Chapter 107: How to Perfectly Play a Brother-Complex Sister

The rain persisted until eleven o’clock at night, but the next day, the sky was a clear, washed-blue expanse, bathed in bright sunlight. After instructing Hiroshi Nanjo to return the umbrella to the Tsuda couple’s studio, Zhao Ye, accompanied by Yuki Kamimura, traveled from Tokyo to a resort estate in Tokorozawa, Saitama Prefecture, to film the outdoor scenes of a television drama.

For a show like “Kindaichi,” which concludes each episode’s case within that episode, supporting roles seldom have heavy screen time. Thus, the early stages of filming progressed smoothly, with Zhao Ye’s scenes mostly cleared in a single take. Any potential conflicts in acting had yet to surface.

Until today, when he, as the most significant supporting character in this episode, was to film the pivotal scene: after being trapped by Kindaichi’s machinations, he reveals the tragic truth of the past, then loses control, seizes an axe, and strikes at the true object of his vengeance, only to be stopped and shattered by Miyuki Nanase, who bears a striking resemblance to his deceased sister.

After shouting “Cut,” Yukihiko Tsutsumi rubbed his cheek thoughtfully and said with a serious tone, “Zhao, your acting here feels a bit superficial. If you keep it like this, it won’t work.”

“I’m terribly sorry. I’ll adjust it from now on,” Zhao Ye bowed deeply to the cast and crew, apologizing repeatedly.

“In that case, let’s take a short break. Zhao, use this time to really get inside the character’s mind.”

For a novice actor, guidance from a seasoned veteran helps immersion. Though this rule isn't universal, experienced actors can certainly help newcomers patch up gaps in their performances.

A problem facing the “Kindaichi” production is that, due to the low budget and relatively simple plot, aside from the absolute lead, most actors have limited opportunities to shine. Though Tsuyoshi Domoto is experienced, his role is mostly to avoid breaking character in scenes with him, not to guide others.

After announcing the break, Tsutsumi stepped outside and carefully discussed the scene with Zhao. “You’ve orchestrated so much, killed so many people, yet only realize you’ve targeted the wrong person when caught. You were hidden in the shadows, but now everyone stands against you. Your emotions should be far more intense. Also, Tsuyoshi’s style is subdued. To maintain balance among characters, your performance needs more force.”

Actors must modulate their performances to balance among roles. Especially in a series with an unchanging lead and fleeting supporting parts, supporting actors must consciously fulfill their duty of highlighting the protagonist. This invisible pressure adds to the challenge.

“I see,” Zhao said, flipping through the script again. “Among these emotions, there must first be the bitterness of being unmasked, then the madness of desperation... Also, fear is necessary, since everyone here has become my enemy. But most importantly, hatred must reach its zenith here.”

“Exactly. Once he kills him, everything ends,” Tsutsumi guided.

“However, driven by ten years of hatred, to suddenly drop the axe just because Miyuki Nanase resembles his beloved sister— that’s a bit hard to swallow.”

“That’s where your interpretation comes in. Acting isn’t just reciting lines from the script. You must create in your heart what’s not written—express it through emotion, facial expressions, body language, even voice. If you just play ‘Eiji Tono’ by the book, your acting will inevitably be shallow.”

After Tsutsumi finished, Zhao took the script and sat alone on a nearby chair, pondering deeply.

Rie Tomosaka appeared beside him at some point and asked, “Nissan, have you found any feelings yet?”

Zhao looked up. “I’m wondering—what reason could there be for me to abandon my final revenge, to get on a speedboat and die, just because of one word from you?”

“Because of love,” Rie answered without hesitation. “Love is the answer to all unresolved questions, Nissan. Haven’t you heard that saying?”

Zhao shook his head. “Don’t know where that came from—probably some teenager in their chūnibyō phase made it up.”

“That’s rude, Nissan,” Rie muttered, clearly the phrase was her own invention.

“But it sort of fits the story,” Zhao reflected. “To long for someone in loneliness and hopelessness for years is painful, especially when that person is dead. Such sorrow can never be conveyed. So maybe we can assume that while spending time with you, his junior, he unconsciously projects his longing for his sister onto you because you resemble her. Otherwise, he wouldn’t just drop the axe at the sight of a familiar face—if that worked, he wouldn’t have done all this in the first place.”

“Actually, you could look at it another way,” Tsuyoshi Domoto joined in. “Miyuki stands right in front of him alive, but his sister is already gone. No matter what he does, the dead cannot come back. This surrender is a despairing one—not the despair of failing to get revenge, but the despair that even revenge is pointless.”

“That makes sense,” Zhao mused.

“Want to try putting yourself in reality?” Rie suggested. “When I first started acting and couldn’t cry in a scene, I’d imagine if my mother wasn’t around anymore. Then the tears would come naturally.”

“I’ll try,” Zhao said, focusing. Suddenly, he burst out laughing.

Rie and Tsuyoshi exchanged puzzled looks.

“Sorry, sorry. I tried to put myself in reality, then thought of my little sister at home, and couldn’t help but laugh.”

“You really have a younger sister?”

“Yes. A few years younger than you, living in our Yokohama family home. She’s lively and a bit noisy, not the type to inspire protective feelings at all. And if she knew I was playing a brother obsessed with his sister, she’d probably call me ‘disgusting.’”

“Haha,” Rie laughed. “You must have a good relationship with your sister.”

“But immersion...” Zhao sighed. “There’s a saying: to act like something, you must become it. To perform well, necessary immersion is indispensable.” He closed his eyes and began to imagine Eiji Tono’s life.

Half an hour later, Tsutsumi announced filming would resume. Zhao stood, set down the script, took a deep breath, and walked solemnly onto the set.

The clapperboard snapped, and everything proceeded according to the script. After Miyuki Nanase shouted, “Stop! Please spare Mr. Koda!” Zhao, playing Eiji Tono, gazed at her face as if through that familiar visage, he saw his sister.

If she were alive, she’d look just like Miyuki Nanase now.

For a moment, a tender light flickered in Zhao’s eyes, as though trying to see beyond the girl before him, reaching into a distant past. He recalled when he first met Miyuki at school, and how countless times he had imagined what life would be like if his sister were still alive.

Yet, that tenderness was tinged with sorrow.

His sister was gone. No matter what he did, that cold truth could never change. Miyuki looked at him expectantly, with eyes neither blaming nor worried—only calm and pure. His sister had once looked at him the same way.

He had often gazed at Miyuki’s back and profile, pouring his unspeakable sorrow and longing into her. Now, those pure eyes made him feel ashamed. He would rather have Miyuki see him as a hateful murderer than confront such innocence.

His hands trembled as they gripped the axe. Finally, Zhao—no, Eiji Tono—let out a despairing howl like a cornered beast, dropped the axe, staggered forward, pushed Miyuki forcefully aside, and rushed out.

Miyuki collapsed behind him, and deep within him, the decade-long hatred that had sustained him crumbled into ruins, leaving only despair lingering over the wreckage.