Chapter 40: What Must Come Will Come

On Tuesday morning, delivered to Ye Zhao along with the sales report, was a magazine called "Weekly Public."

"This magazine is...?" Ye Zhao was a bit curious.

"Take a look, Mr. Ye Zhao. There's a story about you in it," said Sato Hideyuki, one of the office staff. Judging by the relaxed expression on his face, there was nothing negative inside.

Ye Zhao set the magazine aside and picked up the sales ranking first. Although "Rainbow" was a popular debut song, it still fell short compared to those legendary hits, so Ye Zhao never expected the single to dominate for a whole month. In the third week after release, the MS effect caused the single's sales, which should have naturally declined, to soar to 400,000 for that week, instantly propelling it into the million-seller club. By the fourth week, as the effect faded, sales returned to the typical fourth-week single level: just over 90,000 copies, which was good enough for third place on the weekly chart, behind two new singles released that week.

Having finished reading the chart, Ye Zhao turned to the weekly magazine. Upon closer inspection, on the left side of the cover, at the shoulder of the cover model, was a small line: "The Untold Stories of the Strongest Newcomer, Ye Zhao, Before His Debut."

He flipped to the relevant page and found a simple illustrated report. The content was compiled from interviews with Ye Zhao’s classmates and teachers from his youth; it was nothing more than accounts of which clubs he’d joined and how he behaved at school. There was even a group photo from junior high, his face circled in red, and the reporter had thoughtfully added the words, "Even as a boy, Ye Zhao stood out among his peers."

After gaining fame, every artist has to go through the phase where tabloids dig up everything about their pre-debut life. In fact, if they aren’t digging, it means you’re not famous enough. The gossip-loving public revels in this, wishing they could see every last secret of a celebrity laid bare.

Reviewing the trajectory of his predecessor’s life, the only thing that could be considered a "dark history" was his past with the hostess Mika Ogawa. Still, Ye Zhao didn’t find it shameful. He was a singer-songwriter, not an idol, so there was no need to sell an image of innocence. Moreover, neither party was married when they were together, and there was nothing illicit or exploitative about their relationship—just a normal romance. Even if one wished to exaggerate, this wasn't the kind of future world where every moment was digitally recorded; there was no compromising material left behind.

Having sorted out his thoughts, Ye Zhao put the matter out of his mind. However, events soon began to take a strange turn.

After "Weekly Public," a magazine called "Weekly Woman" published a report on Ye Zhao as well. This piece focused on his time in an underground band, briefly introducing the group—called "Capek"—and even including a few performance photos supposedly provided by the club owner. Everyone except Ye Zhao was mosaicked out. After the background, the article went on to interview the club owner and a former bandmate, referred to as Mr. A, both of whom delivered the same message: "The band never managed to write any original songs; for over a year as a house band, we survived on covers alone."

Following this report, sharp-eyed gossip fans quickly caught on to the magazine’s implications: If Ye Zhao never wrote a single song during his band days, how could he suddenly produce so many great tracks now? Was he secretly holding back in the past, or is there something suspicious about his current songwriting?

With "Weekly Woman" leading the narrative, several music magazines joined in, offering ambiguous analyses of Ye Zhao’s music. Meanwhile, some fringe tabloids published wild, speculative pieces, covering every conceivable angle with as much reckless abandon as "Weekly True Story." Lacking credibility, these were seen as mere attempts to cash in on the buzz, but with their relentless coverage, Ye Zhao’s name only grew hotter in the public eye.

The true bombshell, however, came from a music magazine called "MUSIC LIFE." Rather than repeating the ghostwriting suspicions hinted at by "Weekly Woman," they aimed their fire directly at Ye Zhao and his agency, BEING. Even the article’s title was maliciously provocative: "Does the 'B' in BEING Stand for BORROW?" (with "borrow" implying adoption or plagiarism).

The piece was authored by Akira Kobayashi, a critic known for his sharp and biting style, who specialized in targeting others’ vulnerabilities. He didn’t begin by criticizing Ye Zhao, but instead wrote several hundred words on BEING’s rise to prominence, emphasizing President Nagato’s business strategy of "as long as it sells, imitation is fine."

"BEING is not only adept at chasing trends, but in the '90s, it embarked on a path of self-imitation. Most of its artists depend on the same handful of composers led by Tetsuro Oda and arrangers led by Masao Akashi, resulting in an extremely homogeneous sound. If two different BEING bands swapped songs, no one would bat an eye. By relying on this self-replication, once one BEING artist becomes popular, others with the same style quickly follow suit. This approach perfectly embodies President Nagato’s cunning and opportunistic business philosophy."

