novelraw Chapter 211: Only Backbone Keeps You Standing! Nohara Hiroshi's Backbone!
Chapter 211: Only Backbone Keeps You Standing! Nohara Hiroshi's Backbone!
Strength is what matters most.
The ceremony's final chapter was read by a gaunt-faced Cultural Promotion Association chairman, in a tone so flat it might have been a eulogy.
His voice echoed through the lavish yet frigid hall like a wisp of smoke about to expire — feebly declaring this grand farce at its end.
The lights blazed to full intensity, stripping bare the emotions on every face below.
False courtesy, perfunctory smiles, and — predominantly — a rigidity and alienation that couldn't be masked. Together they composed a garish ukiyo-e of human nature.
"Everyone, the banquet is ready. Would you like to stay and—" Takada Toshihide rose, a nearly imperceptible weariness threading his voice as his eyes swept his team.
He was cut off by a series of silent but resolute gestures.
Yamamoto Takeshi was the first to shake his head, lips pressed into a rigid line.
Tanaka Kei and Hashishita Ichiro waved their hands almost simultaneously, faces inscribed with "No, thank you."
"Director Takada, I think we should head back." Matsumoto Keiko adjusted her shawl, her tone level yet radiating a keep-your-distance frost. "The air here... is rather foul. It upsets the stomach."Takada's gaze finally settled on Nohara Hiroshi.
Nohara Hiroshi stood up, looked at no one in particular, and said only: "Let's go."
Two words set the tone.
The current Nohara Hiroshi had earned the right to say them.
TV Tokyo's delegation filed out like a silent, proud regiment — cutting against the current of perfume, silk, and clinking glasses.
They greeted no one. They acknowledged no stares. They walked straight for the exit, leaving that false prosperity and noise decisively behind them.
Stepping through the ballroom doors, November's cold wind struck their faces — carrying Tokyo's nocturnal crispness — and instantly purged the stale air from their lungs.
Everyone drew a deep, involuntary breath, as though waking from a suffocating nightmare.
"Looks like we're not the only ones." Yamamoto Takeshi's gaze swept the parking lot, his lips curling into a sharp arc.
Not far off, teams from several prominent production companies and networks were also departing in haste, each group boarding their vehicles with zero intention of staying for the banquet.
Those producers and directors — normally masters of social grace — wore identical expressions: a silent blend of disgust and disdain.
"This time, the Academy Awards committee managed to alienate half the industry." A Level 2 director scoffed, his voice cutting cleanly through the night wind. "Propping up a puppet at the cost of stomping on every craftsman's face. Impressive, really."
"Introducing capital should be like fresh water — it brings a pond to life." Matsumoto Keiko gazed at Tokyo Tower's flickering lights in the distance, her sigh lingering. "But they went and unleashed a flood, turning the pond into a swamp. This unbridled shamelessness — discarding even the last pretense of decency — who will ever trust this award's authority again?"
"Authority?" Yamamoto Takeshi sneered. "As of tonight, 'Academy Awards' carries about as much weight with me as dog shit on the sidewalk."
The convoy started in silence, threading through the city's luminous arteries.
Outside the windows: glittering Ginza, the neon-drawn hallucination of the bubble era. Inside: a deathly hush, every passenger stripped of vitality — only weary shells remaining.
Back at TV Tokyo's brightly lit headquarters, the empty lobby felt colder still.
"It's still early — how about we find somewhere to sit, just us?" Takada surveyed his team's dejected faces, trying to rally morale.
"Pass, Director." Tanaka Kei shook his head, visibly dispirited. "Not in the mood."
"Same here. One thought of that face and my appetite's gone."
"I want to go home." Nohara Hiroshi's voice was quiet, but it silenced the room.
He looked at Takada, eyes serene: "Executive Director, everyone's exhausted today. Let's call it a night."
