sinovels Chapter 1 Vending Machines at Two in the Morning
Chapter 1 Vending Machines at Two in the Morning
Tokyo, July 1988.
The rain outside the window was still falling, showing no sign of stopping.
Rain pattered against the glass curtain wall, blurring the city's dazzling, superficial neon lights into clusters of colorful spots.
It was 2:15 a.m.
Kawata-cho, Shinjuku Ward, the former site of Fuji Television.
Even at this point in time, this massive white building still resembles a tireless monster, devouring the most extravagant desires and ambitions of all of Japan.
Occasionally, an AD (assistant director) would rush past in the corridor carrying a stack of videotapes, or a producer with an oily face who had just finished an all-night meeting. The air was filled with a unique smell—a mixture of expensive perfume, cheap tobacco, and excessive caffeine, creating a restless atmosphere.
Kitahara Shin sat in the rest area at the end of the corridor, holding a can of black coffee he had just bought from a vending machine.
The can was hot to the touch, but he didn't let go; it was the only source of heat in this cold, dark night.
"It's still a little tight."
Kitahara Shin stared at his reflection in the vending machine's glass, quietly reviewing the situation.
The person in the mirror was a 22-year-old young man with regular features, even handsome, but only in the "standard" way.
In any TV series, he would be the kind of righteous extra who wouldn't survive more than three episodes, or the female lead's honest ex-boyfriend who only says "drink more hot water".
No one knew that inside this young body was an old soul from decades in the future.
In his previous life, he spent his entire life working his way up in Hengdian, playing roles ranging from corpses to eunuchs, from stunt doubles to extras, earning him the nickname "veteran actor."
His acting skills were ingrained in his very being, but unfortunately, his face was too unattractive, and he never played a leading role in his entire life.
In this life, God blessed him with a good face and threw him into this bubble era where gold is everywhere.
But reality is harsh.
"His acting is too academic," "He has no memorable moments," and "Although I can't find any faults, I just don't want to watch him a second time"—this is the evaluation given to him by a well-known casting director last week.
Tonight, he played a waiter in a police drama who was killed by a stray bullet as soon as he appeared on screen.
To portray the physiological spasms of "sudden death," he fell to the ground five times, and his knees still ache slightly.
"We still have to endure this."
Kitahara took a swig of bitter coffee, intending to spend a few hours on this bench before returning to his rented room in Nerima Ward once the early morning tram started running.
Just then, a series of hurried and slightly chaotic high heel sounds broke the deathly silence at the end of the corridor.
Kitahara Shin subconsciously straightened his posture, a professional instinct he had developed in his previous life—on set, never let important figures see you sprawled out.
A woman walked over.
She walked very fast, as if something was chasing her from behind.
By the pale light of the vending machine, Kitahara Shin could make out the person who had come in.
She wore a glamorous, almost blindingly bright black stage costume, with a large, fluffy skirt covered in sequins that sparkled under the lights.
But over this costume, he was incongruously wearing a large men's suit jacket—probably borrowed from some staff member to keep warm.
The face was only the size of a palm, with exquisite makeup, but there were dark circles under the eyes that could not be concealed.
Akina Nakamori.
Everyone in Japan recognizes this face.
She is a symbol of this era, the "original diva" in the dreams of countless men, and also the pitiful woman in gossip magazines who always cries her eyes out because of her scumbag boyfriend.
But at this moment, she was neither a songstress nor that pitiful woman.
She was just an ordinary person who wanted to escape from the crowd and was extremely tired.
Akina Nakamori did not notice Shin Kitahara in the shadows.
She walked straight to the vending machine and pulled out a flattened pack of Seven Stars cigarettes from the pocket of someone's suit.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she pulled out a cigarette and put it in her mouth, then took out a delicate silver Zippo lighter.
"Click".
The crisp sound of metal clashing echoed in the quiet corridor.
There was no flame, only a few pitiful sparks.
"Click, click."
Two more sounds.
There was still no fire.
Akina Nakamori stopped moving.
She remained in the position of lighting a cigarette with her head down, her shoulders shrugging slightly.
That was the critical point where they were pushed to their limits.
She endured all the immense pressure: three days of non-stop work with only four hours of sleep; being maliciously teased about a fabricated relationship by the host during a recording; and her manager's incessant chatter about the schedule.
But now, even a damn lighter is working against her.
"Thump!"
She suddenly grabbed the expensive silver lighter and slammed it hard against the metal casing of the vending machine.
