COLD HEART in TOKYO: Chapter 5

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The day after the shoot at the abandoned hotel, Kusuda arrived at the office just past ten when his phone rang. The name Numata appeared on the screen, and his hand trembled as he held his smartphone.

He hadn’t yet apologized for what had happened the day before. He still didn’t know how to even begin explaining the fact that Tohru had hit Akizawa. He’d kept telling himself, I need to get my thoughts together before I call… and ended up pushing it to the next day.

Numata might have already heard the story from Akizawa and could be furious. Striking an actor in the face was utterly inexcusable. They could demand damages, and Kusuda wouldn’t have a leg to stand on. He was responsible for the entire situation spiraling out of control.

Taking a deep breath, Kusuda braced himself and answered the call.

…But to his surprise, Numata’s voice sounded completely normal.

“I apologize for not calling you back right away yesterday. I was in a remote location with poor reception and didn’t see your message until late at night. How did the shoot go? Did everything go smoothly?”

Wait—he doesn’t know?

“Have you not heard anything about the shoot from Akizawa-san?”

He asked hesitantly. Numata paused, then responded in a somewhat awkward tone:

“I haven’t been able to get in touch with him since yesterday…”

Kusuda let out a long breath as the tension drained from his shoulders. But at the same time, he told himself—You have to be honest now. Own it. There’s a chance you can still salvage this, depending on how you handle it.

Better than making excuses or laying down a string of cautious preambles—he would show the photos first. That was what had convinced him, too.

“The truth is, there was… an incident during the shoot yesterday.”

He lowered his voice.

“Did Akizawa do something unprofessional…?”

Numata’s voice wavered with concern.

“There were… several things, and it’s a complicated situation. If possible, I’d really like to explain in person.”

Sensing the seriousness of the matter, Numata replied:

“Then how about this afternoon?”

They agreed to meet at 1:00 p.m. at the offices of Miyako Entertainment.

Before heading out, Kusuda printed out about ten of the photos Tohru had sent. He laid them out across his desk. The resolution was a little rough, since they were printed on standard office paper—but even so, the raw emotion on Akizawa’s face leapt off the page. Rage. Despair. Something indescribably intense. Even if it had been a complete accident, the photos were powerful. He had to use them.

If he had to get down on his knees, beg for permission—so be it.

Determined, Kusuda headed to Miyako Entertainment. But the moment he arrived, Numata greeted him with a cold tone:

“We’ve been expecting you.”

His legs nearly gave out.

Numata had sounded perfectly normal over the phone. Not angry at all. So this sudden shift in attitude—what had happened in the meantime?

As he stood frozen in confusion, a man walked past the hallway behind Numata.

A stark white gauze pad stood out clearly against his cheek.

Akizawa.

The man turned. Their eyes met. And like a frightened animal spotted by a hawk, Akizawa bolted into a room labeled “Kitchen.”

“Was that Akizawa-san…?”

“Please, this way.”

Numata cut him off and ushered him into the reception room.

As soon as they sat down across from each other, Numata slammed both palms onto the table and demanded:

“What on earth happened!?”

“Striking an actor in the face—absolutely unforgivable. I can’t believe this!”

He leaned in, his whole body radiating fury.

Kusuda couldn’t say a word. “Um, well…” was all that came out. There was no excuse.

“If he hadn’t been between stage gigs, this might’ve forced him to drop a role. How were you planning to take responsibility if that had happened!?”

“I—I’m so sorry. Truly… I’m so, so sorry.”

Kusuda bowed his head, voice trembling. There was nothing he could do but apologize. Above him, Numata let out a deep, angry sigh.

“Did you think it was okay to treat him however you wanted because he was a ‘cheap’ actor with no contract fee?”

Kusuda’s head snapped up.

“No, not at all—”

A frozen glare pierced through his glasses, sharp as ice.

“Then why didn’t you contact me immediately yesterday? I didn’t hear a single word until Akizawa told me. Were you just going to stay silent and pretend nothing happened unless I brought it up? That kind of attitude is dishonest.”

