mchenry-crisis.org Chapter 112 The Butterfly Effect
Chapter 112 The Butterfly Effect
Chapter 112 The Butterfly Effect
In media circles, as the Venice Film Festival drew to a close, the uproar surrounding Juzo Itami strangely subsided.
But this is not because the media has changed its nature.
On the contrary, this is a more chilling accumulation of power.
Just a few days ago, newspapers were relentlessly mocking him, saying he was "going to Europe to beg for a fig leaf," and drawing cartoons to satirize his plight. But as the awards ceremony approached, these voices suddenly disappeared.
Just like spectators who have been cursing in front of the execution platform are all waiting for the final "execution moment"—the Venice Film Festival awards results.
In Tokyo's media circles, everyone is holding their breath, waiting to see the joke.
Everyone is waiting. Waiting for the news that "Grand Hotel" has failed to make any money to come back from across the ocean.
At that time, the press releases they had prepared in advance, such as "a disgrace to Japanese cinema" and "a complete loser," would pour out like a flood, completely drowning that arrogant old man.
The current silence is merely a prelude to an even louder laugh later.
Kitahara Shin was quite happy to enjoy this malicious "calm before the storm."
Since the dogs outside are all lurking at the door waiting to bite, he might as well close the door and enjoy a few days of peace and quiet. The firm's affairs are also running smoothly under Ota's management. He's finally enjoying a rare period of real "free time," so he might as well take a good rest.
Wednesday night, Roppongi.
At the back door of Being Recording Studio, a dim streetlamp cast long shadows.
"Thanks for your hard work--"
As the heavy security door was pushed open, Izumi Sakai walked out carrying her guitar bag.
She was wearing a loose denim jacket over a simple white T-shirt and faded jeans.
She wore a large mask on her face, revealing only a pair of bright eyes.
With the release of several singles by ZARD, her unique, powerful yet clear voice quickly spread among young people. The media described her as "like a clear spring that came from the Showa era," and her clean and untainted temperament is simply an anomaly in today's heavily made-up idol industry.
"Over here."
An inconspicuous black sedan parked in the shadows flashed its lights twice.
Izumi's eyes lit up, and she quickly walked over, opened the car door, and climbed into the passenger seat. The car lights were off. Kitahara Shin sat in the driver's seat, also wearing a hat and mask.
Seeing her come in, he handed her a bottle of oolong tea with the cap just unscrewed.
"How did the recording go today?"
"Not bad." Izumi took the water, took a sip, and took off her mask to reveal her clean face. "President Nagato said my high notes are much more stable, and the new single next month should be able to catch up with the schedule."
"That----"
Kitahara Shin placed his hands on the steering wheel, not in a hurry to shift gears, and turned his head to look at her.
"I'll do whatever you say tonight. Where would you like to go for a walk? Or should we find a place to eat first?"
Quanshui fastened his seatbelt, tugged at his clothes, and thought for a while.
"Hmm—I'm not really hungry. I just ate a couple of bites of my bento box in the shed."
She smiled a little shyly, her voice soft, "Besides, going to the store right now means I have to wear a mask and sunglasses to avoid being recognized, it's quite tiring. You know, if I were photographed having dinner with a man, the president would definitely nag me again, saying, 'It's not very convenient for you, Kitahara-kun, is it?'"
That's absolutely true.
ZARD is currently on the rise, and Being Company is eyeing her like the apple of their eye.
"That's true, then let's not go looking for trouble."
Kitahara Shin tapped his fingers lightly on the steering wheel. "So—how about a drive? Let's find a secluded spot to get some fresh air?"
"it is good."
Kitahara Shin smiled and started the car.
"Let's go to the road behind Yoyogi Park. There aren't many cars or streetlights there at this time of day, so no one will be able to see who we are."
"Uh-huh.
""
The car glided into the night.
We arrived at Yoyogi Park.
The two got out of the car and walked slowly along the sidewalk. Although it was late at night, they wore masks and hats as a precaution.
Izumi walked inside Kitahara Shin, her hands tucked into the pockets of her denim jacket.
After walking for a while, a warm, large hand reached out and naturally took her hand, then put them both into his trench coat pocket.
Quanshui's fingers trembled slightly, then she gripped his hand tightly in return.
In the small space created by this pocket, their body heat intertwined.
"The newspapers have been full of talk about 'The Grand Hotel' lately —"
Quan Shui looked down at the two shadows under the streetlights. "They're being really mean. The movie is so good, why can't they see that?"
"Because it is much harder to admit that others are excellent than to admit that you are mediocre."
