Akizawa’s agency, Miyako Entertainment, was located in a mixed-use building about five minutes on foot from Yoyogi Station. Kusuda arrived five minutes early.

According to their website, Miyako Entertainment managed just five actors. The only one who appeared regularly on TV was a veteran in his fifties, often cast in supporting roles in dramas. The remaining four—including Akizawa—were younger: one in his thirties, and three in their twenties. All primarily worked in theater.

After giving his name at the reception desk, Kusuda was led further into the office. The hallway walls were plastered with posters and flyers—one for a sake brand featuring the older actor as the image character, others advertising the stage productions of their talent.

He was shown into a reception room. As he sat waiting, a man in a Hawaiian shirt and shorts breezed in, raising a hand and greeting him with a casual, “Hey there!”

He looked to be in his fifties. With sun-darkened skin—like from golfing—and the overall vibe of a seasoned industry man, the middle-aged guy handed Kusuda a business card, saying, “Pleasure to meet you. I’m Nobuki Miyako, president of Miyako Entertainment.”

Wasn’t the manager’s name supposed to be Numata? Kusuda thought, but reflexively exchanged cards with a polite, “Nice to meet you.”

The card read: President, Miyako Entertainment — Nobuki Miyako. Realizing he was suddenly face-to-face with the agency’s president, Kusuda had to glance down at the card a second time in surprise.

“Manager Numata is running a bit late, so I thought I’d greet you myself,” Miyako said. “I mean, CRUX reaching out to our Akizawa—what an honor that is!”

Despite Kusuda being nearly twenty years younger, Miyako remained extremely courteous.

“CRUX products are super popular with young people, right? Some of our younger actors are fans. Though they always complain the limited editions are impossible to get their hands on.”

“We’re such a small company… we’re really sorry we can’t produce more units.”

From beneath his open Hawaiian shirt, a CRUX necklace gleamed on Miyako’s chest. The obvious “notice me” attempt—“I wear your stuff, I like your brand”—was a little much, but ignoring it would be awkward too.

“Is that one of ours you’re wearing? Thank you so much.”

“Oh? You noticed?” Miyako said, scratching the back of his head with a suspicious grin. “Yeah, I love this one. It’s super cool.”

The design didn’t go at all with a Hawaiian shirt. Kusuda suspected he’d either sent someone to rush out and buy it, or he’d borrowed it. If he’d actually come to the store himself, the shop staff would’ve recommended something simpler.

“When people think CRUX, that ‘LOVE&HATE’ poster comes to mind. That thing was just brilliant.”

Every time Kusuda had met with other talent agencies, without fail, someone brought up the LOVE&HATE poster.

“Just like that one—please give our Akizawa a big boost, make him a star!”

President Miyako was clearly on board. The only remaining obstacle was the contract fee. This was the critical moment.

“As I’m sure you’re aware, we’re a very small accessory brand,” Kusuda began. “We do get featured in magazines from time to time, but our production capacity is limited. So is our revenue, and honestly, we just can’t allocate a huge budget for advertising…”

The figure Kusuda had in mind: ¥500,000 total for a one-year contract as CRUX’s image model, covering modeling fees for two shoots—spring/summer and fall/winter collections.

“Mister Kusuda,” Miyako said with a sharp grin, “How many actors did you speak with before coming to us?”

Kusuda instinctively swallowed hard.

“The entertainment world’s a small one,” said Miyako, leaning back in his chair. “We’d already heard that CRUX was looking for a model. And when we found out you were having trouble with contract negotiations because of money, some of our younger actors said things like, ‘This could be my chance to get my face out there—I’d do it for free.’ …By the way, is the shoot being done by Tohru Takahisa?”

“Ah… yes,” Kusuda replied.

Miyako nodded, looking quite pleased.

“This would be CRUX’s first time using a person as a model since LOVE&HATE, right? And if it’s being shot by the famous Tohru Takahisa, I’d say it’s an honor just to be photographed—even if there’s no fee. Heck, I’d pay for the privilege.”

Kusuda couldn’t tell where this was headed, so he kept quiet, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“I honestly believe Akizawa won’t get another chance like this. We’re deeply grateful for the opportunity.”

Miyako bowed his head deeply.

“Ah, no, thank you,” Kusuda said reflexively, bowing in return—though the lack of any specific number around a contract fee was still nagging at him.

“If possible, could we handle the actual contract details, including the fee, with Manager Numata?”

As Kusuda gently broached the subject, Miyako replied flatly:

“There’s no need for a fee.”

No contract fee. Free of charge.

Unbelievable. Kusuda almost leapt out of his chair with excitement but quickly reined himself in.

