COLD HEART in TOKYO: Chapter 4

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Just as the forecast had warned, the shoot day began with a torrential downpour. The shoot was scheduled to start at noon, so Kusuda arrived at the abandoned hotel—the day’s location—at 9:00 a.m. along with Tohru, his assistant, the stylist, and the makeup artist.

The hotel, in terms of rank, was somewhere above a business hotel but not quite high-end. Judging by the size of the lobby, it had even hosted weddings in its heyday. A chandelier still hung from the ceiling, now veiled in cobwebs.

It had been about fifteen years since the place was closed down, and in that time, it had fallen into disrepair. The walls were defaced with graffiti in black and red spray paint. The curtains were shredded halfway down, and the sofa upholstery was torn, with stuffing bursting out.

Empty PET bottles, scraps of food wrappers, and plastic bags were scattered across the floor—but Kusuda had spent two full days cleaning that up in preparation for the shoot. They wanted the atmosphere of a ruin, but not the sense of someone still living there.

In the lobby, reflector boards and lighting gear were being set up in preparation. But the most important person—Akizawa—had yet to arrive.

He was supposed to be on-site by 10:00 a.m. It was now 11:15, and there was still no sign of him. Considering he needed time for wardrobe and hair/makeup, Kusuda had hoped he’d be there by at least 11:00.

The stylist and makeup crew, already standing by, kept asking, “Is the model here yet?”—over and over.

“I think he’ll be here any minute now. But, well, you know… it’s raining,” Kusuda replied weakly, offering what even he knew was a flimsy excuse.

He paced back and forth between the hotel lobby and the entrance, trying to stay calm. But he couldn’t help recalling the story—how Akizawa’s behavior had once gotten him kicked off a major film. One worry led to another. Even with his rocky past, Kusuda had thought there was no way he’d be late to a shoot this important, especially when his agency had made such a big push for his comeback.

Still, the fact remained: he wasn’t here.

Don’t assume the worst, Kusuda told himself. Maybe he got lost—this place was hard to find. He didn’t have Akizawa’s phone number, so he tried calling Manager Numata. No answer.

At this point, he figured he’d just call the agency directly and ask for Akizawa’s contact info… Just as he reached for his smartphone, a black silhouette appeared at the hotel’s entrance—and Kusuda broke into a run.

Wearing a gray hoodie and dark jeans, Akizawa entered the hotel looking more like one of the crew than the model. He held a clear plastic umbrella and glanced around nervously, like a cat that had been dropped into an unfamiliar space.

“You must be Kaito Akizawa. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Kusuda from CRUX. Thank you for being here today.”

Kusuda offered his business card, but Akizawa only stared at him blankly, then gave a shaky bow. He didn’t seem inclined to take the card, so Kusuda discreetly slipped it back into his suit pocket.

“Uh… sorry I’m late. I, uh… kinda got lost.”

As soon as Akizawa spoke, a sharp smell of alcohol hit Kusuda’s nose.

Looking more closely, he saw that Akizawa hadn’t shaved. His face was oily and slightly swollen.

This guy… he must’ve gone on a bender last night and crashed without even washing up, Kusuda thought, inwardly groaning. Come on, man. You’re working as a model today—at the very least, you could’ve taken care of your skin.

Late. Smelling like booze. Looking like he’d rolled out of bed without a shower.

But Kusuda had no choice—he had to shoot with Akizawa.

He’d wanted to introduce him to the crew, but Tohru was deep in conversation with the lighting tech, and the stylist and hair/makeup team were practically vibrating with pressure—“Bring him over already!” was practically written on their faces.

So Kusuda quietly led Akizawa straight to the front desk’s backroom, which they’d repurposed as the dressing area for the day.

“…I’m Kaito Akizawa. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you~,” the stylist and makeup artist replied with pleasant smiles to Akizawa’s self-introduction.

Both were professionals, so they didn’t say anything—but Kusuda could feel the looks they gave him: “This guy reeks of booze, you know that, right?” It was unbearable, so he retreated to a corner of the room.

Akizawa immediately sat down for hair and makeup. His oily face was wiped down, his eyebrows trimmed, his stubble shaved, and then he was given a full base of makeup. The makeup artist also handled his hair—Akizawa’s thick, slightly wavy black hair was loosely styled using product to give it a natural finish.