Kitahara Shin's voice was calm, revealing no emotional fluctuation. "The harsher they curse now, the more they'll be slapped in the face later. Ignore them."
Quanshui turned her head to look at the profile of the man beside her.
Even with a mask on and only her eyes and eyebrows visible, her calm and composed demeanor still made her feel at ease.
However, Kitahara-kun is good in every way, except that he is a little bit of a womanizer.
In fact, she knew everything in her heart.
She buys newspapers and watches TV. She knows about Akina Nakamori's recent comeback, that Akina angrily confronted a film critic on the radio to defend Shin Kitahara, and that the red coral brooch Akina always wears on her wrist was a gift from Shin Kitahara.
A woman's intuition about relationships is sometimes sharper than that of a detective.
Is it sour or astringent?
Of course there will be.
Especially when she occasionally sees reports that refer to "Nobukazu Kitahara and Akina Nakamori" as the "golden couple of the Heisei era," she feels a pang in her heart.
But this emotion was quickly suppressed by a more rational and sober mindset.
She knows very well who she is.
Six months ago, she was Sachiko Kamachi, forced to work as a race queen to make a living, wearing revealing clothes and forcing a smile in front of the camera. It was Shin Kitahara who pulled her out of that cheap quagmire, gave her dignity, gave her the opportunity to sing, and not only did he not ask her to sign any kind of contract of servitude, but he also silently supported her from behind.
Without Shin Kitahara, there might not even be a "ZARD" today; it would just be something that flashes by in some late-night variety show.
A minor celebrity who relies on flaunting her figure to attract attention.
She was his creation, a stubborn rock he picked up from the roadside.
As for Akina Nakamori, she was the woman who stood shoulder to shoulder with him at the top, who could support him, and who could even stand up for him when he was attacked by the entire internet.
This gap cannot be bridged by a few hit singles.
"What are you thinking about?"
Kitahara Shin felt the hand in his palm exert a little force, and turned his head to ask.
"Nothing...nothing at all."
Quanshui shook her head, her eyes crinkling into a smile. "I just feel that things are pretty good as they are. I'm already very content to be able to sing and to be able to come out for a walk like this occasionally."
She is truly content.
She didn't want to fight for any title or create any kind of chaotic situation.
She only wanted to cherish this hard-won tranquility and repay the kindness shown to her with her singing. As long as he could see her still singing and shining when he turned around, that would be enough.
She's so sensible it breaks my heart.
The two reached a fork in the road in the park.
"Let me take you home. We have to record tomorrow." Kitahara Shin stopped in his tracks.
"Um.
""
Spring Water nodded and pulled her hand out of that warm pocket.
Just as she turned to get into the car, Kitahara Shin suddenly grabbed her wrist.
Before she could react, he leaned down.
A warm kiss, devoid of any lust but full of tenderness, gently landed on her forehead.
It was completely different from the last kiss, which was fueled by alcohol and carried a sense of recklessness.
This time, there was no smell of alcohol in the air, only the faint scent of grass and trees in the late night. He was perfectly clear-headed, and his movements were gentle and non-aggressive, merely touching her forehead with his lips, conveying a genuine sense of comfort and tenderness.
Quan Shui froze on the spot.
Her eyes were wide open, her long eyelashes trembling slightly. The touch on her forehead felt like a branding iron, scalding her skin until it went numb, the heat traveling through her veins straight to her heart.
"It's a bit chilly tonight, let's go back and have something hot to drink."
Kitahara Shin let go and helped her turn up the collar of her coat, his tone as natural as if nothing had happened, "Don't catch a cold, your voice is a treasure of the company now."
The spring water stared blankly at him.
Several seconds later, her face flushed bright red, and even the tips of her ears were red with blood.
"I understand!"
She hurriedly responded and scrambled into the car like a startled rabbit, even having to fasten her seatbelt twice before she could get it on.
Sitting in the car, she covered the spot where she had just been kissed with her hand.
It still feels hot there.
All those grand principles I used to console myself earlier, like "be sensible" and "don't be greedy," are completely useless now.
Her heart was pounding like crazy, and her mind was completely filled with joy. When that feeling of adoration hit her, she couldn't care less about reason; all she knew was that she couldn't suppress a smile.
After delivering the spring water back to the apartment, Kitahara Shin drove back to the port area.
However, instead of going home, he turned into the underground parking garage of another luxury apartment building, a place he knew exactly where to go.
open the door.
The warm yellow light and the aroma of food inside the room instantly dispelled the chill of the late night.
-
Akina Nakamori was sitting cross-legged on the living room carpet, with a record player in front of her and a sheet of music in her hand, writing and drawing.
She was wearing loose beige loungewear, her hair casually pulled back.
