COLD HEART in TOKYO: Chapter 6

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Although Kusuda had gotten Numata’s permission to use the photos of Akizawa, he still hadn’t shown any of them to Masamitsu. Before and after the shoot, Masamitsu had been completely holed up on the fourth floor of the workshop, trying to finish a batch of made-to-order wedding rings on a tight deadline.

When he's in that kind of pre-deadline frenzy, Kusuda and Miyamoto refer to it as “nesting mode,” and they’ve learned not to speak to him unless absolutely necessary. Metal engraving is a delicate craft that demands full concentration.

When Kusuda returned to the office, he found Masamitsu sprawled out on the guest sofa in a rumpled sweatshirt, looking dazed like a bear just waking from hibernation. The job must’ve finally been done. He raised his right hand lazily when he noticed Kusuda.

“I heard from Miyamoto-chan—sounds like the shoot was a total disaster?”

He scratched his scruffy stubble with a loud rasp.

“Akizawa showed up massively late and hungover. Tohru lost it and punched him in the face, Akizawa went berserk… it was like a scene out of hell.”

Masamitsu laughed like it was someone else’s problem. “Tohru’s always been short-tempered. So when’s the reshoot?”

“Well, actually… Tohru took a bunch of photos while Akizawa was flipping out. I’m thinking we might be able to use them.”

Masamitsu frowned. “Photos of him flipping out? Are they even usable for the novelty materials?”

“Tohru sent me the files. Just take a look first.”

Kusuda booted up the office PC and opened the folder. He stood aside to let Masamitsu plop into the chair and click open the file labeled photo 0904.

“Whoa, what the hell is this?”

Masamitsu yelped in surprise. The first image was of Akizawa, being held down by staff as he screamed, his face flushed red from being hit, blood dripping from his nose.

“This is intense.”

He muttered as he clicked through image after image. At first, he kept murmuring things like “Damn” and “Scary,” but soon he fell completely silent. The only sound in the room was the clicking of the mouse.

He lingered on the last photo—Akizawa running out into the rain—for quite a while.

“There’s some really powerful stuff here. I think we can use them.”

Without taking his eyes off the screen, Masamitsu said in a low voice, “Go get my sketchbook.”

You could get it yourself, Kusuda thought, but the force in Masamitsu’s voice made him comply. He brought the sketchbook and a pencil down from the workshop on the fourth floor and handed them over.

The moment he had the pencil in hand, Masamitsu began sketching with explosive speed—like a kid who had just been given a toy he’d wanted for ages, completely absorbed, losing track of time.

He monopolized Kusuda’s desk and kept drawing for nearly two hours straight. When he finally stopped, he said:

“Sign Akizawa to an exclusive contract.”

“Just looking at those photos, designs keep flooding into my head. It’s been ages since I’ve felt this way. That guy—no, he’s the one. He’s my muse.”

From her desk nearby, Miyamoto burst out laughing in a stifled snort—but Masamitsu didn’t even notice.

Regardless of the idea of exclusivity, it was obvious even from the outside that the photos had lit a fire under Masamitsu.

The outburst from Akizawa had lasted maybe ten, fifteen minutes. Yet Tohru had taken hundreds of photos. Many of them were shot in rapid bursts, as if he hadn’t wanted to miss a single moment.

From that massive volume, Tohru had narrowed it down to a few dozen. Then Masamitsu, Kusuda, and the designer chose twelve shots to use for the posters and novelties.

Production of the promotional materials—both the posters and the novelty booklets—progressed smoothly. Since they were finally using a person as a model, they paid extra attention to the paper quality and the design of the booklet itself.

Everything was coming together, and they were about ready to send the data off for printing—when rumors began to spread online:

“Looks like CRUX is using a person as a model now.”

Since the day he’d torn up the photos, Kusuda hadn’t seen Akizawa again. The fact that there’d been no contact from him likely meant that Numata had succeeded in convincing him. Akizawa might still be unhappy about it, but Kusuda was confident that once he saw the completed novelty booklets and posters, he’d feel it was worth it.

In early November, Kusuda was riding the train home when he received a message from Miyabi.

“So CRUX is using Kaito Akizawa in their promo? That’s a surprise. Is that what that play you went to see was about?”