Takada studied him. In those deep eyes, he saw no defeatist dejection — only the stillness that follows a storm. Knowing Nohara Hiroshi remained largely unshaken, he felt a quiet wave of relief.
After all, Nohara Hiroshi WAS TV Tokyo's future.
So Takada nodded, clapped Nohara Hiroshi's shoulder, then turned to address the group, his voice regaining its strength: "Right! Everyone, chin up! Department Manager Nohara is right — rest well tonight! The real fight starts tomorrow! Dismissed!"
They dispersed, figures vanishing into late-night elevators and corridor shadows.
Nohara Hiroshi reached his apartment near midnight.
He turned the key. A warm, rich aroma rushed to greet him — instantly banishing the cold and fatigue.
On the low table in the living room, a rustic clay hot pot bubbled merrily, its blend of soy sauce, mirin, and sake filling every corner with sweetly savory fragrance.
Misae, in casual house clothes, knelt beside the table, carefully arranging paper-thin slices of beef into the pot.
At the sound of the door, she looked up, blinked once, then broke into a tender smile.
"You're home."
"Mm. I'm home." Nohara Hiroshi nodded.
"I watched the ceremony live, you know." Misae stood, taking his coat. Her tone was light. "That Best Actor thing was a bit... well... But in MY heart, you're always the best! Congratulations, Hiroshi!"
She didn't mention the lost award — only offered her most direct affirmation in her own way.
Warmth flooded Nohara Hiroshi's heart. He changed his shoes, walked over, and sat beside Misae. Eyeing the bubbling broth and fresh ingredients, he asked: "Why are you eating so late?"
"Well, yeah." Misae laughed. "I got so caught up watching your ceremony I forgot! But Hiroshi — why didn't you stay for the banquet? The broadcast said there was a very fancy dinner after the ceremony."
"Ah..." Nohara Hiroshi picked up his chopsticks, plucked a just-cooked slice glistening with sweet sauce, and placed it in his mouth. The smooth texture and deep flavor seemed to iron out the wrinkles in his soul, one by one.
He sighed, then recounted the ceremony's absurd scene in full — along with the audience's reaction.
Misae listened patiently, occasionally adding vegetables and tofu to his bowl.
When he finished, she blinked, slightly puzzled: "But... it's just one 'Best Actor' award, right? Why did everyone... react so strongly? Is it really that important to you and the station?"
Nohara Hiroshi set down his chopsticks and looked at her earnestly: "Misae, it's not just an award. Within the industry, it's a benchmark — a declaration of values. It tells everyone what kind of performance is good, what kind of work deserves respect. When that benchmark can be twisted by money at will — when a talentless idol can ride capital to the highest podium — the signal it sends is: effort is useless, talent is cheap, art is for sale."
He paused, his voice dropping lower:
"For people who truly love this industry and pour their heart and blood into it, that's a devastating blow. It disorients creators, warps audiences' aesthetic sense, and over time, corrodes the very foundations of the entire industry. We're angry not because I personally didn't win — but because the rules we live and fight by... have been trampled."
Misae nodded, half-understanding.
She might not fully grasp the industry's complex inner workings and far-reaching implications, but she could feel the weight and disappointment in her husband's words.
She reached out, gently took Nohara Hiroshi's hand, and said softly: "I understand. What they did was terrible. But, Hiroshi — truly good things don't lose their shine because of one tainted award. The audience's eyes — those are the truest measure."
Nohara Hiroshi clasped his wife's hand in return. The last trace of shadow in his heart was dispelled by these simple, genuine words.
Yes. The audience's eyes.
He picked up his chopsticks again, and his face showed the first heartfelt smile of the entire evening: "You're right. Come — eat. This wagyu is really excellent."
"Of course it is! I walked several blocks to find it!"
"Thank you for the trouble."
"Come on, eat, eat — it's no good once it cools down."
Outside, the night pressed deep. Inside, steam curled and danced. A pot of sukiyaki soothed a road-worn soul. The tempests stirred on fame's stage seemed held at bay by this warmth of everyday life — sealed safely beyond the front door.