He hadn’t intended to cover anything up. But it was true—he’d hesitated, needing time to process before he could explain. And in doing so, he’d delayed too long.

“I deeply regret the injury—”

“If you truly mean that, then shouldn’t the person responsible—Takahisa Tohru—be here with you to apologize to Akizawa directly?”

That hadn’t even occurred to him. But knowing Tohru’s personality, Kusuda doubted he’d come even if asked. Silence spread thick and heavy. His palms began to sweat with tension.

Then Numata stood up.

“This is extremely unfortunate, but we’ll be treating this as if the entire arrangement never happened.”

The worst-case scenario struck, and the world went dark in front of Kusuda’s eyes.

As Numata moved to leave the room, Kusuda blurted out, “Wait—please!”

Numata narrowed his eyes.

“You don’t need to worry—we won’t be seeking any kind of compensation or damages. Akizawa has made it very clear that he never wants anything to do with you or your company again. …Now, if you’ll kindly leave.”

With no hint of sympathy, Numata raised a hand toward the door—as if to say get out now.

But if he walked out of that room, everything would be over.

Desperate, Kusuda pulled the file from his bag—the one with the photos inside—and thrust it toward Numata. “Please, look at this!”

But in his panic, the contents flew out. The photos scattered through the air like paper snow—like the stereotypical blunder from a bad drama.

Kusuda stared blankly at the fluttering sheets for a moment, then quickly scrambled to gather them. “S-sorry!”

He handed them over again.

“Please, look at these.”

“The shoot yesterday was chaos. No—that wasn’t even a shoot. Akizawa-san showed up hungover, and when Takahisa saw that, he snapped and shouted at him to go home. It escalated into a fight…”

Numata’s previously stone-like face twitched ever so slightly.

“Akizawa was hungover?”

His tone turned questioning. And Kusuda got a hunch.

“May I ask—how did Akizawa describe what happened?”

“He said he showed up for the shoot, but the photographer yelled at him to leave and then hit him.”

That wasn’t untrue—but it conveniently left out the most critical detail. Akizawa had clearly omitted everything that would make him look bad.

“It’s true he was hungover. He reeked of alcohol, and he even… threw up during prep. Takahisa is very strict about work. Seeing someone show up late and still drunk for a professional shoot—he couldn’t stand it.”

Numata muttered, “Late and drunk…” then suddenly looked up.

“That call yesterday… was it about that?”

“Yes. When Akizawa-san didn’t show up on time, I was trying to get in touch with you to ask for his contact number.”

Numata groaned. “Ahh…” He pressed a hand to his chin, face twisting with frustration.

“Akizawa-san wasn’t enthusiastic about working with us, was he?” Kusuda said. “When he was arguing with Takahisa, he said himself that he didn’t want to do model work, and that his schedule was forced on him by the agency. And look, he’s an actor—I understand if he doesn’t want to model. That’s his right. But once he accepted the job, even if reluctantly, we had hoped he’d at least show up prepared. That’s how we really feel.”

Now that Numata had acknowledged Akizawa’s own responsibility, he was finally listening.

“Akizawa-san and Takahisa got into a fight, and… well, maybe because he wasn’t used to confrontations, he got punched. That must’ve made him snap, because he lost control—started throwing things, kicking, completely lashing out on set. And Takahisa… was photographing the whole thing. These photos are the result.”

At last, Numata’s gaze dropped to the photocopies Kusuda held out.

“It was unplanned—just a byproduct of the chaos. But I think they’re incredible.”

Numata took the pages silently and began flipping through them one by one.

“The concept for next season is, as I mentioned before: go to hell. These photos… perfectly fit that theme. It’s not an exaggeration to say they embody it. I would very much like to use these photos for CRUX’s spring/summer collection—for both the novelty booklet and the promotional posters.”

Numata read through the stack from beginning to end—and then went back to the first page to review it again. His eyes scanned each detail as if determined not to miss a single ant crawling through the image.

After a long time staring at the copies, Numata said quietly, “Excuse me,” and stepped over to the door.

“Eguchi-san, do you have a minute?”

