Chapter 19: Prelude

Thinking back, those few crackers with water this morning could hardly be considered breakfast.

This body’s metabolism was frighteningly fast—her energy consumption rate was at least double what it used to be.

“Maybe… that’s why Haruka could eat snacks and not gain weight? The kind of body where you can eat anything and never get fat?”

Haruka walked into the kitchen, opened the freezer, and bent down to scan inside.

She had already cleaned out the fridge compartment in the morning, tossing all the expired items.

Now it was so empty it could be used as a display case.

But as for the freezer, it seemed she’d only pulled open the first drawer.

So she opened the second and third drawers, and inside lay a few packages—

A bag of frozen edamame, a pack of frozen udon noodles, and a bag of frozen chicken breast.

She took them out and glanced at the supermarket label on the packaging.

The purchase date was three months ago.

In other words, about two months before Haruka’s accident.

Looking at the bag of chicken breast, she pieced together a scene in her mind—

One day, Hoshino Haruka got a sudden inspiration and decided, “I’m going to start cooking for myself! Healthy eating! Body management!”

So she excitedly ran to the supermarket and bought chicken breast, edamame, udon noodles—all those seemingly healthy ingredients.

Then she came home, opened the kitchen, stared at the stove for a few seconds—

Stuffed everything into the freezer and never opened it again.

Haruka looked at the bag of rock-hard frozen chicken breast and twitched the corner of her mouth.

Still, at least she knew how to cook this.

Although she used to be a shut-in, among her limited life skills, cooking was passable.

She couldn’t make gourmet dishes; most of what she knew were simple recipes she’d figured out to save money.

Her specialty was black pepper chicken breast, which her mother had taught her the basics of when she was alive.

Later, living alone, she’d refined it a bit, and the result was actually quite decent.

Besides, chicken breast was high in protein, low in fat—perfect for an idol who needed to manage her figure.

Was chicken breast tasty?

Most of the time, no. Chicken breast had a dry, tough texture—the most boring of all meats.

But when you have no ingredients to work with, you make do.

At this point, chicken breast was the finest ingredient available.

She took the chicken breast out of the freezer, rinsed it under running water in the sink, then put it in the microwave to defrost.

Then she started searching the kitchen for utensils.

The stovetop was terrifyingly clean.

Aside from a cutting board and two dusty plates, she couldn’t find any cookware.

Eventually, she discovered that Hoshino Haruka had hidden the cutting board and knives in the cabinet under the stove.

They looked brand new, zero wear, as if never used.

She rummaged through the seasoning rack—soy sauce, mirin, cooking sake, and sugar were all there, but no black pepper.

Apparently, when Haruka bought the ingredients, she hadn’t even thought about seasonings before giving up.

“Whatever, soy sauce and mirin will do. Teriyaki chicken breast is fine too.”

Forty minutes later—

The frying pan on the stove sizzled.

Thinly sliced chicken breast was being pan-fried in a sauce of soy sauce and mirin, emitting a sweet and savory aroma.

For the first time since Haruka had moved into this apartment, it was filled with the smell of “someone cooking.”

She plated the finished teriyaki chicken breast, paired it with a bowl of microwaved frozen udon noodles, and boiled a small dish of frozen edamame.

Haruka sat at the dining table, looking at the meal before her.

“…Not bad.”

The chicken breast was cooked well—crispy on the outside, not too dry on the inside.

The sauce ratio was slightly off, a bit too sweet, but as “first-time cooking in someone else’s kitchen,” it was an acceptable result.

She ate quickly, then washed every pot, pan, and dish spotlessly, restoring the kitchen to its original “never been used” state.

Then she checked the time—12:15.

Ritsu had said the van would come to pick her up later, so she could take a short rest before then.

“I wonder if I can nail this first battle?”

—

The van arrived downstairs at exactly 12:50.

Ritsu sent a LINE message—”Come down.”

Haruka changed into her going-out clothes.

She chose a relatively safe combination: a beige knit sweater, a white skirt, thick leggings, and a pair of low-heeled ankle boots.

Over it all, she wore a dark coat.

Finally, after some thought, she imitated the look by putting on a mask, hat, and sunglasses—her stereotypical “stealth gear” for an idol going out.

But honestly, before leaving, she had debated whether this was overkill.

In theory, the best disguise was to blend in—dress as ordinary as possible to merge into the crowd and avoid attention.

But this “mask + hat + sunglasses” combo actually seemed a bit conspicuous.

A pretty girl walking down the street in normal clothes might not be recognized, but someone wearing a mask, sunglasses, and a hat would definitely draw attention.

