Chapter Sixty-Eight: Beginning as the Shinigami High School Student

On the last Saturday of February, Ye Zhao, accompanied by Yuki Kamimura, visited NTV’s headquarters in Akasaka, Minato for the first time to attend the kickoff meeting for the “Kindaichi Case Files” special drama.

…

The story traces back to January of this year. After wrapping up the final round of her new single’s promotion in Mito, Shizuoka, Jun Takeda discovered among dozens of invitations sent to the agency one from RB Television (NTV).

“Is this for providing the theme song?” Ye Zhao took the fax absentmindedly, not even glancing at it before asking.

“To be precise, it’s for scoring the special drama,” Jun Takeda clarified. “RB Television has scheduled a Kindaichi Case Files SP for the April 8th Saturday 9pm slot.”

Ye Zhao knew who Kindaichi was—on par with the famous boy detective, the “Shinigami” high schooler.

As a classic detective manga, Kindaichi’s stories were far darker than the lighthearted, sci-fi, romance-tinged cases of the elementary school “Shinigami.” Back then, Ye Zhao had only known about the boy detective and was utterly shocked by Kindaichi’s graphic content after a roommate’s recommendation.

Although the anime adaptation came rather late, as early as 1995, NTV producer Yuko Hazeyama recognized the manga’s potential and invited Tsuyoshi Domoto and Rie Tomosaka to star in a trial SP drama adaptation.

SP, or “special,” is a unique format for Japanese dramas, essentially a special episode usually broadcast during the gap between regular drama seasons.

Sometimes an SP is produced because a series was so well-received that a follow-up is requested—like the example of “Legal High.” In other cases, as with Kindaichi, if the SP performs well, it may be developed into a full series in the next season.

“Doesn’t the network usually have its regular composers? What made them think of me?” Ye Zhao asked with some curiosity.

“I’m not sure. It must have been a decision reached after discussions between the producers and various parties. Since it’s just a special, with relatively inexperienced actors and director, and a modest budget, perhaps they wanted to bring in a newcomer for the score? Even with a solid original work and Tsuyoshi Domoto’s popularity, manga adaptations can be risky—the prospects aren’t easy to predict.”

Ye Zhao didn’t know about the experience levels, but she was aware of Domoto’s popularity. His group, KinKi Kids, held their very first concert at the Budokan last year. She didn’t know how well the SP did in numbers, but since it was later adapted into a series, it couldn’t have been bad.

After finishing his explanation, Jun Takeda added, “I don’t know much about music, but composing and scoring are really quite different…”

Ye Zhao smiled, “For someone who claims not to know much about music, you’ve summed it up perfectly.”

He was right—composing songs and scoring are very different. For a song, you focus solely on melody. For film or television, you have to consider melody, rhythm, atmosphere, orchestration, and more. The score becomes an independent creation, whereas for songs, melody and arrangement can be separated.

Some singer-songwriters can’t read music or play instruments but can hum out hit melodies. Though many look down on such artists, there’s no denying that this is a genuine talent.

However, such songwriters could never handle scoring. To be a good scorer, you need deep musical literacy and extensive experience with various instruments.

In Jun Takeda’s mind, Ye Zhao was an “inspired melodist”—he trusted her musical talent, but doubted whether she could manage the job.

Thinking of this, Ye Zhao muttered, “With experienced scorers on hand, is NTV planning to let me use this SP as practice?”

“So, will you take the job, Ye Zhao?”

Of course she would. As long as there’s precedent, there’s a way to do it well.

…

NTV, which had just celebrated its 40th anniversary in 1993, had switched to a “red pig” logo designed by Studio Ghibli, with the pig’s tail curling into a “4”—symbolizing both the 40th anniversary and the network’s channel number.

RB’s private stations are all backed by major newspapers; NTV is funded by the renowned Yomiuri Shimbun, which is also the inspiration for “Nichimai TV” in the boy detective series.

Ye Zhao arrived fifteen minutes early for the meeting. When she entered the conference room, director Yukihiko Tsutsumi, lead actress Rie Tomosaka, and veteran actor Masato Furuyatani were already present.

Following the rule that a polite greeting never goes amiss, Ye Zhao promptly said, “Nice to meet you all, I’m Ye Zhao. I look forward to working with everyone.”

