Chapter 109: The Power of Unease

Upon hearing Ye Zhao's words, Yukihiko Tsutsumi's expression softened considerably. "To be able to maintain a sense of reverence for film—that is truly rare. Even among those who work in this field, many have forgotten this." As he spoke, he reached out to take the script from Ye Zhao, flipped open the cover, and whispered the title: "The Kirishima Thing... Hmm, a teen movie?"

"It is a story set in a high school, yes."

Tsutsumi nodded, his interest slightly dampened; he had little interest in teen campus films. Nevertheless, he settled down to read. Only two pages in, Tsutsumi exclaimed in surprise, "An ensemble drama? You are certainly bold."

An ensemble drama is a film where every character has their own distinct features, with multiple unique performers coming together to weave a multi-threaded, panoramic story rather than relying on a single plot line.

Because the threads are numerous and complex, and the cast is large, the difficulty in scripting, filming, and post-production editing increases exponentially. One misstep can lead to a disastrous outcome. Conversely, if executed well, it can become a classic that people discuss for years to come.

For someone just entering the film industry to take on an ensemble drama immediately was a bit like trying to run before learning to walk. Tsutsumi’s use of the word "bold" was polite enough; someone with a sharper tongue might have bluntly asked, "Isn't this a bit overambitious?"

*The Kirishima Thing* tells the story of a prefectural high school in a rural town. On a typical, unchanging Friday after school, students in various clubs go about their usual activities. Everything that should have proceeded peacefully is suddenly shattered when the school's star, Kirishima, the captain of the volleyball team, abruptly quits the club.

From the invisible film club president, Ryo Maeda, to the brass band captain, Aya Sawashima, who silently watches the boy in the seat in front of her, the badminton club's Kasumi Higashihara and Mika Miyabe, the volleyball team's Fuzuke Koizumi, the baseball team's Hiroki Kikuchi, and those in the "going-home club" who participate in nothing—everyone forms a rigid, pyramid-like campus society.

Kirishima, who is top-tier in school, personality, and sports, stands undeniably at the pinnacle of this social pyramid. In contrast, Ryo Maeda, the film club president who is ignored by those around him, sits at the very bottom.

After Kirishima announces his departure and vanishes, those who previously looked to him as their leader lose their center. The rigid campus society undergoes a seismic shift. Whether they were close to Kirishima, dependent on him, or, like Maeda, silently occupying the lowest rungs of the social ladder, none are spared from being swept up in the fallout of this resignation.

These people seem unconnected, yet they are all intertwined. Kirishima’s departure acts as the first falling domino, leading the situation toward an uncontrollable unraveling.

The interesting thing about this film is that it is not a traditional teen movie. There is no sweat-drenched passion, no heart-stirring romance, and no motivational cliches. There is only the seemingly mundane daily life. It lacks a definitive protagonist; instead, using the ensemble format, it describes that fateful Friday multiple times from the perspectives of different characters. The myriad threads gradually converge into one, ultimately building toward a climax and explosion that reveals the absurdity and cruelty of youth.

Tsutsumi quickly flipped through several pages, realizing this was not the naive, hot-blooded school film he had imagined, and his expression turned from relaxed to serious. Ye Zhao drank his sake in silence, picking at the peas on his plate, showing no intention of rushing him.

Finally, Tsutsumi closed the script and asked, "Ye-kun, if you don't mind, may I take this home to read slowly? It feels like a very interesting script."

"Of course," Ye Zhao nodded. "In fact, the reason I wanted to show you the script is that I hope to get some advice from you, Tsutsumi-san. I know very few people in the film industry, and you are the one I am most familiar with."

"I am flattered to hear you say that," Tsutsumi smiled, setting the script on the tatami mat. "By the way, you are quite interesting, Ye-kun. Most people who enter the film and television industry aim to become actors, hoping to star in dramas and win acting awards. Yet, you are so interested in the behind-the-scenes work. If I may say so, working behind the scenes isn't as glamorous as acting; it's full of troublesome tasks."

"That may be true," Ye Zhao said, pouring more sake for Tsutsumi, "but if I may be so bold, isn't the glamour of those in front of the camera bestowed upon them by those working behind the scenes?"

Tsutsumi let out a laugh. "You have quite the ambition, Ye-kun."

"Rather than ambition, perhaps it's insecurity," Ye Zhao pondered. "If one's fate is not in one's own hands, there is a sense of unease in being at the mercy of others."

...

After the audition call for the male and female leads in the *Crying Out Love, in the Center of the World* radio drama was sent out, audition tapes began arriving from all over the Kanto region.