Most notably, the deep red coral brooch was not removed, even though it was at home.
It was pinned to the collar, shimmering with a warm luster under the light, like a beating heart.
Ever since Kitahara Shin gave her this brooch, Akina has almost never taken it off, whether she's going out or at home.
She said it was her "lucky charm".
"You're back?"
Hearing the door open, Akina looked up, a completely unguarded smile spreading across her face—the kind she only showed at home. "There's oden in the pot, still hot. Want some?"
"I'm actually hungry."
Kitahara Shin took off his coat, hung it up, and walked over to sit down next to her.
"Working on a new album?" He glanced at the densely filled sheet music.
"Yes, Warner is urging us."
3
Akina stretched like a lazy cat. "And I've had enough rest. I plan to start preparing for a national tour next month. This time I want to try a different style, not those sad love songs, but something energetic."
Her condition is visibly improving.
"Good."
Kitahara Shin picked up a soft, overcooked radish and put it in his mouth. "I'll be the head of your cheering squad when the time comes."
"Come on, if you sit down in the audience with that face, the audience will look at you and not me."
Akina rolled her eyes at him, then, as if remembering something, pulled out a sheet of music covered in dense writing from under the cushion behind her.
"By the way, Rie has been coming to my place way too often lately."
As she spoke, she circled and marked the sheet music with a red pen. Her tone sounded like she was complaining, but there was a smile on her lips: "I just finished teaching her yesterday, and she called again today to ask about breathing techniques. I didn't charge this vocal teacher a penny, but she's quite good at making her do things, calling me 'Akina-nee' all the time. I felt embarrassed to kick her out."
At this point, she slammed the sheet music on the table, deliberately putting on a stern face and adopting the demeanor of a strict teacher: "But this girl is indeed a tough nut to crack. Last time, because of a problem with pitch, I gave her a severe scolding, and she cried so miserably. I thought she would give up now, right? But the next day, she came back with her eyes swollen like two walnuts, and the first thing she said when she walked in was, 'Please teach me again.'"
""
Akina shook her head, picked up the teacup next to her, took a sip, and her eyes softened a little: "This stubborn temper—it really does remind me a bit of myself when I was young and just starting out."
Kitahara Shin smiled.
The fact that Nakamori Akina is so attentive to her, and even allows her to bother her at any time, is itself a great form of recognition.
It seems that during this time together, Rie not only learned singing skills, but more importantly, her tenacious personality completely suited Akina's taste.
The two are now more like "master and apprentice" in the true sense than senior and junior.
"Oh, right, what about Venice—"
Akina hesitated for a moment, then asked, "Is there any news? I didn't see any mention of it in the newspapers."
Although she acted indifferent, she was actually paying close attention.
After all, it was a film that Kitahara Shin poured his heart and soul into.
Kitahara Shin put down his chopsticks and wiped his mouth.
"No news is good news."
He took a small cloth bag out of his pocket.
That was the "Gentian Flower Amulet Stained with Blood and Tears" that Rie Miyazawa had given him. Although the workmanship was rough and the stitches were crooked, it seemed to emit a faint glow that was barely perceptible to the naked eye under the light.
"What is this?" Akina asked curiously as she leaned closer.
"This is an insurance policy."
Kitahara Shin placed the amulet in his palm.
He closed his eyes and silently recited a sentence in his mind.
[System, activate active skill: Reversal of Fortune.]
Only Kitahara Shin himself can see it.
The pale blue screen on my retina flickered slightly, then several lines of cold, red verification information popped up, like signing a waiver of life and death:
[Preliminary condition calculations are in progress —]
[Assessment 1: Quality Scan of the Work – Performance Rating of "The Grand Hotel's Lies": S (Timeless Classic). Judgment:]
pass.】
[Verification 2: Public Opinion Environment Scan — Current Maliciousness Index: 89% (Utterly Condemned). Judgment: Passed.]
[Check 3: Cooldown Mechanism Confirmation — This skill will be locked for 365 days after use. Confirm?]
Kitahara Shin silently said "confirm" in his mind.
As the command was given, the amulet in my palm did not change, but only became slightly warm, as if it was responding to some unseen fluctuation.
Immediately afterwards, the previously lit "Reversal of Fortune" icon on the system panel turned gray and locked, with a one-year countdown appearing on it.
This means that this trump card has already been played, and even a god can only help him this once a year.
Then, the last line of prompts appeared:
The transaction is complete.
[You have been granted your sole opportunity for a fair review.]
Please remember, the system is only responsible for drawing the curtain; whether you can captivate the audience depends entirely on your own skill and the quality of your work.