Nohara Hiroshi's heart sank completely into the moment.
Then, as he was savoring his beef, Misae — as if sensing the lingering unhappiness in his heart — thought for a moment and spoke: "Hiroshi, if you're feeling down... how about we take a trip to Kumamoto Prefecture sometime?"
"Hm?" Nohara Hiroshi looked at her. "Kumamoto?" That was Misae's hometown.
"Yeah." Misae smiled. "We have beautiful scenery there too, you know..." As she spoke, her cheeks reddened. "My mom and dad... they'd like you to come visit."
Nohara Hiroshi chuckled and nodded: "Sure. We'll go before long."
Regarding his future with Misae — indeed, it was time to pay that visit.
...
Yet the storm had only just begun.
The next morning, as the first rays of sunlight pierced Tokyo's dawn mist, Japan's entire media landscape detonated as though hit by a depth charge.
Every major newspaper's morning edition and every network's morning news placed the results of the Television Drama Academy Awards front and center.
And every single report zeroed in on the same name: Kamiki Shunsuke.
Only this time, the coverage split into stark, diametrically opposed camps.
Mainstream authoritative outlets — led by the Asahi Shimbun and Yomiuri Shimbun — uniformly chose an exceedingly cautious, even critical, tone.
The Asahi Shimbun's culture-section headline was terse yet devastating: "The Academy Awards' Night of Shame: When Art Bows to Capital." The article avoided naming Kirin Group or Tokyo City TV directly, yet every word struck at "non-professional factors" in the selection process. It quoted numerous anonymous senior critics calling Kamiki Shunsuke's performance "hollow, formulaic — a desecration of the performing arts," and expressed "deep regret and bewilderment" that Nohara Hiroshi's "phenomenal work" had been passed over.
The Tokyo Economic Journal took an industrial angle, publishing a scathing commentary titled "Alarm Bell Atop the Bubble: Capital's Arrogance May Devour the Cultural Industry's Very Foundations." The piece sharply identified the incident as a dangerous signal of capital over-expansion under the bubble economy — an attempt to infiltrate every domain — and warned that this myopic "traffic-worship" and "money-worship" mentality would ultimately destroy the entire content industry's creative ecosystem and credibility.
The more academically rigorous Kinema Junpo published a special-edition essay by the renowned critic Hasumi Shigehiko himself, titled "The Violence of 'Cute' — Deconstructing the Performative Nihilism in Lovely Cherry Blossom Boy." Ranging from Lacan's mirror theory to Debord's Society of the Spectacle, the article anatomized Kamiki Shunsuke's "acting" to the bone, calling it "a meticulously packaged commercial symbol designed to peddle desire — bearing zero relation to the artistic act of 'performance.'"
This collective volley from authoritative media landed like hammerblow after hammerblow on last night's gilded trophy.
Yet in another media sphere, the landscape was entirely different.
Tabloid magazines renowned for entertainment gossip and sensational headlines — Shukan Bunshun, FRIDAY, and their ilk — along with newer, youth-oriented urban papers, launched a thunderous "deification campaign."
The cover of Weekly Star: a massive close-up of Kamiki Shunsuke clutching his trophy with tears in his eyes. The headline, dripping with melodrama: "Coronation of Tears! The Glory and Solitude of New-Generation King Kamiki Shunsuke! The Power of Fans Creates Miracles!"
The Tokyo Metropolitan Entertainment Journal — directly under Tokyo City TV — ran page after page of positive coverage under the banner: "The People's Choice, the Tide of the Times! Academy Awards Honors the Voice of the People, Celebrates New-Generation Power!" The article trumpeted the "overwhelming data" from the "audience SMS voting" segment, accompanied by touching "stories" of Kamiki Shunsuke's fan club members calling in votes through the night — framing it as a "victory of the people's will."