He couldn’t help but blurt out, “What!?” in shock.

He hadn’t minded if people knew they were using a model, but the fact that it was Akizawa had still been under strict wraps. The official announcement wasn’t scheduled until right after New Year’s.

Panicked, he did a search online. A few hits turned up—blog posts, social media chatter. The information had leaked.

Kusuda clicked his tongue in frustration.

Anyone involved in the project could’ve let it slip—Akizawa’s agency, CRUX staff, even the printing company. The list of possible sources was endless. What frustrated Kusuda the most was that they’d been aiming to recreate the same buzz as last time—with the surprise reveal of the Tohru and Fujishima poster. A “Who is that?!” moment.

But this time, the secret had gotten out first.

Reactions to Akizawa’s casting included the usual “Who?” and “That’s unexpected,” but also harsher takes from self-proclaimed CRUX fans:

“Ugh, seriously? Akizawa? Terrible choice. They should’ve just stuck with no models like before.”

Kusuda bristled reading them—but this was the honest truth of public opinion. Still, he thought, Just wait two more months. You’ll see. You’ll all be stunned when you finally look at those photos.

…But what if they weren’t?

What if people weren’t stunned?

What if their reactions stayed the same?

That fear rose in him, and he shook his head to drive it out.

No. Choosing Akizawa wasn’t a mistake. Believe in yourself.

Those photos were incredible. They had impact. They fit the concept perfectly. And most importantly, they’d reignited Masamitsu’s creativity. That alone had made everything worth it.

It’s okay. It’s okay… He kept repeating it until he began to calm down.

If the info had already leaked, maybe it was better to shift the strategy. Instead of waiting for the planned New Year’s reveal, they could release just the model’s name early—on the CRUX homepage, for instance. That might even feel more transparent.

As he walked home, still mulling it over, his apartment building came into view. He stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the fifth floor. The little metal box shot up without pause, carrying him straight to his door.

If they were going to reveal Akizawa’s name, sooner was better. He’d talk to Masamitsu and Miyamoto about it tomorrow at the office, and if they agreed, he’d contact Numata…

He was running through the plan in his head when he reached the outdoor hallway—and stopped.

He hadn’t noticed it at first, but there was someone standing in front of his door.

His eyes lifted slowly—and the moment he registered who it was, a strange sense of wrongness made his feet freeze.

A tall man, dressed entirely in black. Black trench coat, black V-neck, black pants, black shoes… like a crow, or maybe a grim reaper. He glared out at Kusuda from behind a curtain of long bangs.

“…Akizawa-san?”

Kusuda asked softly.

There was no reply.

The gauze was gone from his left cheek, as it should be. Tohru had punched him back in early September.

Why is he here?

Who gave him my address?

If he wanted to talk, he could’ve contacted the office and arranged a meeting…

Something in Akizawa’s hand caught the light.

A faint glint reflected under the dim hallway bulb—and Kusuda realized it was the gleam of something sharp.

A blade.

His entire body froze.

“…Don’t use those photos.”

Akizawa raised his right hand slowly, weapon in hand.

“Don’t you dare use them.”

There was no question which photos he meant—the ones Tohru had taken at the abandoned hotel.

But even if he said that, the posters and novelty booklets were already in their final stages of approval.

“If you do… I’ll kill you.”

The look in Akizawa’s eyes told Kusuda he was serious. Dead serious. His mind instantly flashed back to the rampage at the hotel. If he said the wrong thing and pushed the man further, he could really get stabbed.



“S-sir… a-about that… issue, we… we’ll need to talk it over very carefully…”

His words stuttered. His tongue felt stiff, refusing to move.

“Promise me you won’t use them!” Akizawa roared, raising the knife high overhead.

Kusuda hugged his work bag to his chest as a shield and staggered back several steps, shaking.

“Al—alright! I understand, I understand! Just—please put the knife down!”

BANG—a door between them suddenly flew open.

“Oh, Kusuda-san. Good evening~”

It was Yamashita, his next-door neighbor. She was a full-time homemaker in her fifties who lived with her husband. They usually exchanged greetings when they passed each other. She smiled pleasantly as she closed the door behind her, holding a wallet and wearing a sweatsuit—her usual “convenience store outfit.”

“Was there something you needed from us…?”