Kobayashi then turned his sights on Ye Zhao.

"This year, BEING signed the once-underground sensation Ye Zhao. I originally thought, as a songwriter himself, Ye Zhao wouldn’t need to rely on BEING’s composers and might grow into a unique solo act like Maki Ohguro. But when he released his debut single 'Rainbow' and made his first TV appearance, I was deeply disappointed, for I saw the shadow of someone else in him."

Here, the magazine invited a well-known composition teacher to analyze "Rainbow" from structure to melody, ultimately concluding with a tongue-in-cheek remark: "If you told me this song was performed by Masaharu Fukuyama, I wouldn’t doubt it for a second."

After this, Kobayashi wrote: "In the music world, no one owns a style. But for BEING to so blatantly package a 'second Masaharu Fukuyama' seems to be their unchanging nature. True, this offers Ye Zhao a shortcut—his debut is undoubtedly a success. But his success makes me wonder: does the 'B' in BEING really stand for BORROW? Why else are they always so skilled at imitation and replication?"

This article not only lambasted Ye Zhao and BEING, but also dragged Masaharu Fukuyama into the fray. Once the magazine hit the shelves, Fukuyama’s fans flooded in to protest this "malicious imitation," even launching a campaign to buy his CDs and pushing a single he’d released months ago all the way up to number sixteen on the daily sales chart.

In the BEING president’s office, Nagato smashed the magazine onto his desk, cursing, "Damn it! These gossip-mongering reporters are more annoying than flies!"

But cursing was all he could do; there was no solution. Despite BEING’s current prominence, the company’s foundations were weak, its influence limited, and it had plenty of enemies in the industry—especially the BRUNING agency, whose attempt to woo BEING by buying up copyrights had been flatly refused. BRUNING watched BEING like a hawk, ready to blow any minor scandal into a major tabloid event.

As for suing for defamation, never mind bringing down "MUSIC LIFE" or "LIFE MUSIC," the current attacks on Ye Zhao and BEING were all subjective commentary, with not a single fabricated rumor in the mix—there wasn’t even grounds for a lawsuit. After all, how could you stop people from expressing their opinions?

After cooling off, Nagato’s rationality returned. In light of the recent spate of reports targeting Ye Zhao, he felt increasingly uneasy. Though most seemed innocuous, together they all pointed in the same direction—a looming storm that he could neither see nor control, filling him with deep disquiet.

The following evening, his secretary rushed into the office. "President, this is the latest issue of 'Weekly Shinchou,' releasing tomorrow—there’s another story about Mr. Ye Zhao…"

"Another essay? Or did they go interview his old neighbors and classmates again?" Nagato interrupted, not taking it seriously.

"No," the secretary replied, his face clouded. "This time, it’s real trouble…"

Nagato, growing suspicious, took the magazine. The largest headline on the cover read: "Ye Zhao’s Wild Life Exposed! Confessions and Truths from a Former Lover."

He flipped to the article. Inside, it gave a detailed account of a "former girlfriend with deep ties to Ye Zhao," describing her work as a hostess and how the two met. In the interview, the ex-girlfriend—referred to as Ms. M—portrayed Ye Zhao as a moody, emotionally distant person, mentioning his estranged relationship with his parents, his lukewarm connections to his bandmates, and even alleging he once said, "I only formed the band with them to get famous."

Had it only been such a story, at most it would be another gossipy angle—nothing worthy of the secretary’s alarm. The real problem was the photos that accompanied the article. One showed Ye Zhao cheek-to-cheek with a blonde woman. Another, dimly lit and shot from the side, showed a man with a cigarette. The most explosive was a half-nude photo of a young man with his face buried in the blonde woman’s chest. Although the latter two weren’t full frontals, the physique closely resembled Ye Zhao’s, and with the first photo as context, the credibility was nearly ninety percent.

After reading the article, Nagato struggled to contain himself. Voice trembling, he ordered his secretary, "Quick, call Ye Zhao. Tell him to come to the company—no, tell him to stay home and not go out, and under no circumstances give any interviews."

The secretary rushed out, only to return just as quickly. "President, I can’t reach Mr. Ye Zhao on his phone…"

Unaware of the breaking "Weekly Shinchou" story, Ye Zhao was, at that moment, sitting with Izumi Sakai on a Yokosuka Line train, the two of them heading together toward Kamakura.