Tokyo Literary Masters: Starting from the Late 1980s

Editor-in-Chief Sato trembled as he took off his glasses and hastily wiped the cold sweat from his face, unsure whether it was from fear or from excitement.

He finally understood what Kitahara Iwa's "sinner's monologue" meant in the phone call.

He finally understood why Kitahara Iwao dared to casually say on the phone, "If you don't like the first chapter, just throw it in the shredder."

This is not arrogance by intellectuals at all.

It's not that Kitahara Iwao got arrogant because of the success of The Ring!

Rather, it is the Creator's confidence in having absolute dominion over the monsters he created!

"Screw romance novels!"

Editor-in-Chief Sato slammed his fist on the table, his eyes bloodshot with agitation: "This kind of psychological horror, mixed with blood and milk, striking straight to the soul, is even worse than Sadako crawling out of the television!"

"Machida...Machida!!!"

The next second, Editor-in-Chief Sato yelled at the still bewildered Editor Machida, "Quick! Call the marketing department! Now! Immediately!"

"Make them withdraw all previous promotional materials for horror sequels! Rewrite the plan!"

"Tell them that Kitahara-sensei's new book is not an appendage of 'The Ring'... It's a masterpiece that surpasses 'The Ring' and is capable of subverting humanity!"

Editor-in-Chief Sato stared intently at the photocopied manuscript on the table, his face beaming with delight. "If this book can't be published... the entire Japanese mystery literature world will condemn me as a sinner for all time!"

at the same time.

In a luxury apartment in Tokyo.

The main lights in the room were not on; only a floor lamp in the corner emitted a dim, orange glow.

The air was filled with a stale smell of alcohol and an atmosphere of decadence.

Several empty wine bottles lay scattered beside the expensive leather sofa.

The answering machine on the coffee table kept flashing red, probably a message from the manager anxiously, or a disingenuous explanation from Kondo Masahiko.

But Akina Nakamori didn't even glance at it.

At this moment, the most dazzling diva in all of Japan is curled up on the sofa like a wounded kitten.

But her eyes were clearer than ever before, even frighteningly so.

In her hands, she tightly held a copy of "Confession," which Kitahara Iwatsu called a guide to revenge.

At first, when she saw the title, Akina Nakamori thought it was a novel about forbidden love.

After all, the word "confession" is always associated with blushing, heart-pounding emotions, and feelings under the fluttering cherry blossoms.

But when Akina Nakamori finished reading the official copy, she felt as if all the blood in her body had frozen, but then it started to boil again.

"So... that's how it can be done."

Akina Nakamori murmured to herself, her fingertips gently tracing Yuko Moriguchi's lines on the page.

She always thought that resistance required hysterical arguments and throwing things.

She thought that was power.

But the book told her: she was wrong.

True revenge is not about making yourself look pathetic.

Instead, he smiled and, in the calmest voice, watched the other person drink the cup of milk mixed with poisonous blood.

"Watanabe Shuya (Boy A)..."

At this moment, Akina Nakamori's gaze lingered on the psychological description of the genius murderer in the book.

Selfish, indifferent, extremely attention-seeking, treats everyone around him as a tool to showcase his talents, and has no empathy whatsoever...

As Nakamori Akina looked at the photocopy, the paper figure named Boy A on it gradually overlapped with the real-life man with curly hair who always drove race cars and constantly demanded money from her.

Isn't Masahiko Kondo just a real-life version of Shuya Watanabe?

For the sake of their racing dreams, they can sacrifice other people's precious things without any guilt.

Isn't it just that in the book, Shuya Watanabe killed Aimi directly in order to test the electric shock he invented?

Moreover, when questioned, they always respond with a cold, indifferent "You don't understand me."

"hehe……"

A low laugh suddenly echoed in the empty room.

Akina Nakamori closed the manuscript, stood up from the sofa, and walked barefoot to the full-length mirror.

Although the woman in the mirror was thin and pale, her eyes, which used to be filled with tears, now burned with a flame of resistance.

"Since I don't want to be like Sadako, unable to resist..."

Looking at herself in the mirror, Akina Nakamori took a deep breath: "Then I'll be the Yuko Moriguchi who can resist..."

Two days later.

Fuji Television, the filming location of "Grandma".

The studio was bustling with people, and staff were busy adjusting the lights and sets.

A subtle low pressure was flowing through the air.

"Hey, did you hear? Akina Nakamori is coming to film today."

"Really?"

"Isn't she in a bad state lately? The weekly magazines are saying she's on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Can she even act in a horror movie like this?"

"Who knows? The director insists on using her. Hopefully, filming will go smoothly, and she won't faint or lose control of her emotions on set..."

Several stagehands huddled in a corner, whispering amongst themselves, their eyes occasionally glancing toward the break room.

Snapped!

A sharp, loud crash abruptly interrupted the whispers in the corner.

Everyone jumped in fright and turned to look.

Director Masayuki Ochiai slammed the script he was holding onto the monitor table, his face grim and terrifying.

"You're all so free, aren't you?"

Ochiai Masayuki abruptly turned his head, his sharp gaze sweeping over the gossiping crew members. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried an undeniable anger: "Anyone who lets me hear another word of nonsense about the actors' private lives, get out of the studio right now!"

"This is a Fuji Television film set, not a gossip magazine!"

Hearing Masayuki Ochiai's blunt words, the stagehands turned pale with fright, bowed repeatedly in apology, and then slunk away to get back to work.

Ochiai Masayuki snorted coldly, sat back in the director's chair, straightened his collar, turned to Kitahara Iwao beside him who had remained calm, and quickly said, "These guys really don't know anything. They only know how to stare at those unfounded gossips."

At this point, Masayuki Ochiai stopped talking and turned his gaze to Akina Nakamori, who had just walked into a corner of the set.

At this moment, Akina Nakamori was standing alone in the layers of shadow of the set, without her assistant.

With her eyes closed, she resembled a statue isolated from the world, preparing her final emotions.

"Teacher Kitahara, although the rumors from the outside world are very unpleasant, I have a very deep impression of that audition."

Looking at Akina Nakamori's slender figure, Masayuki Ochiai said with unusual certainty, "That kind of look can't be acted out with technique. It's the expression that can only be revealed when the soul is torn apart."

"I trust my intuition, and I trust your judgment."

"Looking at the entire entertainment industry, no one but her could have portrayed this tragic ending so well."

Kitahara Iwa's gaze passed through the crowd and landed on Nakamori Akina as well, then he nodded slightly.

No one knows what kind of psychological transformation Nakamori Akina underwent in those few short days.

But what is visible to the naked eye is...

At this moment, the aura emanating from her had shed the confusion and fragility she displayed during the audition.

He became more reserved and profound than he had been that day.

It is also...more dangerous.