Tokyo: My Best Actor Gear List

Chapter 128 Strawberry Cake and the Shura Field

Chapter 128 Strawberry Cake and the Shura Field

The next day, in the evening.

Roppongi, a high-end apartment building.

Kitahara Shin stood in front of the familiar mahogany door right on time, just as agreed.

Before he even rang the doorbell, his nose twitched.

A strong, sweet smell wafted out from under the door, mixed with a hint of—the burnt smell of sugar?

Kitahara Shin raised an eyebrow.

Is this what they call a "mystery gift"?

Why does it smell like gunpowder from a kitchen explosion?

He reached out and pressed the doorbell.

"Ding-dong."

Immediately, a series of clattering footsteps came from inside, sounding somewhat chaotic, as if a small animal had knocked over a chair and was muttering, "Oh no, oh no, we're too early."

A few seconds later.

"Click".

The door opened.

The warm yellow light kept the chill of the corridor outside the door.

In the Roppongi apartment, the warm yellow light kept the winter night chill out of the window.

There was a strawberry cake on the table.

To be honest, it looks rather unappetizing.

The cream was spread unevenly, like a rough, unfinished wall. The strawberries on top were of different sizes and lay haphazardly. The chocolate plaque in the middle had "Happy Birthday" written crookedly, and a drop of chocolate sauce had dripped down, making it look like it was bleeding.

"How is it?"

Akina Nakamori sat opposite her, her hands supporting her chin, her big eyes blinking, her eyelashes fluttering.

She was wearing a fluffy beige loungewear set with a pink apron over it, which looked a bit comical. Her hair was casually pinned up with a hair clip, with a few stray strands hanging down, and there was a bit of white flour still stuck to the tip of her nose.

She looks nothing like the powerful and charismatic songstress she once was on stage.

She's exactly the kind of silly little cook who's just been defeated in the kitchen but still insists on getting praise.

Kitahara Shin, holding a fork, pondered for two seconds at the "artistic" cake.

"The design is very unique."

He gave an extremely objective assessment: "It has a kind of postmodernist messy beauty."

"Stop talking nonsense and eat!" Akina glared at him and kicked him under the table. "I learned it from TV. That's exactly how the French chef spread it, but who knew this cream would be so unruly."

She muttered, her tone a mix of grievance and expectation, like someone praising her.

To make this cake, she turned the kitchen into a battlefield and almost blew up the oven. For someone who's a "household chores black hole" who can even boil instant noodles dry, this is already an extraordinary feat.

Kitahara Shin cut off a piece and put it in his mouth.

"Click."

The sponge cake made a crackling sound that didn't belong to it.

Immediately afterwards, a strong, almost bittersweet taste shot straight to the top of my head, mixed with undissolved sugar granules that crunched and crackled.

This isn't a cake, it's a saccharin bomb.

Kitahara Shin chewed twice without changing his expression, his Adam's apple bobbing, and he swallowed.

"How is it?" Akina leaned closer, her eyes sparkling, and even the flour on the tip of her nose trembled.

Kitahara Shin picked up the water glass beside him, tilted his head back and took a big gulp, then poured himself another glass and drank it down again.

"tasty."

He put down the empty glass and calmly commented, "It just uses a bit too much water."

"puff----"

Akina couldn't help but laugh out loud. Of course, she knew what her cooking skills were like; she had almost fainted from the sweetness when she tasted the scraps earlier. But watching this man eat that "poison" without even flinching filled the void in her heart completely.

She stood up, walked around the table, and went to Kitahara Shin's side.

Without saying a word, she straddled his lap.

Kitahara Shin instinctively supported her waist. His palm touched her fluffy loungewear, soft and pleasant to the touch, like holding a large cat.

"fool."

Akina reached out and gently poked his face with her finger. "If it tastes bad, just spit it out. I'm not going to hit you."

"This is a token of my appreciation," Kitahara Shin said, looking at her. "It shouldn't be wasted."

Akina looked into his eyes.

Those eyes, usually calm, rational, and even a little calculating, appeared exceptionally deep under the warm yellow light.