POP IDOL Monthly's hastily printed special edition went straight for the slogan: "Our Shunsuke-kun is Number One in the World! Anyone who questions it is just a jealous ghost of the old era!"
Two diametrically opposed voices — in newspapers, on television, over radio, and on people's lips — clashed violently, tearing Japanese society into two enormous camps.
An unprecedented great debate erupted in every corner of Tokyo.
On the morning commuter trains, the atmosphere was especially strange.
"Absolutely ridiculous!" A gray-haired, suit-wearing salaryman clutched his copy of the Asahi Shimbun, hands trembling with rage. "I watched Midnight Diner, and my daughter forced me to sit through two episodes of that 'Cherry Blossom Boy.' You can't even COMPARE them! One's a real actor — the other's a walking poster! Are the judges blind?"
"Exactly," agreed a bespectacled middle-aged office worker beside him. "It's obviously a bought award. Disgusting! Who's going to watch these ceremonies anymore?"
Yet behind them, several high school girls in uniform curled their lips dismissively.
"What do old guys know?" one muttered, clutching the Weekly Star with Kamiki Shunsuke on the cover. "Shunsuke-kun worked SO hard! Did you see those shattered eyes in the rain scene? My heart broke!"
"Right?!" Her friend jumped in excitedly. "Nohara Hiroshi and those stuffy old-man dramas — so preachy, so exhausting! We young people like Shunsuke-kun's type — handsome AND gentle, pure healing to watch!"
"This isn't about good or bad acting — it's about aesthetic taste, okay? Shunsuke-kun's very existence IS a work of art!"
"Exactly! Everyone criticizing him is just jealous of his looks and popularity!"
In a university campus café, the debate escalated to theoretical heights.
"This is a textbook case of the culture industry's assembly line crushing serious art," declared a literature major, adjusting his glasses with righteous indignation. "Capital manufactures idol symbols to numb the masses' aesthetic sensibilities, thereby achieving total control of the cultural sphere. The Frankfurt School predicted this long ago..."
"Hey, senpai, can you not make everything so political?" A fashionably dressed girl across from him rolled her eyes. "Watching TV is supposed to be FUN. After a grueling day of classes, I just want something light and easy on the eyes — and Kamiki Shunsuke's face is a guaranteed ratings boost! The market chose him. What's the problem?"
"Market? A pseudo-market manipulated by capital! Real viewer choice was stripped away long ago!"
"So you're saying the millions of fans who voted for Shunsuke-kun aren't 'real viewers'? That's elitist arrogance!"
From office break rooms to housewives' afternoon tea parties, from sake-soaked men in izakayas to gossiping shopkeepers on shopping streets — everyone had been swept into the massive vortex of "Does Kamiki Shunsuke deserve it or not?"
Supporters declared it a victory of the new era — an expression of fan economy and viewer empowerment, a crusade against the old guard's suppression of new-generation idols.
Opponents mourned it as the industry's downfall — the death of art, capital's merciless trampling of credibility.
All of Japan seemed to have become one enormous debate hall: raucous, divided, torn.
And at the storm's eye, Nohara Hiroshi sat in his office, quietly flipping through the spread of newspapers across his desk — his expression as calm as the clear blue sky outside his window.
But in the open office of Nohara's Special Production Department, the atmosphere was a pot at rolling boil — the din of voices and champagne bubbles surging upward until the ceiling practically vibrated.
The air carried a complex cocktail of scents: the sweetness of victory, and something scalding — nearly indistinguishable from fury.
"Our Yamishibai! Best Animation!"
"And Kasou Taishou! Best Variety Show! Our department cleaned house this time!"
"But the biggest deal — our boss! Nohara-san! Best Screenwriter! NOW that's a TRULY deserved honor!"
A young writer's assistant, face flushed crimson, shouted with uninhibited enthusiasm.
"Exactly! Department Manager Nohara's scripts are polished word by word! Not like SOME people who get awards just for having a pretty face!"