The 100,000-yen prize and the paid work stirred the enthusiasm of the teenagers. After all, a typical 15-to-17-year-old working a part-time job would only earn about 800 yen an hour. While radio drama work wasn't as glamorous as being an entertainer in front of a camera, as an extracurricular activity, it was a great gig.

The Japanese "voice-loving" attribute is quite famous. Their reserved nature makes them very fond of the mysterious feeling of "hearing the voice but not seeing the person." Beyond the developed anime industry, this pursuit of sound is perhaps one of the reasons they possess what might be the most mature voice actor industry in the world.

However, since it was only a low-budget radio drama, the prize money, while present, wasn't enough to drive people into a frenzy. So, the scenario of seeing a blizzard of applications... that was impossible.

In the afternoon, upon arriving at the office, Ye Zhao asked Takeda Jun, "How many audition tapes have we received for the radio drama?"

"About 1,400 so far," Takeda Jun replied. "We expect to receive between 2,300 and 2,500 by the July 20th deadline."

Ye Zhao nodded. "That's acceptable. It's not amazing, but the number isn't bad. When the deadline passes and we begin the screening process, I'll need you to ask the voice acting troupe at Bunka Hoso for help."

"Naturally," Takeda agreed, then added, "What about the interviews?"

"I will handle those personally, of course," Ye Zhao said.

...

The curtains connecting the recording booth to the control room were drawn tightly, just as Ye Zhao had requested. Standing at the console, wearing monitoring headphones, was not only his recording engineer but also Izumi Sakai. Unaware of all this, Ye Zhao was giving his all, recording the new single take after take.

Only when the engineer signaled a "short break" through the microphone did Ye Zhao remove his headphones, frown while drinking his least favorite honey water, and step out of the booth.

"Good evening, Izumi-san." Ye Zhao showed no surprise, greeting her casually; he had clearly grown accustomed to her visits.

Izumi Sakai took off her headphones and placed them aside, walking into the lounge naturally. She took a glass from the sterilizer, filled it with water, and handed it to him. "Your performance just now was quite good."

"Thank you." Ye Zhao took it and rinsed his mouth. After visiting each other frequently, Izumi Sakai was well aware of his dislike for honey.

"This is the first time you've heard this song, Izumi-san. What do you think?" Ye Zhao asked.

"I won't comment on the composition, but the lyrics are truly interesting. A bit romantic, and a bit childish." Izumi Sakai shared her thoughts slowly.

The song Ye Zhao had just recorded was the B-side for his upcoming new single, *The Singer's Love Song*. It was a song called *Drifter*, recorded on a 2001 album by a band formed by two brothers called Kirinji.

Kirinji was a somewhat obscure band with no particularly dazzling sales figures, but that didn't mean their music was bad. On the contrary, they produced many high-quality songs; it was just that these tracks had never truly become mainstream.

"Childish? I suppose so," Ye Zhao thought about it. "Under normal circumstances, nobody would compare loneliness to an annoying crow and swear on the water in a bottle, would they?"

"But I like the part about swearing on the water in the bottle. It's my favorite part of the lyrics," Izumi Sakai said. "These touches of daily life actually make it feel exceptionally sincere."

"Exactly, exactly," Ye Zhao nodded. "In any case, overly heavy vows can feel too deliberate and awkward. If love is too heavy, it becomes a shackle."

"You sound so mature," Izumi Sakai teased.

"Even if I haven't planted an apple tree, I've at least eaten plenty of apples." Speaking of apples, Ye Zhao asked casually, "Do you know the song *Ringo Satsujin Jiken* (Apple Murder Case), Izumi-san?"

"The duet by Hiromi Go and Kirin Kiki?"

"Yes, that one," Ye Zhao said. "Doesn't that song say, 'If Adam and Eve hadn't eaten that bite of the apple, there would be no heterosexuality'? Since this single happens to include two pure love songs, I thought, why not just use a bitten apple as the single cover?" A bitten apple... A flash of inspiration struck Ye Zhao, reminding him of a certain company that would soar to great heights in the future, but was currently struggling on the verge of bankruptcy.

Izumi Sakai couldn't know his inner thoughts and continued along his topic. "Actually, I think that's a great idea. It fits the theme of a love song perfectly."

"But if I really did that, President Nagato would be the first to object," Ye Zhao gave a wry smile, pulling his thoughts away from that company. "Regardless, using that as a cover is a bit too casual."

"You could consider using an oil painting for the cover, Ye-kun." Although Ye Zhao had only been joking, Izumi Sakai offered the suggestion seriously. "If you take a photo of a bitten apple, some people might feel uncomfortable, but if you do it through painting, there shouldn't be any problem."

"Good idea," Ye Zhao's eyes lit up. "I'll take that suggestion into account. Thank you, Izumi-san."