“Ah, no—it’s nothing like that…”

But then she must have noticed Kusuda’s gaze aimed down the hallway. She turned to follow it—and saw the tall man in black. In his hand… a knife.

“Kyaaaaaahhh!”

Yamashita screamed and clung to Kusuda in terror.

Startled by the scream, Akizawa dropped the knife. It clattered and bounced loudly on the concrete floor.

“W-w-what is wrong with that man!? HONEY! CALL THE POLICE!”

Her husband shouted “What’s going on!?” as he came running into the hallway.

Akizawa stood frozen in place, gasping for breath, trembling violently, but making no move to run.

“Call the police! Call the police, now!” Yamashita shrieked.

That can’t happen. The police are bad. Really bad.

If this turned into a public scandal, they wouldn’t be able to use any of Akizawa’s images in the CRUX posters or novelties. Worse, if he got pulled from the project altogether, it could crash Masamitsu’s motivation—and that might bring down the whole company. The entire livelihood of Masamitsu, his brother, and all their employees was riding on this.

Kusuda ran over to Akizawa, who was standing there like a lamppost, and grabbed his arm.

“I—I’m really sorry for all the commotion. He’s… he’s a friend of mine.”

He said it to the neighbors, half-laughing, half-pleading, then forcibly dragged the reluctant Akizawa into his apartment. He shut the door behind them—carefully, quietly.

The room was pitch dark. Kusuda immediately turned on the entryway light.

He didn’t lock the door. Just in case he had to run.

Being alone in a room with this guy feels like being locked in with a rabid dog.

It was terrifying. Horrible.

But he didn’t want this incident to blow up—he had to keep it under wraps, for Masamitsu’s sake.

Akizawa’s arm, the one he was holding, was slim—almost like a woman’s. Come to think of it, when he’d fought with Tohru, he hadn’t been able to throw a proper punch. His body had the proportions of a model, but it probably wasn’t built for combat. Kusuda himself had never been in a fight, either. The only “martial arts” experience he had was high school judo class. If it came down to a brawl… it’d be 50/50 at best.

He scanned the entryway for anything that could be used as a weapon—just in case. The only thing in reach was an umbrella.

THUMP THUMP THUMP—someone pounded on the door from outside.

“Kusuda-san, are you okay in there!?” came Yamashita’s husband’s voice.

“I-it’s fine. Really, he’s a friend of mine… um, he’s an actor, and he was just… rehearsing a role, that’s all.”

Kusuda threw out excuses as fast as he could think of them. Akizawa shook off his grip and slumped to the floor, holding his head and trembling. His behavior was so terrified, it was almost as if he were the victim here. He completely lost control when he snapped, but maybe he was actually just a weak-natured man at heart.

“You’re not being threatened by that strange man, are you?” Yamashita’s husband asked, kind but suspicious. He had the persistent air of someone who wouldn’t let things go easily. Kusuda was grateful for the concern—but right now, he just wanted to be left alone.

With Yamashita’s husband still pounding at the door, Kusuda crouched beside the man huddled on his floor and whispered:

“…Akizawa-san, please say something too.”

Akizawa looked up at him, frightened.

“You don’t want this to turn into something even worse, do you? Just let the people outside know you’re not a threat.”

“I… I’m sorry for the trouble…”

He muttered like a dying kitten.

“They can’t hear that. Louder.”

“I—I’m sorry for the trouble!!” Akizawa shouted.

The pounding on the door stopped immediately.

“If it’s really nothing, then that’s fine. But if anything happens, come talk to us, alright?”

With that, the voices faded away from the hallway.

As soon as the noise outside was gone, the silence between the two of them became unbearably heavy.

Akizawa wobbled to his feet and rasped, “Move,” as he faced Kusuda standing at the door.

“Please just stay here a little longer.”

Akizawa glared at him, but his eyes no longer had the terrifying glint from earlier—when he’d been wielding a knife.

“If you leave now, the neighbors will definitely get suspicious. They’ve seen your face. If you show yourself again, they might panic.”

Akizawa tapped his right foot anxiously against the floor.

“How long…” he mumbled, barely audible, “do I have to wait?”

“…About thirty minutes.”