"Shh — keep it down, Sato." A senior planner patted his shoulder, though wearing an identical smirk. "True as it is, don't broadcast it."
"I refuse to accept it!" The young assistant's neck bulged stubbornly. "Best Actor — on what grounds does Kamiki Shunsuke get that? Can he even ACT? The whole time it's one frozen expression — his fans call it 'cool detachment'? HA! That's called having ZERO talent!"
"I know, right? Can't sing in tune, dances like morning radio calisthenics, and now he's doing drama — and wins Best Actor? It's like grinding the faces of everyone who actually puts in the work into the dirt!" A female colleague couldn't help venting.
"These so-called 'idols' are monsters bred by capital. They're not artists — they're products. Singers who won't practice their voice. Actors who won't study their characters. Spending all day preening in front of cameras — and somehow there are legions of clueless boys and girls worshiping them." Another colleague's eyes dripped with unconcealed contempt. "This toxic trend is warping the entire entertainment industry."
"Exactly! The singers of old — THEY were artists. Open their mouths and it was heaven's own sound. Today's idols? Lip-syncing, auto-tuned until their own mothers wouldn't recognize them. Actors too — the old masters would live inside a role for months to prepare. Now? These idols show up to set with seven or eight assistants, recite gibberish placeholders for dialogue, and leave everything to post-production dubbing. And they dare call themselves actors?"
"Clowns. Puppets wrapped in packaging."
"Yet these very clowns stole the honor that should've gone to real actors. This world's gone completely upside down."
The office mood, initially ecstatic, gradually settled into a shared, indignant clarity.
They were proud of their own victories — and grieved for the industry's degradation.
A complex, collective emotion that belonged to creators.
Just then, the office door swung softly open, and a graceful figure stepped inside.
It was Kitagawa Yao. She wore a proper business suit, her face arranged in a professional smile — yet deep in her eyes hid a barely perceptible concern.
Her gaze found the center of the crowd with unerring precision.
"Department Manager." Kitagawa Yao gave a slight bow, her voice clear and gentle. "Deputy Director Asumi would like to see you. His office."
The office din dropped several decibels instantly. Every eye converged.
The smile faded slightly from Nohara Hiroshi's face. He nodded: "Mm. Understood."
Nohara Hiroshi walked out of the boiling room.
The corridor was quiet enough to hear his own heartbeat — a different world from the clamor behind him. Kitagawa Yao walked ahead, her heels tapping the floor in crisp, rhythmic beats.
"What's wrong, Kitagawa-chan?" Nohara Hiroshi spoke up. "You seem... not very happy."
"Department Manager, I think you received too few awards this time." Kitagawa Yao's steps faltered. She half-turned, her voice sullen. "You only got one Best Screenwriter — I don't think it's enough!"
"And... this whole Best Actor business — I think that's seriously problematic!"
Nohara Hiroshi's eyebrow twitched, then settled. His lips even curled with a hint of amusement. "Oh? Even Miss Kitagawa thinks there was something wrong with that award?"
"Of course! That Kamiki Shunsuke person — he's utterly unqualified!" Kitagawa Yao vented, then notices they had arrived at the Deputy Director's office and stopped in her tracks, watching as Nohara Hiroshi entered.
She had no clearance to enter the Deputy Director's office.
Nohara Hiroshi smiled and said goodbye to her.
Then he pushed open the heavy wooden door, and a rich cigar scent engulfed him.
The office's main light was off. Only a dim floor lamp cast everything in an amber, old-photograph tint.
Asumi sat on the sofa, a thick cigar wedged between his fingers, smoke coiling around him — obscuring his expression.
Across from him sat a man of hard-edged build and hawk-sharp eyes.
Kurosawa Eiji.
Japan's uncontested Level 1 Director of television drama — and Nohara Hiroshi's half-mentor, a figure who was equal parts teacher and friend.