The sweetness in the air seemed to have changed, transforming from a saccharin-like smell into a thick, heart-pounding aroma.

Akina slowly lowered her head.

Her movements were slow, as if she were testing the waters, or giving each other a chance to retreat.

Kitahara Shin didn't dodge.

The tips of their noses touched.

A faint milky scent (that was her scent), mixed with the sweetness of cheap cream, wafted into my nostrils.

The moment their lips touched, Akina's body trembled.

Her hands gripped Kitahara Shin's clothes tightly, her knuckles turning white. The queen who dared to roar at tens of thousands of audience members on stage was gone; now, in his arms was just an awkward woman who longed for warmth yet feared losing it.

There aren't many tricks involved.

It was an awkward kiss, one that was both tentative and expectant.

Akina finally relaxed, panting, when their breathing became rapid and they both felt like the air in their lungs was being sucked out.

She rested her forehead on Kitahara Shin's shoulder, her voice muffled, with a lingering blush: "Kitahara Shin."

"Um?"

"You are mine."

She gave him a light bite on the neck, like stamping a mark, "If you dare to run away, I'll—"

—I'll bake you into a cake.

"That sounds pretty scary." Kitahara Shin touched her furry clothes. "But I'm tough, so I probably wouldn't taste good."

Akina looked up, glared at him fiercely, and then couldn't help but laugh and fell into his arms.

Half an hour later.

Downstairs at the apartment building.

The wind on winter nights is harsh; it feels like a knife against your face.

-

"I already said there's no need to send it."

Kitahara Shin tightened the scarf around his neck. Akina had insisted on putting this scarf on him before he left, and the way it was tied was ugly; it was a knot that wouldn't hold.

"Too verbose."

Akina, bundled up like a dumpling in a thick down jacket, stood with her hands in her pockets. "I'm happy to. I'll also go to the convenience store to buy some—water."

When the word "water" was mentioned, she raised an eyebrow and glanced at Kitahara Shin, clearly still holding a grudge against the earlier comment about "wasting water".

The two had just stepped out of the apartment building.

Kitahara Shin suddenly stopped in his tracks.

Akina stopped and followed his gaze.

In the shadows where the streetlights couldn't reach, a black Toyota van was parked.

A person was standing next to the car.

She wore a beige trench coat over a simple white T-shirt and jeans. Her signature long hair flowed smoothly over her shoulders, and she carried a stylish paper bag.

She kept her head down, her toes unconsciously kicking at small pebbles on the ground; she looked like she had been standing in the cold wind for a long time.

Sakai spring water.

Upon hearing footsteps, the spring water suddenly rose to its head.

When she saw the two people walking out side by side, especially when she saw Akina's hand naturally linked with Kitahara Shin's arm, her movements froze for a moment.

The step I was about to take was abruptly halted.

A flicker of panic crossed those clear eyes, and she instinctively wanted to back away, to hide in the shadows behind the car.

That was her instinct.

She was Sachiko Kamachi, hiding in the corner of the library, unaccustomed to competition and even less accustomed to facing such direct conflict.

But next second.

She noticed the ugly scarf around Kitahara Shin's neck.

She stopped backing away, her fingers gripping the handle of the paper bag tightly, her knuckles turning slightly white from the force.

She didn't dodge.

She just stood there quietly, watching them.

A battlefield of carnage.

These three words instantly popped into Kitahara Shin's mind.

If this were a TV series, it should be accompanied by tense drumbeats, and the camera should switch back and forth between close-ups of the three people's faces.

Akina tightened her grip on Kitahara Shin's arm.

You could even feel her fingernails digging into your flesh through her coat.

Akina spoke first.

She didn't let go; instead, she leaned closer to Kitahara Shin, her chin slightly raised—a territorial instinct unique to the empress.

"It's so late, is something wrong, Sakai-san?"

The sound wasn't loud, but the subwoofer had a powerful, almost oppressive quality.

Quanshui pursed her lips.

She dared not look Akina in the eye, her gaze only falling on Kitahara Shin's face.

"Kitahara-san".

Her voice was very soft, almost inaudible in the wind, but her tone was unusually firm: "The phone—can't get through."

so----"

She held up the paper bag in her hand: "I'm just here to deliver a gift."