Midway through all that, Akizawa suddenly hunched over, clutching his stomach. He covered his mouth and started gagging—“Ugh, ugh…”—as if holding back vomit. The makeup artist quickly stepped back.

“…Sorry. Um, the bathroom…?”

There obviously wasn’t anything like that in this ruin. The closest functioning toilet was at a convenience store, a three-minute walk away. There was no way he’d make it in time.

Kusuda handed him a plastic bag that had held bottled drinks.

Akizawa dropped into a crouch and began vomiting on the spot.

The acrid stench of alcohol-laced vomit filled the air.

Despite the heavy rain outside, the stylist flung the windows open as wide as they would go. About five minutes later, the nausea seemed to subside. Kusuda handed Akizawa a bottle of tea to rinse out his mouth, then tied off the plastic bag and walked it out through the lobby.

He placed the bag near the umbrella stand outside the hotel. He’d have to flush it down a park toilet or something later. As the rain poured around him, Kusuda muttered, “Unbelievable.”

Late. Hungover. And now vomiting on set.

Maybe he had been a skilled child actor once—but the current Kaito Akizawa was just a good-looking face with no professional discipline whatsoever.

They had him contracted for two shoots: this spring/summer one and the upcoming fall/winter collection. He didn’t even want to do the autumn shoot, but it was in the contract. He had no choice.

Even if Masamitsu ended up liking him, there was no way Kusuda would ever approve him as a long-term exclusive model. Miyako, the agency president, had said they could use Akizawa “for free,” but maybe he’d meant it—because deep down, he knew Akizawa wasn’t even worth paying for.

No matter how much he regretted it, the train had already left the station. As the person in charge, Kusuda couldn’t pull the plug now.

Still stewing in frustration, he returned to the dressing room—where Akizawa had already changed into his outfit.

A linen jacket over deep indigo jeans, nearly black. The shirt underneath was unbuttoned down to just above the navel.

On his chest hung the highlight piece of CRUX’s spring/summer collection—a statement necklace. On his right hand was the matching wide ring, 2.5 cm thick.

The coordination was perfect.

Perfect, and yet—it didn’t work.

This particular jacket was a new release from a brand the stylist loved. They’d managed to borrow it just in time, the day before. But Akizawa had never had a chance to try it on beforehand.

And now it showed.

The refined aura of the outfit and accessories completely overwhelmed Akizawa. He didn’t wear the clothes—they wore him. He looked like a little kid dressed up for a Shichi-Go-San photo shoot. Totally out of his element.

The stylist seemed to sense that something was off, too. Looking up at Kusuda nervously, she asked, “Is there anything else you’d like to change…?”

Kusuda was a total amateur when it came to styling. He had no clue what could even be done.

“…Um, excuse me,” Akizawa said suddenly, speaking up.

“Would it be okay if I sit down until the shoot starts?”

“Sure, go ahead,” Kusuda said, and Akizawa staggered to a chair and slumped down, folding over the table in front of him. Kusuda, the hair and makeup artist, and the stylist all stared silently at the crown of his head.

They exchanged glances, but no one said anything. It was too late for that. There was nothing more they could do.

Akizawa was an actor. Once the camera started rolling, he might transform—become a model who wore the clothes like he owned them. They could only gamble on that faint hope.

A little before the shoot was scheduled to begin at noon, Akizawa had his makeup retouched—smudged from sleeping face-down—and stepped out into the lobby, where everything was prepped for the shoot.

“…I’m Kaito Akizawa. Thank you for having me,” he mumbled before the staff. His hoarse voice was barely audible. His eyes were dull and unfocused, like a cloudy sky. He didn’t look nervous, but he didn’t look eager either.

In contrast, Tohru was staring at him head-on with sharp, focused intensity.

“Shoot’s off.”

He said it flatly and turned his back on Akizawa.

Akizawa stood frozen, mouth hanging open.

“Wait, hold on. What do you mean, canceled—?” Kusuda rushed over, but Tohru flicked his chin upward with a glance.

“I’m not photographing a guy who reeks of booze.”

Tohru’s pointed finger made Akizawa flinch like he’d been struck. He clenched his fists, shoulders trembling.

“I-I’ll do my best…”

There was a loud crash. One of the armchairs had been kicked over—Tohru’s doing.

A thin cloud of dust puffed up. The room fell dead silent.

“You never intended to take this job seriously, did you?”