Seeing Nohara Hiroshi enter, Kurosawa Eiji's perpetually severe face squeezed out a complicated expression. He let out a heavy grunt — as if expelling something foul from his chest.
"Hiroshi, you're here." Asumi's voice was hoarse. He pointed to a single-seat sofa. "Sit."
Nohara Hiroshi took the seat, his gaze sweeping both faces.
"Still fuming over that garbage award?" Kurosawa Eiji spoke first. His voice was rough stone — sandpaper-textured. "Not worth it."
"I'm not angry." Nohara Hiroshi answered with a smile.
"Not angry?" Kurosawa Eiji glared at him. "Not angry, with a face wound tight enough for a battlefield? I know you, kid. The fire inside you could burn through this station's ceiling!"
Asumi slowly released a smoke ring. It gathered, then dispersed before his face.
"Hiroshi, you've been wronged this time." He began, conciliatory. "By rights, your Yamishibai, Tales of the Unusual, and Kasou Taishou are all history-making works. That you didn't take home more awards — that's not your failing."
"It's this era's failing." Kurosawa Eiji seized the thread, slamming the sofa's armrest with a muffled thud. "It's CAPITAL's failing! These bastards have jammed their filthy hands into every corner! Do they understand what performance IS? What art IS? All they understand is money! Traffic!
His emotions were clearly far more volatile than Nohara Hiroshi's;
the veins at his temples bulged visibly.
"The Television Drama Academy Awards — how big that name is! How old that institution is! And now? They've thrown away their face! To prop up capital's toy, they've stomped on the faces of every colleague in the industry! They're telling everyone: effort is pointless, talent is pointless — only the capital behind you is the only ticket that matters! Shameless! Despicable!"
The air in the office seemed to ignite from his rage, turning scorching.
Compared to Kurosawa Eiji's eruption, Asumi appeared far calmer — or rather, it was the weariness of a man who'd weathered too many storms.
He stubbed out his cigar with a soft hiss, then exhaled a long sigh.
"Eiji, calm down. This affair is likely more than just capital at work."
Kurosawa Eiji's fury stuttered. He frowned toward Asumi. "What do you mean?"
Asumi's gaze shifted to Nohara Hiroshi, eyes deep: "Hiroshi — do you think an entertainment company's capital alone could make the Academy Awards committee collectively produce such a preposterous decision?"
Nohara Hiroshi was silent for a moment, then slowly shook his head.
"Impossible. There are plenty of venerable elders on the committee. They guard their reputations above all else."
"Exactly." Asumi nodded, voice dropping lower. "The only force that could make them collectively hold their tongues — even cast votes against their conscience — is one kind of power."
He didn't continue, but the answer was self-evident.
Kurosawa Eiji's expression turned grim. He seemed to realize something;
his lips moved, but no sound emerged.
"The government made its move." Asumi said it for him, his tone laden with exhaustion. "And I suspect it's very likely connected to Tokyo's mayor — Tanaka Mikami."
"Tanaka Mikami?" Kurosawa Eiji's pupils contracted sharply. "That politician who climbed up from the construction industry?"
"Besides him, I can't think of anyone with that kind of leverage — or that kind of motive." Asumi picked up his teacup and sipped the long-cold tea. "The talent agency behind Kamiki Shunsuke — its largest backer is the consortium controlled by Mayor Tanaka's family, along with Sato Tokugawa's Kirin Group. He's planting a flag for his faction in the entertainment world's vast arena of fame and fortune."
The office sank into deathly silence.
If capital's infiltration was a dirty deal, then the intervention of political power was an irresistible crushing force.
Asumi watched Nohara Hiroshi and Kurosawa Eiji as they sank into thought, then continued in a tone so flat it bordered on cruel:
"Don't underestimate the reach of a Tokyo mayor. Do you understand how power and wealth are distributed in this country?"
He held up a finger, sketching invisible lines in the air.
"If the entire Kanto region holds sixty percent of Japan's wealth..."