The implication is: I know what you were doing upstairs, so I didn't disturb you and waited downstairs.

For Izumi, who has a social anxiety disorder, this is the greatest courage imaginable, and perhaps even a tiny bit of grievance and a counterattack.

Akina squinted her eyes.

A woman's intuition told her that this woman, who looked like an innocent little rabbit, was not so simple.

That attitude of "I don't fight or compete, I just want to be good to him" is actually more infuriating than those flashy and cheap women.

The air felt somewhat stagnant.

Even the wind by the roadside seemed to have stopped.

Kitahara Shin felt the hand pinching his waist even harder; if he didn't say anything soon, he'd probably have a bruise on his waist tomorrow.

He sighed, took a step forward, subtly pulled his arm out of Akina's "clamp," and then stood between the two women with perfect ease.

No system items were used.

At times like this, any props are superfluous.

It's thanks to the scumbag boyfriend—no, it's thanks to the professional ethics of a master of impartiality.

"It's cold outside."

Kitahara Shin looked at Izumi's nose, which was red from the cold, and asked gently, "Have you been waiting long?"

"No—not long after." Quanshui shook her head and tucked her wind-blown hair behind her ear.

"Would you like to come up for a cup of tea?"

Kitahara Shin made a death proposal.

"snort."

A cold laugh came from behind.

Akina crossed her arms and stared at the back of Kitahara Shin's head, her gaze practically burning a hole in his back.

"We're out of tea leaves at home."

She said coldly, "We only have plain water; I'm afraid that's not enough hospitality."

This is an order to leave.

Moreover, it was an eviction notice that included the word "home," a declaration of sovereignty.

The spring water was neither angry nor embarrassed by those words.

She seemed relieved, on the contrary.

She looked at Kitahara Shin, a faint, obedient smile appearing on her lips: "No need, it's too late, it would disturb your rest."

She took two steps forward and handed the paper bag in her hand to Kitahara Shin.

The distance has been shortened.

A faint scent wafted over from her, like grass after rain, completely different from Akina's strong perfume.

"Happy birthday."

Quanshui looked into his eyes, her voice soft but earnest, "This is—the lyrics I just wrote, and—a demo I recorded before, which you can't buy on the market."

That was her most precious possession.

It was also the only thing she felt she could offer him and that she was worthy of him.

Kitahara Shin took the paper bag.

"Thanks."

Izumi nodded, then made a gesture that made Akina's eyebrows twitch wildly.

She suddenly reached out and gave Kitahara Shin a quick, gentle hug.

Instantly separate.

It's like a dragonfly skimming the water.

"Then I'm leaving."

After saying that, she didn't dare to look at Akina's expression, like a rabbit that had done something wrong and got into the car.

"Bang."

The car door closed.

The black van sped away as if it were fleeing for its life.

Only Kitahara Shin was left, carrying a paper bag, standing in the cold wind, looking disheveled.

A chilling low pressure came from behind me.

Kitahara Shin slowly turned around.

Akina was staring in the direction the car had disappeared, her face expressionless, but her boss-like aura was almost tangible.

"That—" Kitahara Shin tried to explain.

"Shut up."

Akina interrupted.

She walked over, reached out, and helped him straighten his ugly scarf that had been ruffled by the wind.

His movements were gentle, but his words sent chills down one's spine: "The lyrics are pretty good, aren't they? The rare demo is great, isn't it?"

"Haven't heard it yet—"

"snort."

Akina snorted coldly, then suddenly reached out and pinched his soft waist hard, rotating it 180 degrees clockwise.

"Hiss—" Kitahara Shin gasped.

"This pinch was for myself."

Akina released his hand, patted his chest, her eyes carrying a warning, yet also a hint of bossy composure: "Go home. Don't expect me to make you midnight snacks again."

After saying that, she didn't even glance at the paper bag, turned around and walked into the apartment building.

The high heels clicked on the ground with a crisp "tap, tap, tap" sound, each step rhythmic and distinct.

That silhouette clearly said: I'm in a good mood today, so I won't argue with this little brat, but you better remember this.