Akizawa sat down again, this time resting against the shoe cabinet. Kusuda stepped carefully around him, avoiding contact, and entered the living space.

Being so close to someone who clearly harbored hostility toward him was mentally exhausting.

If thirty minutes passed, Akizawa would leave. At least they’d avoided the police.

But the dissatisfaction about using the photos still burned in him. So Numata hadn’t fully convinced him after all—or maybe Akizawa had pretended to agree, only to stay bitter underneath. The same pattern from the photo shoot.

Kusuda wanted to convince him, but in his current state, Akizawa wouldn’t listen to anything. He needed to cool down first.

The two bedroom apartment had a narrow hallway with the kitchen leading to the dining room. Kusuda stood at the gas range, boiling water, and kept glancing down the hallway toward the man sitting by the door. Watching him made him anxious. But not watching him was worse—who knew what he might do? It was an impossible contradiction.

He brewed two cups of coffee and offered one to Akizawa at the entrance. Akizawa didn’t reach for it, just stared silently at the mug.

Kusuda placed the cup gently on the hallway floor and backed away, returning to the kitchen.

After a moment, Akizawa moved. He crept forward and picked up the cup—like a wary stray cat.

He blew on the surface of the coffee and took a sip. His face twisted immediately in a scowl.

“…Bitter.”

Kusuda quickly grabbed a spoon and a stick of sugar, offering them like a zookeeper feeding a wild animal.

Akizawa reached out and took them.

He dumped the entire sugar stick into the mug—far too much for Kusuda’s taste—and stirred with loud, aggressive clinks before taking another sip.

From his vibe, Kusuda had assumed he took his coffee black.

But apparently… Akizawa had a sweet tooth.

Just drink the coffee and calm down a little… Kusuda thought silently, watching Akizawa.

Coming all the way to his home, threatening him with a knife—Akizawa clearly hated the idea of those photos being used. Sure, to Kusuda and the CRUX team, they were great shots. But to Akizawa, they were a humiliating display of himself throwing a tantrum in public. It wasn’t hard to understand why he wouldn’t want those out in the world.

To pacify him, Kusuda had agreed not to use the photos. But if he were honest, he still wanted to. Once Akizawa left, he could call the agency and claim the promise was made under duress. But if Akizawa found out and still wasn’t satisfied, he might just show up again—and threaten him all over again. Probably with the same reckless, amateur-level planning.

If Kusuda was going to persuade him, he couldn’t do it head-on with “But they’re such great photos.” That would just get him slapped down again. It might be better to ease into it—start with small talk, then gently nudge him toward changing his mind.

“…How did you find out where I live?”

No answer from Akizawa.

“Did someone at the CRUX office tell you?”

Still nothing. Kusuda didn’t really care who had told him—he just needed a way to start the conversation.

“…I followed you home from work yesterday.”

The man who’d been ignoring him until now finally muttered something.

“I saw you go into this apartment.”

A shiver ran down Kusuda’s spine. That’s stalking, isn’t it? He walked from the station through some dark, unlit streets. Just imagining being stabbed from behind in one of those deserted stretches made his heart pound.

This guy is seriously creepy.

“You know, you really could’ve just contacted us through your agency. That would’ve been a lot easier.”

Kusuda tried to sound calm, but Akizawa slumped his head forward.

“If I did that, Dad would’ve gotten mad. No matter how many times I said I didn’t want those pictures used, he wouldn’t listen. I was trying not to think about it, pretending it wasn’t happening. And then one of the guys in the play said to me, ‘Hey, I heard you’re modeling for CRUX.’

So that’s what triggered it. The information leak online.

“There’s no way I’m letting those pictures be used. Just thinking about it makes me sick. But I couldn’t say anything to my dad. That’s when I realized—if you decided to drop me, it’d all be over.”

So to avoid being scolded by his father, he threatened his client with a knife.

Does he not even know the word ‘discussion’?

Or that waving a knife around might get the police involved?

Kusuda had known from the beginning that something was off about Akizawa—that he lacked basic social norms—but he hadn’t realized he was this far gone.

Akizawa suddenly snapped his head up.

“Those photos—don’t use them. Everyone keeps saying they’re good, amazing or whatever, but I don’t see it. It’s just… me throwing a fit, that’s all.”