A woman who looked like an office assistant quickly approached.

“Could you bring in some tea? And I think Akizawa-san is still somewhere in the office—please ask him to come here.”

“Yes, of course,” she said, smiling politely. But her gaze was locked onto the sheet in Numata’s hand—a shot of Akizawa in the middle of tearing the CRUX necklace from his neck.

The angle, the lighting, the way he clenched his jaw as he grabbed the chain—it was too perfect. It felt as though the shot had been waiting to be taken.

“…That’s an incredible photo.”

She whispered, then quickly bowed, embarrassed, and left the room. When Numata returned and closed the door, he gestured toward the couch.

“Please sit.”

Kusuda obeyed, lowering himself back into the seat. Across from him, Numata continued to look through the photos—again, and again. Just like Kusuda had done.

They were both spellbound—trapped in the emotional pull of the Akizawa captured in those frames.

There was a knock on the door. The same woman entered with a tray of tea. But she hesitated, looking down at Numata uncomfortably.

“Um… I did go to ask Akizawa-san to come to the reception room, but he said he absolutely doesn’t want to meet with anyone from CRUX…”

“I’ll step out for a moment,” Numata told Kusuda, then walked off.

A moment later, he returned—dragging a reluctant Akizawa by the collar like a scolded child.

Kusuda stood and bowed deeply. “I’m terribly sorry for what happened yesterday.”

Akizawa turned his face away like a frightened animal, refusing to make eye contact. Numata observed the entire exchange keenly, noting every flicker in the younger man’s expression.

He forced Akizawa to sit on the sofa, where the actor immediately lowered his head so deeply that only the top of his crown was visible to Kusuda.

“Did you show up to yesterday’s shoot hungover?”

Numata’s question landed like a gavel in a courtroom, and Akizawa’s shoulders flinched.

“…I hadn’t modeled in a long time, so I was nervous… I only drank a little.”

“If you were throwing up on-site, I doubt it was just a little.”

“…I wasn’t feeling well…”

“Enough with the excuses!”

Numata’s harsh tone made Akizawa tremble all over.

“I already knew it wasn’t a job you were enthusiastic about. But in the end, you said yes. Once you accept a job, a professional sees it through. Isn’t that what being an adult is?”

“…Modeling isn’t acting…”

His voice was so frail it was pitiful to listen to. With Numata bearing down on him, the contrast made Akizawa seem all the smaller.

“That’s right. Modeling isn’t acting. But it was your job. And you didn’t tell me you did something to deserve getting hit by Takahisa. You conveniently left out everything that made you look bad.”

Akizawa snapped his head up.

“He threw a plastic bottle at me! That’s why I—!”

His cheek, still covered in a stark white gauze, looked painful. But Numata’s glare remained merciless. Unable to withstand it, Akizawa averted his gaze.

His eyes wandered across the table—and landed on the photocopies. He snatched them up and began flipping through them.

His face grew paler and paler. His hands began to shake.

“W-what the hell is this!?”

His voice cracked high.

“Actually, Takahisa captured these images of you—”

Kusuda didn’t even finish before Akizawa tore the photos in half with a loud rip.

“What are you doing!?”

Numata grabbed his shoulder, but Akizawa shook him off and scattered the torn pages into the air. Kusuda saw again, vividly in his mind, the image of Akizawa rampaging in that hotel.

“This is the worst—this is just some twisted payback!”

“No, it’s not,” Kusuda said quickly, shaking his head. “That’s not it at all. The photos are really powerful—we’d like very much to use them—”

But Akizawa didn’t let him finish. He clenched both fists and shouted:

“I’d rather die!”

That line jolted Kusuda back into cold rationality. “I’d rather die”? What kind of answer is that? What are you, a toddler? This is a professional conversation.

With a sharp smack, Akizawa was sent flying sideways and slammed to the floor.

Kusuda froze in shock.

Numata hit him.

Numata—the calm, professional manager—had just slapped his own actor across the face.

All Kusuda could do was watch, paralyzed, as the scene unfolded before him.

“Enough already! Quit whining!”