Kusuda felt the blood drain from his face. He’d sensed that Akizawa lacked drive—but this wasn’t the time or place to say it.

“Tohru, please—”

He grabbed Tohru’s arm, trying to talk, but was violently shrugged off.

“Don’t give me that ‘I’ll do my best’ crap when you’ve got zero motivation. What a joke. Photographing you would be a waste of everyone’s time.”

Akizawa’s face flushed red. He opened and closed his mouth, gasping like a goldfish. This wasn’t going to work. They had to pause, cool everyone off—Kusuda was already thinking how to get things under control when—

Suddenly, Akizawa shouted:

“I-I didn’t even want to do this job in the first place! I bit my tongue and came here anyway! I told them I didn’t want to, but the president yelled at me, forced it into my schedule—!”

Kusuda pressed a hand to his forehead. Not only was he unmotivated, he couldn’t even read the room. Even if that really was how he felt, you never said that out loud in front of the staff who had come together to shoot you.

“Being a model’s not even real acting! I want to do roles, I want to act!”

Akizawa was worked into a frenzy. Tohru watched him with a cold, detached stare.

Not just Tohru—the entire crew was looking at him with the same expression: disgust. Utter disdain for someone who couldn’t read the mood.

Tohru grabbed a half-finished plastic bottle from the table and hurled it at Akizawa.

“Then get out.”

The bottle hit Akizawa square in the face and bounced to the floor, rolling across the room.

Eyes wide, Akizawa clutched his right cheek. Kusuda snapped out of his daze. No matter how washed-up he is, if an actor gets injured—especially in the face—it’s a huge problem.

“Are you okay!?”

He leaned in to look. Akizawa’s right cheek was only slightly red. It didn’t seem serious. Kusuda exhaled in relief.

Tears welled up in Akizawa’s bloodshot eyes.

“…It hurts.”

The words came out in a tiny murmur.

“I’m sorry. Tohru, you need to apologize to Akizawa-san too—”

“I-it hurts. It hurts! It hurts, it hurts, it HURTS!”

Stomping his feet, Akizawa shrieked “It hurts! It hurts!” over and over in a high-pitched voice. Maybe it really did hurt—but this reaction over a plastic bottle was excessive. An adult throwing a tantrum like a child looked grotesque, even from the outside.

With a hoarse voice, Akizawa shouted, “You bastard!” and lunged straight at Tohru. Tohru stumbled backward and crashed into a sofa, falling hard.

“Just 'cause you’re a little famous for taking pictures doesn’t mean you can act all high and mighty!”

Tohru only groaned for a moment before springing to his feet with feline agility. He grabbed Akizawa by the collar and, of all things, punched him—square in the face. A model’s face. An actor’s face.

No way. No way that just happened. Kusuda’s mind went completely blank.

Akizawa toppled sideways. The stylist nearby let out a shrill scream and backed away.

Moaning, Akizawa sat up, and a thin line of red dripped from his nostrils. When he wiped beneath his nose and saw the blood, he yelled:

“D-don’t you DARE look down on me!”

With both hands thrust forward, he charged at Tohru again. Kusuda noticed and tried to intervene—but he was too late.

Tohru dodged at the last second, letting Akizawa stumble past him—and then he kicked out, striking Akizawa’s right leg.

Akizawa lost balance completely and fell flat, face-first.

Tohru didn’t stop there. He stomped on the back of Akizawa’s hips, again and again like he was delivering the final blow.

“Gyaa!”

“Ahh—ugh!”

Akizawa’s cries echoed through the room as his body twitched like a fish flung onto dry land.

“Enough already!”

Kusuda rushed in and pinned Tohru from behind in a bear hug before he could stomp again.

Akizawa struggled to his feet. Nose bleeding, face tear-streaked, he still tried to lunge at Tohru again—but two staff members grabbed him from either side and held him back.

“Let go of me! Let me GO, damn it!!”

His hair in disarray, limbs flailing, Akizawa screamed. After being thrown to the floor and writhing around, his jacket was filthy. Blood from his nose had soaked the chest of his shirt a vivid red.

“Die! Just DIE already!”

Still crying and raging, Akizawa howled at the top of his lungs. Tohru watched in silence—but then suddenly brushed Kusuda off, ran over to the table, and grabbed his camera.