He’s impulsive and simple-minded. But that might actually make him easy to manipulate—if played right.

Kusuda took a deep breath and let out an exaggerated sigh, like an actor onstage.

“…Understood. If you really don’t want the photos to be used, our company will consider that seriously.”

Akizawa’s tense face softened slightly, a look of relief flickering across it.

That was Kusuda’s cue.

“In that case, you’ll need to pay damages.”

“…Damages?” Akizawa repeated the word, puzzled.

“It’s written clearly in the contract. You’re welcome to check it. If you had told us earlier, it would’ve helped—but now, between the design costs for the novelty materials and posters, the rental fee for the location, staff wages, and other related expenses, I’d estimate the total at over a million yen.”

It hadn’t cost nearly that much, but Kusuda figured he’d inflate the number for effect.

Akizawa’s face immediately changed.

“I don’t have that kind of money.”

“Then I’ll have to go through your agency.”

“No! That would mean Dad finds out!”

“Akizawa-san.”

Kusuda said his name slowly and deliberately.

“This project involves a lot of people. If you don’t want to do it, we won’t force you. But even if the job is canceled, we still have to compensate the people who worked on it. We can’t make them work for free.”

Akizawa pursed his lips in a childish pout.

“But… I just really, really don’t want this…”

The whiny tone grated on Kusuda’s nerves, but he kept his irritation off his face.

“If that’s how you feel, then fine—we’ll cancel. But you’ll need to pay the damages. It’s just money we’re asking from you, but for us, this project required days of preparation. All of that time would be wasted. If you hated the idea that much, you should’ve discussed it thoroughly with Numata-san and declined from the very start.”

“I did try to suck it up. But that photographer punched me…”

“We’re truly sorry for that.”

Yes, Akizawa had shown up late and hungover. His attitude had been awful. But that didn’t make it okay to hit him. Kusuda had no problem admitting their own wrongdoing.

Hearing that, Akizawa fell silent and hung his head.

It had been about thirty minutes since he’d stormed into the apartment. If he left now, the neighbors wouldn’t be suspicious.

But now that he’d been confronted with the idea of damages, maybe—even with his not-so-bright brain—he was finally starting to think seriously.

Still, Kusuda felt a wave of dread rise in his chest. What if he decides to steal something instead? Figures he can’t pay, so he just takes something by force?

No—he couldn’t totally rule it out.

“…Cold.”

Akizawa shivered lightly.

“It’s cold here.”

The entranceway was chilly, but Kusuda didn’t want to let him into the actual room. Still, saying something like “Why don’t you leave, then?” would sound too much like kicking him out. He hoped he might leave on his own.

But Akizawa made no move to stand. He just kept trembling.

“…It must be cold by the door. Would you like to come into the room?”

Akizawa looked at Kusuda, then slowly got up. He took off his shoes and hunched his back as he crept into the room like a borrowed cat.

Kusuda led him into the living room, though it was far from tidy. The table was littered with magazines and plastic bottles, and the sofa still had a wrinkled suit draped over it, waiting for the dry cleaners. The floor was dusty. He couldn’t remember the last time he vacuumed.

Akizawa sat on the edge of the sofa, fidgeting uncomfortably, adjusting his upper body as if unsure how to sit.

Under the bright fluorescent lights, the black clothes that had earlier made him look like some kind of demon just made him look like a try-hard, failed visual kei singer.

Masahiko Kusuda took a seat across from Kaito Akizawa.

"Do you like wearing black clothes?"

Feeling that if he kept talking only about modeling, he might corner Akizawa too much, Kusuda tried changing the subject. It seemed to be the first time Akizawa had even realized it, as he looked down at his own clothing.

"I thought black would make me stand out less," he said.

"But if you're dressed all in black, wouldn't that actually attract more attention?"

"Last year, I played a murderer on stage. One of my lines said that black doesn't show blood stains, so I figured black was a good idea..."

Kusuda had no idea how to respond to that. Was Akizawa seriously planning to kill him if he didn’t agree?

"Do you usually wear black clothes too?" Kusuda asked.

"Bright colors feel gross. Like sea anemones. Don't you think so too?"

Normally, Kusuda would just nod to something that trivial, but on this point, he hesitated.

"I've never seen a real sea anemone," he said.