"Tsk."
A very soft, irritated click of the tongue came from the mouth of this national idol known for his "fragile" demeanor.
That wasn't anger, but resentment.
Just as she was about to throw the useless scrap metal into the trash can.
"Click."
A soft cracking sound came from beside her.
A cluster of orange-yellow, weak but steady flames was quietly offered to her.
Akina Nakamori was stunned.
She instinctively took a half step back and turned her head warily.
What comes into view is a slender, clean hand holding a 100-yen plastic lighter that can be found anywhere, with "XX Karaoke" printed on it.
Following the hand, I saw a young man sitting on a bench.
He didn't look at her.
Kitahara Shin lowered his eyes, his gaze fixed only on the unlit cigarette at the corner of her mouth.
His expression was as calm as a still pond, showing neither the panic of seeing a big star nor that nauseating voyeuristic desire.
He was simply and politely asking to borrow a light.
This perfectly timed "ignoring" softened Nakamori Akina's quilled defenses instantly.
She hesitated for a second, then leaned closer and took a puff of smoke from the flame.
The red dot of burning tobacco lit up.
The acrid smoke filled her lungs, and Akina Nakamori's tense back finally slumped. She leaned against the vending machine, tilted her head back, and exhaled a long puff of smoke, as if expelling all the weariness from her soul.
"Something worth tens of thousands of yuan."
Akina Nakamori looked at the cold, silver Zippo in her hand, her voice a little hoarse, with a hint of self-mockery, "When it really matters, it's not even as good as a hundred-dollar plastic thing."
Kitahara Shin put away the lighter, gripped the now lukewarm coffee can again, and said calmly:
"It's just out of oil. Add some oil and it'll still work."
He was very pragmatic, very straightforward, and had absolutely no intention of trying to strike up a conversation.
Akina Nakamori turned her head and looked at the man seriously for the first time.
In the fickle entertainment industry, where everyone wants to pluck a layer of glitter from her, this man's calmness seems so out of place.
He sat in the shadows, like a silent tree.
"Akina-chan! Akina-chan, where did you go?"
From the other end of the corridor came the agent's anxious shouts, accompanied by the sound of hurried footsteps.
That name is like a switch.
The dejected and agitated woman from before vanished instantly. Nakamori Akina quickly stubbed out her cigarette, which she had only taken two puffs of, and threw it into the nearby trash can. Then she straightened her suit jacket and straightened her back.
Even if it's a disguise, she still wants to maintain the dignity that belongs to a "songstress".
Before leaving, she gently placed her hand on top of the vending machine.
"Once it runs out of oil, it's just a piece of scrap metal. I don't want to fix it anymore."
Without turning back, she strode quickly toward her agent in her high heels, leaving behind only a fleeting, dissipating remark:
"If you don't mind, you can take it and use it."
The corridor fell silent once more.
Only the faint scent of expensive perfume proved that the most popular woman in all of Japan had indeed been here.
Kitahara Shin finished the last sip of his coffee and stood up.
His gaze fell on the top of the vending machine.
That exquisite silver Zippo lighter, engraved with intricate patterns, lay there all alone.
Was it a piece of trash abandoned by its owner?
Kitahara Shin reached out and picked it up.
The silver body still carried a trace of warmth, the warmth of her palm.
The instant your fingertips touch.
hum-
Kitahara Shin's mind jolted.
A familiar, translucent pale blue light curtain unfolded on his retina without warning.
[System activated.]
[Found an equipable item (rare)]
【Item Name: The Diva's Abandoned Silver Zippo (Purple)】
[Original owner: Akina Nakamori]
【Location: Hands/Accessories】
Status: Fuel depleted
[Basic Attribute: Charisma +15% (Trait: Fragility)]
[Special term: Masked Confession (Passive)]
Note: In public, she is a queen admired by all; in private, she is a girl yearning to be loved. This lighter witnessed countless moments when she swallowed her grievances alone.
[Effect: When equipped, your eyes will naturally convey a sense of "story." When you are silent, those around you will become 50% more inquisitive and subconsciously perceive you as someone "with secrets and deep emotions."]
Kitahara Shin's hand, which was holding the lighter, tightened slightly.
He looked at his reflection in the vending machine's glass, his thumb gently stroking the cold metal casing.
"A sense of storytelling..."
For an actor, this is more precious than gold.
He gently tucked the empty lighter into the pocket near his heart, pushed open the glass door, and turned to walk into the long, rainy night.