He raised it—and began snapping photos of the man who had just screamed that he wanted him dead.

“What the hell are you doing!? Don’t photograph this! You bastard!”

Pinned by the staff, blood pouring from his nose, Akizawa screamed with a demonic expression.

He can’t get any more worked up than this. Kusuda tried to stop it.

“Tohru, stop shooting!” he shouted, grabbing his shoulder.

“Don’t get in my way!” Tohru snapped, shoving him off.

“I hate this! I hate it, I hate it…”

The rage burned out of Akizawa’s voice, and he collapsed to his knees, sobbing.

Even then, Tohru’s shutter clicked relentlessly, slicing through the air like a blade.

“UWAHHH!! UWAHHHHHHH!!”

Akizawa screamed as he stood shakily to his feet, still crying.

With a tear-streaked face, he looked around wildly. His unstable gaze seemed to be searching for someone—anyone—to side with him.

When he realized no one would defend him, he clawed both hands into his hair and began to tear at it, screaming “No, no, no!” like a child.

“Um… Akizawa-san…”

When Kusuda tried to speak to him, Akizawa turned—his face twisted as if he’d seen a ghost—and suddenly bolted.

…Only to step on a plastic bottle a few steps in and go sprawling face-first, like a staged pratfall.

He lay flat on the floor, moaning, “It hurts, it hurts…”

It was such an absurd scene, like a sketch comedy act—but no one laughed.

No one could.

Akizawa stood, grabbed a vase that had rolled to the entrance, raised it high above his head, and smashed it down with force. The shattering of ceramic echoed through the lobby like an explosion. He seized the leg of a nearby comfort table and began slamming it against a column. With each crack, snap, and thud, the table lost more of its shape.

Like a wild animal.

Completely unhinged.

No one dared to get close. No one could speak. Everyone was afraid of what might happen if that fury turned their way.

With each violent movement, the CRUX necklace bounced wildly on Akizawa’s chest. Apparently annoyed by it, he reached for his neck and tore it off with a single jerk.

After demolishing everything within reach, Akizawa finally stopped moving. He stood there panting, shoulders heaving. A moment later, as if drawn to the sound of the rain, he stumbled toward the entrance—and bolted outside.

Tohru followed the fleeing figure with his lens, snapping shot after shot of the black silhouette disappearing into the rain.

Once Akizawa was gone, the sound of the downpour seemed to fill every space around them. Tohru slowly walked back into the lobby and muttered:

“That guy’s fascinating.”

…Kusuda had no idea what was supposed to be “fascinating” about any of it. Not even a sliver of understanding.

The shoot was canceled. With no idea when—or if—they’d be able to resume. A miserable ending to a disastrous day.

Even after returning to the office, the gloom clung to him. He needed to tell Numata that today’s shoot had been called off. But realistically, there was no chance of a reshoot. Akizawa wouldn’t agree. And a photographer punching an actor in the face? That was unheard of.

He knew the agency had placed huge hopes on this job. The idea of facing their wrath in person made him feel sick. Maybe I should just go there directly and apologize… he thought. But then he remembered Numata was away on location and not even in town today.

While he waffled and delayed, the evening crept in—and a message arrived from Tohru.

A transfer service link. A massive batch of files.

Kusuda knew what they were. Photos of Akizawa during his meltdown. He didn’t want to see them.

But Tohru followed up with a direct email to Kusuda’s phone: “Call me after you’ve seen the pictures.”

With a heavy heart, Kusuda opened the files.

The first was a close-up: Akizawa with tears in his eyes, blood dripping from his nose, sobbing. Kusuda gasped. It was the kind of horrific image that made your face involuntarily contort just looking at it—but he couldn’t tear his gaze away.

He clicked on the next one.

He could almost hear Akizawa’s screams—feel the reverberation of his rage. Hurling objects. Curled up on the floor of the ruined hotel. The photos played out like stills from a tragic film’s final scenes. The composition was exquisite—none of the staff were visible, as if Akizawa were trapped in this chaos alone, struggling with nothing but himself.

The last photo showed him disappearing into the rain. Something in his back—his posture, the way the mist swallowed him—radiated deep, aching loneliness.

Kusuda closed his eyes.

Then, with a blank slate in his mind, he started over from the first image.

What he saw…

…was a man writhing in agony at the bottom of hell, screaming.

A raw, brutal portrait of suffering.

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