Akizawa snorted a "hmph" through his nose and reached for a plastic bottle on the table. It was the carbonated water Kusuda had been drinking two days ago; it was still about half full. Akizawa idly swirled the water inside.

"When I was in elementary school, we had a drama shoot down in Okinawa. On a day off, I went to play at the beach and stepped on a sea anemone. It was so gross... Ugh," he said, suddenly tossing the bottle aside and hugging himself with both arms.

"Even now, just remembering it gives me chills."

Talking to him, Kusuda could not help but find Akizawa a little strange.

"I stepped on another one during filming too, but back then, I was in character, so it didn’t gross me out. I was delivering the line 'No, I don't want to go. The waves are bigger this way,' when a wave came crashing in and the scene got messed up anyway," Akizawa said.

Although Kusuda had always thought of him as the silent type, it seemed Akizawa talked quite a bit about himself. …It was exhausting.

"You remember your old lines well," Kusuda said.

"I don't forget," Akizawa replied immediately.

"You don't forget... your lines?"

"Once I memorize something, I never forget it."

Including his years as a child actor, Akizawa's career spanned nearly twenty years. There was no way he could remember everything. Skeptical, and a little mischievously, Kusuda decided to probe him.

"You were in a movie as a kid, the one where you run away from home with your dog, right? Could you say some of your lines from that?"

"'Goodbye, Grace,' right? Sure, I can," Akizawa said, closing his eyes smoothly.

Two minutes passed… three minutes… nearly ten minutes.

The man in black didn’t so much as twitch. Watching him, Kusuda thought, Well, if you take that long, anyone could probably remember at least one line, but then Akizawa's eyes suddenly snapped open. With an expression of pure, childlike innocence Kusuda had never seen on him before, Akizawa smiled brightly and said:

"Dad, I'm home!"

The voice was low, but somehow, it sounded like a child's.

"You got home early today! Did you bring me something? Yay, thanks!"

He raised both arms up in a celebratory pose.

"I'll go wash my hands properly first!"

"Hey, hey, can I eat the cake you brought me?"

With each line he spoke, Akizawa’s expressions shifted vividly and fluidly. Adding small, precise gestures to every word, he continued acting. Even though it was clearly an adult performing, it genuinely looked like a child. His movements were so natural it was almost frightening.

There was no scene partner, so only Akizawa's lines continued, and yet, the flow of the story remained clear.

"I really know the truth. I know that after I go to sleep, Dad and Mom are fighting."

"The only one I can tell the truth to is you, Grace."

"Haha, that tickles! Grace, Grace…"

Rolling around on the sofa as if playing with an invisible dog, Akizawa suddenly let a tear slip from his eye. Watching him, Kusuda felt a sharp, unexpected pain pierce through his chest.

In the middle of his lines, Akizawa gave a rough cough, and Kusuda was yanked back into reality. He realized he had been completely drawn into Akizawa’s one-man performance.

"You're amazing," Kusuda said before he could stop himself.

...This man might truly be a genius.

Clearing his throat with a few more coughs, Akizawa let out a long breath.

"Because you're here, I'm not lonely," he said, his voice steady, as if the coughing had never happened.

Kusuda thought the interruption would bring the scene to a natural close, but Akizawa’s performance simply continued. He must have been speaking for nearly twenty minutes by now.

"Um, Akizawa-san. I can already tell that your memory and acting skills are truly incredible, so... it's okay now," Kusuda offered, trying to gently bring it to a close.

Akizawa looked at him with sparkling, childlike eyes.

"It feels really good right now. Can I finish it?"

Without waiting for Kusuda's answer, the performance resumed.

...It was impressive—remembering old lines, delivering them with such rich emotion, all of it was impressive. Yet the more Akizawa kept acting, the more a chill began to creep into Kusuda's heart.

To test it, Kusuda stood up and said, "Excuse me for a moment," heading to the restroom. When he returned, Akizawa was still speaking, unchanged.

He wasn’t performing for an audience. Even when Kusuda placed a glass of water on the table, worried that his throat must be dry, Akizawa didn’t even glance at it.

"I hate you, Dad!"

That line came—one that Kusuda remembered clearly. He had only caught the movie partway through, so even if Akizawa had altered the script, he wouldn’t have noticed.