“But surely we can’t have him work entirely for free…”

“Akizawa’s scheduled for a stage play, but aside from rehearsal and performance dates, we’ll clear his calendar as needed.”

“Still, he’ll be working as a model…”

Miyako slapped his palms on his thighs and leaned in.

“I’ll be honest—we want this CRUX job for Akizawa even if it means he works for free. We absolutely don’t want him going to another agency. That’s how much we value CRUX’s reputation and visibility. I already spoke with Akizawa about it yesterday, and he agreed.”

The president was dead serious.

Kusuda mentally pumped his fist. No contract fee. This is the best possible outcome. Going with Akizawa was the right call after all.

“For anything else, please coordinate with Numata. Akizawa has stage performances scheduled through next week, so he won’t be able to meet in person today. Sorry about that.”

With a final “We’re counting on you,” Miyako left the reception room.

Kusuda took a sip of the coffee he’d been served, a chuckle slipping out. He couldn’t stop himself from smiling.

Even if there was no fee, he figured they should at least cover Akizawa’s taxi fare for shoots… That was when the door to the reception room opened.

A man in a gray suit walked in, giving off the vibe of a bank clerk. He looked to be about the same age as Miyako—mid-fifties—but in stark contrast to the flashy president, he radiated a stiff, almost uptight sincerity that made it seem like he’d never utter a dirty joke in his life.

“Pleasure to meet you. I’m Numata, Kaito Akizawa’s manager.”

With flawless posture, Numata gave a textbook-perfect bow. Kusuda scrambled to his feet.

“I’m Kusuda from CRUX. It’s a pleasure.”

After exchanging business cards, they both took their seats.

Numata immediately said, “I believe President Miyako already discussed the matter of the contract fee, so I’d like to go over the remaining contract details, if I may.”

There was no small talk—just straight to business. Kusuda hurriedly pulled the file of contract documents from his bag and handed it over.

“Thank you. I’ll take a look.”

Numata adjusted the bridge of his silver-rimmed glasses and began reading the five-page contract line by line. The room went quiet, steeped in a particular kind of tension.

Kusuda sipped the rest of his coffee in small mouthfuls. This agency is extreme… he thought. Between the flashy, laid-back Miyako and the rigid, businesslike Numata—if you averaged the two of them out, you’d probably get the perfect balance.

After about fifteen minutes of careful review, Numata set the file down on the table.

“Overall, everything looks fine,” Numata said, “but I have one question. On page two, there’s a clause labeled ‘Role as CRUX’s advertising figurehead’—what does that entail, exactly?”

“That refers to having Akizawa-san wear our products whenever he appears in the media, such as in magazines or on television. If you inform us in advance, we’ll provide accessories suited to the outfit he’ll be wearing.”

“So for the duration of the season, Akizawa would essentially be a walking advertisement,” Numata said with a shallow nod, seemingly satisfied with the explanation.

“By the way, are you looking to keep the contract period to one year?”

“Yes, we’d like to start with a one-year contract. We may request a renewal depending on how things go, but since this is our first time working with an image model for the brand, we’d prefer to treat this year as a trial period.”

“I understand,” Numata replied, folding his fingers together calmly.

“This project is a rare opportunity for Akizawa to be seen again. Thank you very much.”

He bowed deeply again, and Kusuda, caught off guard, returned the gesture.

“May I ask one more question?” Numata added. “Why did CRUX choose Akizawa to be your image model?”

Because he used to have a strong aura but is now washed-up and pathetic—and that fits the collection’s concept. Because if he gains attention as CRUX’s model and manages a comeback, it’ll make for a great story.

None of that could be said out loud. Say something like that, and he’d probably have the contract shoved back at him with a line like “Our actors aren’t your toys.”

“Akizawa hasn’t had much presence in television or film recently, but he’s been acting for a long time, ever since he was a child,” Numata said. “To be honest, there are other actors out there with fresher, more youthful appeal.”

Kusuda froze in front of Numata, scrambling internally for a safe answer.

“…Akizawa-san plans to continue acting, right?”

A question for a question—awkward. But Numata answered immediately: “Yes. That man can’t do anything else but act.”

“Well, at our company… we were looking for someone who would continue acting even as they age.”

Numata looked momentarily puzzled, but then gave a short nod. “I see.”

After finalizing the contract, Numata handed Kusuda a packet listing Akizawa’s upcoming three-month schedule, his detailed profile, and measurements: height, weight, waist, chest, shoulder width, head circumference, shoe size. Along with that, he provided a full-body photo of Akizawa printed on A4 paper.

Since CRUX had never hired a person as a model before, they weren’t quite sure how to proceed—but with these measurements and a photo, the stylist would have a solid foundation for selecting wardrobe.

For all this to be prepared the day after their initial meeting—Numata was clearly a capable man.