"Then the Tokyo Metropolis holds sixty percent of Kanto's share."
"And Tokyo City — the core of the core — commands over sixty percent of the entire Tokyo Metropolis's wealth."
"Layer upon layer of accumulated wealth ultimately converges into overwhelming power. On this patch of land called Tokyo, Tanaka Mikami is a veritable emperor. Whoever he wants elevated — gets elevated. A television drama award? For him, it's nothing more than flicking a finger."
These words landed like blocks of ice dropped into scalding hearts, instantly dousing the flames of rage into a residue of cold ash.
Reality was just that frigid and hard.
Nohara Hiroshi finally spoke. His voice was very calm — emotionless, almost.
"I understand."
He raised his head, looking at Asumi: "Then... the Mainichi Film Awards in two days, and the newly established Tokyo Drama Awards next week — are they also...?"
He didn't finish, but the implication was crystal clear.
A bitter smile crossed Asumi's face. He didn't answer directly — only released another long sigh.
That single sigh spoke louder than any words.
"Very likely."
"Bastards!" Kurosawa Eiji could contain himself no longer. He shot to his feet like a caged lion, pacing the confined space, teeth grinding audibly. "These parasites! The better the economy gets, the more of these light-shunning vermin multiply! Are they going to hollow this country out piece by piece?"
His curses echoed through the quiet office — suffused with impotent fury.
Yet Nohara Hiroshi, unexpectedly, let his lips curl — his face even showing a flicker of disdain.
He leaned back on the sofa, shifted to a more comfortable position, and let his entire body relax.
"If that's the case..." he began at a leisurely pace, his voice soft yet carrying clearly to both pairs of ears. "I have zero interest in attending the next two ceremonies."
Asumi and Kurosawa Eiji both froze, staring at him in surprise.
"Deputy Director Asumi, I'd like to request some leave." Nohara Hiroshi's tone was as casual as discussing the weather. "My girlfriend Misae — she wants to visit her family in Kumamoto. I'd like to go with her. Take a breather."
"Leave?" Asumi blinked.
"Yes. Leave." Nohara Hiroshi nodded, a hint of insouciance in his smile. "Go somewhere with clean mountains, clear water, and no parasites. Breathe some fresh air for a few days."
He met Asumi's eyes — clear, resolute: "Going would only mean watching another carefully choreographed monkey show. Might even come home reeking of monkey stench. Better to skip it."
Asumi held Nohara Hiroshi's gaze for a good fifteen seconds.
In those young eyes, he found no dejection from being suppressed, no bitterness from unjust treatment — only a transparent, almost dismissive pride.
As if to say: Your game? I'm done playing.
Asumi's tense face suddenly relaxed. He seemed infected by Nohara Hiroshi's attitude. His own lips turned upward — a smile of release.
"You little..." He shook his head, his tone carrying a note of approval and a hint of self-mockery. "You're right."
"Going would only make us angrier anyway."
He picked up the desk phone, dialed an internal extension.
"Hello, it's me. Approve two weeks' leave for Nohara Hiroshi. Reason: paid vacation."
Hanging up, he told Nohara Hiroshi: "Go. Spend some quality time with your girlfriend. The horse sashimi in Kumamoto is excellent — eat a few extra portions for me."
"Will do." Nohara Hiroshi stood, giving Asumi and Kurosawa Eiji a slight bow.
"Well then — I'll take my leave."
With that, he turned and walked out of the office — that room steeped in intrigue and helplessness — without a backward glance.
The moment the door closed, Kurosawa Eiji finally let out a long breath. He dropped back onto the sofa, regarding Asumi with a complex expression.
"That kid's got more backbone at his age than either of us ever had."
Asumi picked up the extinguished cigar, relit it, and drew deeply.
"Yeah."
Smoke swirled once more. He squinted through the haze, as if — through that veil — he could see something distant, something named hope.
"Backbone is what keeps you from being crushed."