But this line was unmistakable. Even though Akizawa's voice had shifted slightly, it was exactly the same as what Kusuda had once heard on TV.

Akizawa wasn’t cheating.

A shiver ran down Kusuda's spine.

As a child actor, Akizawa had been called a "genius." If he had kept performing at this intensity all these years, then yes—he really would be a genius. But when Kusuda had seen Akizawa on stage as an adult, he hadn’t had this same overwhelming presence or aura.

After about an hour had passed, Akizawa finally quieted down. It was as if the movie had "ended." At last, his mouth closed, and he slumped down onto the sofa.

"You must be tired. Are you alright?" Kusuda asked gently.

Akizawa tilted his head slightly.

"Where did Grace go?" he asked in a child's voice.

Grace was the name of the dog that had co-starred with the child role Akizawa had been playing just a moment ago. Was he joking? Kusuda wondered uneasily.

"Hey, where's Grace, big brother?"

Akizawa pressed on, his face utterly serious, making it impossible for Kusuda to brush him off by telling him to stop fooling around.

"I don't know that dog," Kusuda replied, playing along as best he could.

From the corners of Akizawa’s long, narrow eyes, a large teardrop suddenly spilled.

"I want to see Grace," he said plaintively.

"Wouldn't Akizawa-san know more about that dog than I do?" Kusuda offered.

Akizawa shook his head hard from side to side.

"I don't know. Because... the script doesn’t go any further. The story’s over."

He slipped off the sofa and collapsed onto the floor in a miserable heap.

"Are you alright?" Kusuda asked again.

Curled up like a cat, Akizawa let out a raspy sigh.

"I'm tired."

"You should go home and rest. I'll call a taxi," Kusuda suggested.

"I don't want to move," came the mumbled reply.

Maybe he meant he wanted to stay the night. But Kusuda couldn’t allow that. He didn’t want to be alone in a room with Akizawa—not after everything that had happened. There was no telling what he might suddenly pull in the middle of the night.

"You won’t be able to relax in someone else’s home. Why don’t you rest at your own place…" Kusuda urged him.

But Akizawa didn’t even open his eyes, much less move. When Kusuda grabbed his arm and tried to pull him up with a firm, "Please get up," he was brushed off irritably.

If he tried to forcibly drag him out of the room, would Akizawa lash out and cause a scene? Maybe it would be better to contact Numata and have him come pick Akizawa up. But if he did that, Numata would undoubtedly demand an explanation for why Akizawa was at Kusuda’s apartment—and Kusuda couldn’t begin to explain.

...There was no choice but to compromise.

"If you're going to stay, at least use the bed," Kusuda said.

If it had been just a friend, he would have left them where they fell. But this was still—however messily—a professional actor.

As the image model for CRUX, he couldn't very well let him sleep covered in dust on the floor.

Oblivious to Kusuda’s concern, Akizawa was already emitting defenseless sounds of sleep. The fact that he could fall asleep so easily in someone else's home—even someone he had once threatened with a knife—was a testament to either overwhelming nerve or complete obliviousness.

Did he not worry about possible retaliation at all?

Kusuda stood there, staring down at the infuriatingly peaceful sleeping figure. Even his sleeping face was ridiculously well-formed, and that somehow only made Kusuda angrier.

Out of spite, he ground the heel of his shoe into the hem of Akizawa's black coat.

The model selection had been a struggle from the very beginning. Just when they had finally found someone, there had been trouble at the photoshoot.

Even after barely managing to get the posters printed, he was still constantly being dragged into chaos.

Looking down at the sleeping man, Kusuda realized there was no winning against this. With a sigh of resignation, he threw a blanket over Akizawa's body. Maybe this man really was a genius.

...But Kusuda couldn’t shake the feeling that he was also just a hopeless idiot.

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Comments

  1. I’ve heard that sometimes when actors are acting it can be hard to extricate themselves from the roles since they’re so immersed. I wonder if Akizawa is like that? Either way he’s a bit odd. But aren’t all geniuses a little odd?

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    Replies
    1. That’s such an interesting observation! I’ve heard that too—actors can sometimes lose themselves in their roles. Akizawa definitely seems like he blurs that line, a lot, which makes him even more intriguing. 🫢

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