“Normally, Akizawa should have been here himself to greet you,” Numata added, “but he’s currently in the middle of a stage run. If you don’t mind, please accept this.”

He offered Kusuda a complimentary ticket to the same stage production he’d seen on Sunday.

“He’s in this show. His role is short, but it’s a distinctive character…”

“I actually attended this play a few days ago,” Kusuda said.

Numata blinked in surprise, then smiled warmly.

“Thank you so much. Honestly, the production’s overall quality may not be the best, but Akizawa is giving it everything he has. He hasn’t been able to show his full potential yet, but I believe that, given the right opportunity, he could become an actor recognized on the world stage. I truly hope this project with your company will help Kaito Akizawa rise again.”

With an overwhelming sense of pressure on his shoulders, Kusuda left the talent agency. He seriously regretted how giddy he’d been over the “no fee” offer. If there were nothing to gain, no agency in their right mind would make the bold decision to loan out their actor without compensation.

It’s easy to enjoy high expectations when it’s all just for fun—but once people start getting serious, it becomes heavy. This whole idea of bringing in an image model was meant to keep Masamitsu motivated. Sure, it would be exciting if Akizawa managed to make a comeback from this job—but that wasn’t guaranteed. Even if they used him as a model, there was always a chance the world would shrug and say nothing.

“Well, you never know unless you try…”

Muttering to himself, Kusuda boarded the train and let out a deep breath. He pulled out his document case and flipped through the materials Numata had given him.

Looking over Akizawa’s schedule for the next three months, he saw that in every month, more than half the days were blank—completely open.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

Masamitsu, having broken free from his slump, produced nearly forty design sketches. From those, they narrowed it down to fifteen pieces that would serve as the core of the collection. The prototypes were ready, Tohru’s schedule had been arranged, and they settled on a full-day shoot for the novelties and poster visuals on September 4th.

Then Masamitsu said, “Since we’re using a model, wouldn’t it be fun if we turned half of the 26-page novelty booklet into a kind of story?”

“A story? Like what exactly?”

When Kusuda asked, Masamitsu replied, “Like, a guy who’s hit rock bottom, just completely messed up and bitter.”

That’s literally the exact theme of next season’s concept, Kusuda thought, instinctively tempted to say it out loud. The answer was absolutely no help.

Kusuda wasn’t much of a writer himself, so he passed Masamitsu’s vague request on to Tohru exactly as it was. Tohru just frowned and fell silent.

Not only were they already asking Tohru to do something he wasn’t fond of—shooting a person—but now they were piling on Masamitsu’s totally non-specific concept. It felt cruel to keep pushing more demands.

“Don’t worry about what Masamitsu said. Just shoot it the way you always do.”

Tohru didn’t respond at all.

Maybe he’s pissed? Kusuda worried.

Just as he began to grow uneasy, Tohru muttered, “For example…”

“If we shoot in a ruin, it could create the right kind of atmosphere. We did something like that a few years back, but that was in a closed-down botanical garden. This time, I’m thinking… an indoor location. Somewhere with lingering traces of human presence. A hotel, maybe.”

The moment Tohru said it, Kusuda sprang into action.

He scoured the internet for abandoned hotels, visited them for scouting, and narrowed it down to three candidates. After consulting with Tohru, they chose a hotel in Fuchū, secured permission from the property owner, and received the go-ahead to shoot there.

Kusuda emailed Manager Numata to let him know the shoot location had been changed to an abandoned hotel, and that the novelty booklet would now have a story-driven layout. Numata replied almost immediately, clearly delighted:

“I’ve noted the change. I think the story concept will highlight Akizawa’s character even more. I’m very much looking forward to the shoot.”

The day before the abandoned hotel shoot, while Kusuda was doing the final rounds of coordination from the office, he got a call from Numata.

Numata explained that, in addition to managing Akizawa, he was also handling two other actors. One of them had just been cast for their first-ever TV appearance and would need to travel for an on-location shoot—so Numata would be unable to accompany Akizawa to tomorrow’s photo shoot.

“It’s an important job for Akizawa, and I really wanted to be there,” Numata said, “but there’s no way to adjust the timing. I’m very sorry. Akizawa is off the day after tomorrow as well, so if the shoot runs long, feel free to use that time too. I’ve already informed him.”

With that manager’s seal of approval, they now had two full days available for the shoot.

Tohru had a tendency to extend shoots if he wasn’t satisfied with the results, but with two full days, they could afford to be as thorough as needed.

Kusuda checked the next day’s weather forecast on his smartphone.

Next to the word “Tokyo,” under a blue umbrella icon, the number 90% was displayed in bold.

It was going to be a wet, messy day.

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