Though Rie Tomosaka was only sixteen, her career had started in sixth grade. Masato Furuyatani was an old hand, and though Yukihiko Tsutsumi’s name was only modestly known at this point, he was twenty years older than Ye Zhao. Clearly, Ye Zhao was the least experienced of the group.

“Likewise,” the three rose from their seats. Rie Tomosaka, being the youngest, was the most formal. Furuyatani and Tsutsumi simply nodded.

Tsutsumi had the look of an ordinary office worker, his chin clean-shaven, giving off a somewhat unapproachable air. Shortly after Ye Zhao sat down, Tsutsumi got up and left the room.

Rie Tomosaka, in the full bloom of youth, was a lovely and spirited girl, not yet known for her “crooked smile” due to an unlucky cavity. Seeing Ye Zhao, she was quite excited, leaning over the table toward him and whispering, “I’m a fan of yours, Ye Zhao! If I’d known you were coming, I would have brought a CD for you to sign.”

Furuyatani, sitting beside her, folded his arms and watched her unladylike posture with amiable patience. Though he had the build of a tough guy, he seemed surprisingly easygoing.

“Thank you,” Ye Zhao replied politely, “I’ll sign for you next time.”

“By the way, what brings you here?” Tomosaka asked curiously. “Are you going to appear in the drama? My manager didn’t mention anything.”

“In a manner of speaking,” Ye Zhao teased, “but my role is a bit different from yours.”

“Different?” Tomosaka touched her cheek with a finger, looking incredulous. “Are you playing a corpse?”

Hey now… Ye Zhao rolled her eyes. Playing a corpse in Kindaichi is hardly a simple matter.

At her words, Furuyatani couldn’t help but laugh. Realizing her mistake, Tomosaka slumped back into her seat and apologized, “I’m sorry, Ye Zhao.”

“It’s fine,” Ye Zhao replied with a warm smile.

Furuyatani magically produced a GAMEBOY and asked, “Would you two like to play?”

“Huh?” Tomosaka was a bit surprised.

Furuyatani explained, “Working with such young people, I was worried about how to get along, so I brought my son’s GAMEBOY.”

Tomosaka glanced at Ye Zhao, who waved a hand, signaling she needn’t mind him.

“Thank you, Mr. Furuyatani!” Tomosaka accepted the GAMEBOY, instantly forgetting her fangirl excitement as she became absorbed in the game.

…

Soon after, actors Kenji Haga, Rieko Miura, and Mizuki Sano arrived. Before long, Tsutsumi returned to the room, this time with two others in tow, both wearing staff badges—clearly part of the core production team.

As expected, after some greetings, Ye Zhao learned they were screenwriter Masaki Fukazawa and producer Yuko Hazeyama.

The last to arrive was the lead, Tsuyoshi Domoto. Though not officially debuted, his schedule was the fullest among them.

This brings up Johnny’s odd rule: no matter how popular you are, how many big jobs you land, or how many concerts you hold at major venues, you aren’t considered a full-fledged artist until you release your debut single.

Domoto entered the room and bowed apologetically. “I’m so sorry for being late.”

“No problem, come sit down,” Hazeyama replied warmly, clearly fond of him.

Although the SP had been in preparation for a month, this was the first time the entire creative team was gathered. Hazeyama began, with each person introducing their role. When it was Ye Zhao’s turn, he stood, bowed, and said, “Hello everyone, I’ll be handling the score for this drama. I look forward to working with you.”

As soon as he sat down, he looked up to see Tomosaka across the table making a silly face at him.

The meeting lasted nearly three hours, but the only part that concerned Ye Zhao was the initial self-introduction.

Scripts were handed out, and Ye Zhao received a copy as well. Once everyone had reviewed their parts, the remainder of the meeting was devoted to actors rehearsing scenes.

This was Ye Zhao’s first time watching actors perform up close, so he was utterly absorbed. While the director and writers watched with a critical eye, he could only appreciate the spectacle.

As soon as the actors slipped into their roles, the slightly scatterbrained Tomosaka transformed, the shy Domoto gained a hint of rakishness, and Furuyatani made Ye Zhao wonder if the jovial man with the GAMEBOY had been replaced with someone else.

At the director’s call for a break, those adopted mannerisms disappeared in an instant, the vanished traits returning as if nothing had happened. This, Ye Zhao thought, must be what is meant by true acting—effortless transition in and out of character.

Of course, at this stage, both Domoto and Tomosaka were still a long way from such mastery.