One month ago, Shibuya Ward, Tokyo.
A TV station.
11:07 PM.
Just moments ago, Hoshino Haruka had finished recording a variety show in the studio.
It was a late-night music program themed around the “New Generation Idol Solo Special,” and Haruka had appeared as an invited guest for about forty minutes.
As per industry standards, the actual recording time for a variety show was much longer than the broadcast time.
A one-hour program typically took three to five hours to record, including repeated NG segments, retakes, and a vast amount of useless footage that would be cut in post-production.
The reason late-night shows were recorded at night was because the daytime studio slots were occupied by higher-priority prime-time programs.
Only the leftover time at night was left for late-night shows.
This meant that for an idol of Haruka’s level, wrapping up at 11:00 PM was actually considered early.
“Good work—!”
Haruka waved goodbye to the staff while quickly walking toward the van parked in the underground garage.
She was still wearing the stage outfit specially prepared for her by the program team.
Too lazy to change, she had simply thrown her trench coat over it before coming out.
The so-called van was essentially a commercial minibus with privacy glass.
For celebrities with a certain level of status, having a van was standard.
It served not only as transportation but also as a mobile lounge.
Haruka’s van was a white Toyota Alphard purchased by her agency—not exactly luxurious, but decent enough.
True top-tier agencies had custom vehicles, some even equipped with makeup desks and changing spaces.
Haruka wasn’t at that level yet.
She used the agency’s shared van, which required advance booking.
The fact that she could use it today was thanks to Ritsu’s coordination.
Mizutagawa Ritsu rolled down the window from the passenger seat, leaning halfway out, and waved at Haruka.
“Hurry up. There’s a radio recording at eight tomorrow morning.”
“I know, I know—”
Haruka pulled open the rear door and flopped inside.
The moment her body hit the seat, she collapsed like all her bones had been removed.
“I’m dead tired…”
“You messed up that punchline twice during the third segment.”
“Huh? Did I?”
“Yes. The MC gave you a cue to respond, but you were spacing out.”
“That’s not my fault! The talk segment before it went on too long, and I zoned out!”
“So I’ve told you: even when others are talking, you can’t disconnect your focus. Recordings aren’t live shows. There’s no audience feedback to save you. You have to keep up with the rhythm yourself.”
“Okay, okay, okay—Manager-san, you’re being so strict today.”
As they chatted, the van’s engine started.
The driver was a middle-aged man in his forties, a contracted driver for the agency named Watanabe.
He smoothly and skillfully drove the van out of the underground garage.
Even late at night, Shibuya was still brightly lit.
The neon lights from Dogenzaka dyed the sky a hazy pinkish-purple.
There were far fewer pedestrians than during the day, but it was far from empty.
This sleepless city had its own rhythm at any hour.
The late night in Tokyo belonged to two types of people: those having fun and those working.
In the entertainment industry, the line between these two often blurred to a heartbreaking degree.
Haruka leaned back in the rear seat, her seatbelt hanging loosely.
Her mouth never stopped.
“That music director was so strict today. During rehearsal, he said my high C wasn’t steady enough—but I totally hit it!”
“When he said ‘not steady enough,’ he meant your breath support. You hit the note, but your voice was shaking.”
“He didn’t have to say it in front of the other guests! How embarrassing!”
“He was helping you.”
Ritsu stared straight ahead, his tone flat.
“People who can point out your problems to your face are becoming rare in this industry. Most people will only talk behind your back, saying ‘Hoshino Haruka isn’t that impressive either.'”
“Awww… what am I supposed to do about that—”
Haruka drew out her voice in a tone between a whine and a complaint.
She reached her hand forward over the front seat and poked the passenger headrest—about four inches from Ritsu’s head.
“Hey, Manager-san, can’t you comfort me a little? Something like ‘Haruka did great today’ or something?”
“Sit up straight. Buckle your seatbelt.”
“—Not even one sentence? Even if it’s a lie… okay?”
“Seatbelt.”
“You’re so boring—”
Haruka pouted, pulled back into the rear seat, and reluctantly grabbed her seatbelt, clicking it into place with a sharp snap.
“…About the breath issue, I’ll arrange an extra practice session next week. If you can stabilize that note, we can raise the key of ‘Himawari’ by a half step for next month’s live. The effect will be much better.”
Haruka paused for a second, then smiled—not a professional smile, but one that lit up from her eyes, impossible to hide.
“Ritsu-san, you really are gentle after all!”
“That’s work advice.”
“You’re totally praising me! You mean ‘Haruka, your current key is already good, but if you could make it even better, that would be awesome,’ right!”
“…If only you used that reading comprehension on your scripts.”
“Hehe, thanks for the compliment…”
Haruka, satisfied, curled up in her seat, her head resting against the window, hugging her small bag.
The van glided smoothly through Tokyo’s late-night streets.
The heater was just right—not too hot, not too cold.
Streetlights flashed by at regular intervals, painting flowing streaks of light across the van’s ceiling.
Haruka gradually fell silent.
Not because she had nothing to say, but because she was genuinely tired.
Her schedule that day had been nonstop since 8 AM.
She had gone to school symbolically for one class at 8, then left early to be picked up by the van and driven to a magazine studio for a photoshoot.
In the afternoon, it was dance rehearsal for her new song’s music video.
In the evening, she rushed to the TV station for the variety show rehearsal, followed by the actual recording.
Fifteen straight hours, with only two meals in between—one of which was just a convenience store rice ball eaten in the van.
Among her 16-year-old peers, some were still worrying about tomorrow’s homework and exams.
Hoshino Haruka, on the other hand, was already living a life of burning energy.
Her every day was divided into minute-by-minute schedule slots.
Each slot had a task that had to be completed, and each task connected to the next, like gears grinding against each other.
She was tired.
But her manager had told her she couldn’t stop.
Stopping meant being thrown out of the gears.
Unless she didn’t want to be an idol anymore.
In this industry, where new faces poured in every year, the difference between “disappearing for a day” and “disappearing for a month” sometimes only came down to how fast the audience forgot you.
Haruka pressed her cheek against the window glass.
The cool touch made her feel a little better.
Shibuya was receding outside, gradually turning into quiet residential streets.
The gaps between streetlights grew wider, the light dimmer.
“Manager-san—”
“Yeah.”
“…Good night. Wake me up when we get there.”
Haruka closed her eyes.
The van continued driving through late-night Tokyo.
The cabin fell silent, save for the low hum of the engine and the occasional wind outside.
Watanabe lowered the volume of the car radio to the minimum.
In the passenger seat, Ritsu also leaned back.
He glanced at his phone to confirm tomorrow’s schedule while replying to a Line message from the agency president.
Today was his eleventh consecutive day of work without a day off.
He was tired too, but he couldn’t afford to stop even more than Haruka.
The essence of being a manager, put simply, was this: while the artist shone bright, make sure the light didn’t go out.
The bulb did the shining; the manager did everything else—the wiring, voltage, lampshade, cooling, and quietly lowering the wattage when the bulb was about to burn out.
Most people watching the bulb didn’t pay attention to the wires, but if the wires broke, the bulb was nothing.
Ritsu closed his eyes, intending to rest for a few minutes.
The van would reach Haruka’s apartment in about fifteen minutes.
After confirming she got in safely, he would return to the agency to handle a few documents needed for tomorrow.
This routine would wrap up around midnight or 1 AM.
Then he would take a taxi back to his own apartment, sleep for five hours, get up at 6:30 AM, and head to the agency again…
The engine’s hum continued steadily in the darkness.