That feeling was wonderful.
It's like dropping an invisible pebble into a calm lake.
Although the surface of the water remained calm, beneath the surface, a massive undercurrent had begun to surge, following an unseen path, crossing thousands of miles of ocean, and heading towards distant Venice.
"What's wrong?"
Akina saw Kitahara Shin staring blankly at the amulet, so she reached out and waved her hand in front of his face.
Kitahara Shin opened his eyes, put away the protective charm, and a confident smile appeared on his lips.
"It's nothing."
He looked up, meeting Akina's curious gaze, and said half-jokingly, "I was just being a little superstitious and prayed to God, hoping for a good outcome."
Upon hearing this, Akina blinked, her expression becoming somewhat subtle.
She tilted her head slightly, looking Kitahara Shin up and down as if she had discovered a new continent, unable to suppress the smile on her lips: "—? How strange."
She drawled out the last syllable, her tone slightly teasing, "You actually believe in this kind of feudal superstition? I thought you only believed in yourself."
"I'm human too, I'm not made of iron."
Kitahara Shin shrugged helplessly, leaning back on the sofa. "I've done everything I can. There's nothing more I can do. At times like this, I have no choice but to hope for some kind of mystical help."
Seeing his rare "vulnerable" appearance, Akina couldn't help but burst out laughing.
She put down the sheet music, shifted her body, and moved even closer.
"Alright, I'll give you that since you're so sincere."
She reached out and gently placed her hand on the back of Kitahara Shin's hand. Her hand was a size smaller than Kitahara Shin's, with long, slender fingers and a warm, soft palm.
"Then I'll share some of my luck with you."
Akina closed her eyes, clasped her hands together in a solemn gesture, and bowed towards the ceiling, muttering, "Dear gods, please make an exception and help him this time. If you dare let him lose—humph, I'll never offer incense at the shrine again!"
After saying that, she opened her eyes and winked mischievously at Kitahara Shin: "How about it? With Nakamori Akina's exclusive prayer, it's all set now, right?"
Kitahara Shin grasped her hand in return, feeling the warmth from her fingertips, and the last bit of tension in his heart completely dissipated.
"Um.
""
He smiled and nodded, his eyes gentle.
"It's safe."
Venice, Lido Island.
The air in the film festival's screening room was stuffy and oppressive.
This was the first media screening of "The Grand Hotel Lies".
There weren't many audience members. Apart from a few Japanese journalists who were dozing off in a corner to complete their assignments, the majority of the audience consisted of local university students who had come with complimentary tickets and a few bored European film critics.
Juzo Itami sat in the shadows of the last row, clutching an empty cigarette pack in his hand.
A movie is playing on the screen.
There was no background music, only the suffocating silence of that grand hotel, and Kitahara Shin's cold, indifferent eyes behind his glasses.
It's the eye that's looking at an inanimate object.
An elderly Italian man with a full head of white hair sat in the middle.
He is the chairman of the jury, an Italian neorealist director known for his pickiness and sharp tongue.
For the first twenty minutes of the movie, he kept frowning, seemingly impatient with the dull pace, and even checked his watch several times.
A few Japanese reporters in the corner exchanged gloating glances.
It seems like we've secured our position.
Even foreigners couldn't stand it; the film was a complete failure. They'd already come up with the headlines for the news when they got back: "Cold reception at Venice! Itami's new work gets the jury president constantly checking his watch."
however.
When the plot progresses to the scene where the bankrupt company president scatters coins in the lobby on a rainy night.
The old man, who had been somewhat impatient, suddenly stopped moving.
He lowered his wrist, which he had just raised to check the time.
His body slowly leaned forward, and a light gradually shone in his previously somewhat cloudy blue eyes.
on the screen.
Shin Kitahara, who plays Sato, is bending down and picking up coins one by one from the ground with his white-gloved hands.
His back was ramrod straight, and his movements were as graceful as if he were dancing, but every joint exuded a stiffness that suggested "dignity had been shattered."
"Santo cielo..." (My God...)
The old man muttered something to himself, not even noticing that his expensive hat had fallen to the ground.
The whispers that had been in the screening room completely disappeared.
European film critics who came in expecting to see what the Japanese could come up with have now forgotten to scrutinize the exoticism in the films and to pay attention to the obscure Japanese dialogue.
At this moment, the man on the screen who is bending down to pick up coins is no longer an Asian actor with yellow skin, nor a strange character from the Far East.
He is suffering itself.
That resonance, which transcends skin color and language and strikes straight to the soul, is like an invisible hand that roughly tears off the tinted glasses of everyone present.
They started watching the movie seriously and attentively.