Kitahara Shin rubbed his aching back, looked at that retreating figure, and shook his head with a wry smile.

This chaotic scene has been temporarily glossed over, right?

in the corner.

Inside another black sedan that had been running the whole time.

Nanako Matsushima huddled in the driver's seat, gripping the steering wheel tightly with both hands, barely daring to breathe.

She witnessed the entire silent battle through the rearview mirror.

"Oh My God----"

Nanako felt her legs shaking.

That's Akina Nakamori! The tough girl who threw down the microphone on TV!

And then there's Izumi Sakai. Although she looks easy to bully, that hug she just gave me was practically a stealth attack right in front of me!

And how could their own teacher escape unscathed from such a top-tier battleground?

Aside from being pinched in the waist, he was completely unharmed?

"Are teachers gods? —"

Nanako muttered to herself, her awe of Kitahara Shin instantly reaching a new level. This was way harder than acting! It was like walking a tightrope!

Just as she was still sighing.

There was a sudden knock on the car window.

"Knock knock".

Nanako was so startled she almost jumped out of her seat, her head hitting the roof of the car.

"what!"

She covered her head and turned around in terror.

A familiar face, wearing gold-rimmed glasses, was pressed against the car window.

Kitahara Shinji was bending over, looking at her with a kind expression.

"Enjoying the show, huh? Matsushima, driver."

The car door was opened.

Kitahara Shin sat in the back seat, casually placed the paper bag containing the gift aside, then took off his glasses and rubbed his temples.

"I—I didn't mean to!"

Nanako quickly explained, her "rearview mirror PTSD" so ingrained that she didn't even dare to turn her head, her body stiff as a board: "It's President Ota! He said he has an urgent document that needs to be given to you tonight, but he couldn't get through to you on the phone—so I—so I—"

"Where are the documents?"

"In the passenger seat."

Kitahara Shin reached for the document and glanced at it. It was indeed a contract that required his signature.

He took out a pen, quickly signed his name, then closed the folder and gently patted the woman on the back of the head.

"drive."

"Yes! Go—where to?"

"What do you think?" Kitahara Shin leaned back in his chair, his voice languid. "Take me home."

The car started moving slowly.

The carriage was quiet, with only the sound of the air conditioning vents.

While driving, Nanako couldn't help but steal glances at the man in the back seat through the rearview mirror.

What she just witnessed was so shocking that her simple-minded mind went blank for a moment, and her gossipy nature overcame her fear.

"Um—teacher."

She held it in for a long time, but still couldn't hold it in.

"explain."

"Aren't you being a little too fickle?"

Nanako muttered under her breath, her tone carrying the unserious tone of a student teasing their master: "Was that Sakai-san from ZARD just now? And that Akina-san upstairs—plus last time, I personally saw Miyazawa Rie-san on set—"

She got more and more excited as she talked, completely unaware that the air temperature in the back seat was dropping rapidly.

"I think what you're doing is dangerous. What if the three of them get together to play mahjong one day? Wouldn't you be in trouble—"

"collapse."

A crisp sound.

Kitahara Shin leaned over at some point, stretched out his finger, and flicked her smooth forehead hard.

"Ouch!"

Nanako cried out in pain, covered her forehead with one hand, and tears instantly streamed down her face.

"Drive your car carefully."

Kitahara Shin sat back down, crossed his legs, and said in a flat tone, "Children shouldn't pry into adult matters. Also, if you dare to tell anyone about tonight's events—"

He glanced at Nanako in the rearview mirror.

There was no murderous intent in his eyes, just simple calmness.

But Nanako instantly recalled the fear of being dominated in the rehearsal hall, shrank back, and immediately shut her mouth.

"I—I didn't see anything!"

"I am blind! I am just a stone by the roadside!"

She shouted loudly, stepped on the gas, and the car shot off in a flash.

Kitahara Shin watched the night view rushing past the window, his fingers unconsciously stroking the edge of the paper bag.

Is he fickle?

maybe.

But in this bizarre and chaotic era, how can we protect these fragile pieces of glass without being a little greedy?

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