Numata shouted down at him. Akizawa sat amid the torn photocopies, cradling his left cheek. His eyes shimmered with tears, and he shook his head like a child refusing something.

“…I knew it. You don’t care about me at all, Dad.”

“…Huh?” Kusuda blinked. Did he just say ‘Dad’?

“I told you I didn’t want to do it, but you wouldn’t even come with me to the shoot!”

“I explained it over and over. Ikoma’s TV debut was scheduled—I couldn’t be in two places at once.”

“If you hate me so much, you should’ve just abandoned me like Mom did, you jerk!”

He spat the words and bolted from the reception room. The door slammed shut with a deafening thud that seemed to shake the entire air around them.

Kusuda sat stunned.

What the hell was that?

That was a grown man. A 24-year-old adult who paid taxes.

And yet… that tantrum had been unbelievably childish.

“I apologize for showing you such an embarrassing scene.”

Numata bowed his head, his expression tight like he’d bitten into something sour.

“Ah, no… not at all,” Kusuda replied.

As Numata raised his head, Kusuda found himself staring at him. If Numata was around fifty, it wasn’t unthinkable that he could have had a child in his early twenties—making him the father of a 24-year-old son.

“Is there something on my face?” Numata asked.

“Well, um… it’s just that Akizawa-san called you ‘Dad’…”

“Kaito Akizawa is my biological son. …It’s not something I’ve been hiding.”

These two are father and son? Kusuda couldn’t believe it. From bone structure to facial features, they didn’t resemble each other at all.

“We don’t look alike, do we?” Numata said.

Kusuda winced. He’d been read like a book. Does everything I think show on my face that clearly?

“No one guesses we’re related just by looking at us. And it’s not common for a parent to manage their own child unless they’re a child actor. He’s been in the entertainment industry since he was very young—barely went to school, had no real friends, never learned how to deal with people…”

Is it really just about social skills? Kusuda thought. More than anything, Akizawa seemed like a textbook case of a grown man who hadn’t cut the umbilical cord.

“I also need to apologize for believing Akizawa’s story at face value—that Takahisa attacked him without provocation.”

Numata bowed again. He owns up when he’s wrong, Kusuda thought. Unlike his son, the father is someone you can reason with.

“I’m sorry as well, for not stopping Takahisa and letting him hurt your son,” Kusuda said.

Their apologies trailed into silence.

Then, Numata stood up and began carefully gathering the shredded photocopies from the floor. Kusuda started to help, but Numata stopped him gently.

“Please, remain seated. My son caused this mess. I’ll take care of it.”

He stacked the scraps on the table, then looked at them with a strange mixture of expression.

“The Akizawa in these photos taken by Takahisa-san… he doesn’t look like the son I know. His clothes are dirty, his face covered in blood… They’re not pretty pictures. He’s angry, crying—it’s painful to look at. There’s not a single flattering aspect to them. They make him look utterly pathetic. And yet, for some reason, I can’t look away. I feel like I want to see what comes after these moments.”

Numata picked up one of the torn pages and gave a dry, self-deprecating laugh.

“I’ve been the one who’s watched Kaito Akizawa the closest. And yet, in these photographs… I feel like I’ve seen a different person. Maybe that’s the power of a good photographer—to bring out something even the subject doesn’t know is there.”

Kusuda thought for a moment. Then closed his eyes, recalling the version of Akizawa he and Tohru had seen that day.

“I’m not sure I fully understand it either. But I do feel like what we saw with our own eyes and what was captured through the lens… might be two slightly different things.”

Numata stared down at the image of his son without speaking for a while.

“Akizawa doesn’t look good in these pictures. But they’re strangely compelling. Even I, as a complete amateur, can feel it.”

He rested his hand gently over the damaged photocopies.

“Please, use them. I want to know how the public will react—how they’ll perceive this version of Akizawa. He’s dead set against it, but I’ll take full responsibility and convince him.”

The strength in those words hit hard. Kusuda pressed both fists into his lap and bowed low enough that his forehead nearly touched the table.

“…Thank you very much.”

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