However, Haruka considered her own situation—her forehead was still bandaged, so the mask and hat weren’t for disguise; they were necessities.

She went downstairs and exited the apartment building.

The van parked by the curb this time was different from last time.

The previous white Alphard that had been totaled in the accident was scrapped.

This new one was also a white Alphard, but a newer model.

Replacing a van wasn’t a trivial matter.

Vehicle procurement or leasing required budget approval from the agency, insurance transfer, vehicle registration, driver arrangement, and so on—a series of procedures that took at least one to two weeks.

Ritsu had handled all of that during the month Haruka was hospitalized.

This included negotiating compensation with the trucking company responsible for the accident—the van’s loss, Haruka’s medical expenses, lost income, emotional damages, and so on.

She opened the rear door and got in.

In the driver’s seat sat someone she hadn’t seen before—a man in his thirties with a round face and a kind smile, wearing the agency’s standard driver uniform.

“Miss Hoshino, nice to meet you. Mr. Watanabe hasn’t been discharged from the hospital after the accident, so I’ll be your driver starting today. My name is Uehara Makoto. Please take care of me.”

“Ah—please take care of me.”

Haruka gave a slight bow.

She glanced at the passenger seat—Ritsu was sitting there, looking at his phone.

He looked up when he heard her get in.

“In the car? Seatbelt.”

“I know—”

She obediently fastened her seatbelt, and the buckle clicked shut.

The car pulled smoothly out of the apartment’s parking area and merged into the daytime traffic.

The van was very quiet.

Mr. Uehara drove steadily, his steering movements almost imperceptible.

The car stereo was off, with no radio or music playing.

Haruka leaned back in the rear seat, gazing at Tokyo through the window.

Shibuya in the daytime was completely different from late at night—crowds of pedestrians, traffic lights constantly changing, commercial buildings reflecting dazzling sunlight on both sides of the street.

Everything was bright, noisy, full of energy.

Her heart was beating a little faster than usual.

After a morning of practice, her nervousness had lessened considerably, but it wouldn’t be true to say she wasn’t nervous at all.

It was like the kind of nervousness you feel sitting in a classroom waiting for the proctor to hand out exam papers.

She had reviewed, felt she could handle it, but until the paper was in front of her, there was always a trace of uncertainty.

She chose to close her eyes, lean back against the seat, and rest, running a final “rehearsal” in her mind.

What might the reporters ask?

How should she answer?

Which questions were minefields?

If asked something she didn’t know—something about Haruka’s past—how would she dodge it?

After going through it once, she felt confident enough.

She kept her eyes closed, letting her body relax.

In the passenger seat, Ritsu finished his tasks and put down his phone.

He glanced back.

The rear was unnaturally quiet.

Normally, when Haruka rode in the van during the day, her mouth never stopped—from getting in to getting out, she’d chatter nonstop: what she ate for lunch, a cute cat she saw on the street, that variety show was so fun, Manager-san have you seen it, oh and by the way did I say something wrong on that show last time, hey don’t you need a haircut—

Ritsu used to think this endless chatter was noise pollution.

When he needed to handle emails or make calls on the road, Haruka’s voice was like a constant blender roaring beside him.

He’d told her countless times to “quiet down,” but the effect usually lasted less than three minutes.

But today—

Today, Haruka got in, fastened her seatbelt, leaned back in her seat, and closed her eyes.

No talking, no chattering.

So quiet that only the low hum of the engine and the occasional car horn outside could be heard.

Haruka’s breathing was even, her lips slightly pursed.

Her posture was relaxed, but she didn’t seem asleep; more like she was thinking with her eyes closed.

He withdrew his gaze and didn’t say a word.

Quiet was fine—less trouble, easier.

He picked up his phone and continued handling work emails from the magazine.

The van arrived at the destination at 1:15 PM.

It was a commercial building in Minato, Tokyo.

From the outside, it looked like any ordinary office building—no flashy signs, no extravagant decorations.

Without knowing the address, you’d never guess there was a professional photo studio inside.

In Japan, most magazine publishers were concentrated in Tokyo’s key districts—Chiyoda Ward, Minato Ward, Chuo Ward.

Major publishers like Shueisha had their own independent buildings, while smaller to mid-sized magazines usually rented a few floors in commercial buildings.

Photo studios were even more flexible.

Some magazines had in-house studios, some rented external commercial studios, and some chose outdoor locations based on the shoot theme.

Today’s interview used the magazine’s own in-house studio.

It wasn’t large, but it was fully equipped.

She followed Ritsu into the building and signed in at the front desk.

When the receptionist saw her name, her expression changed noticeably—from a professional smile to one tinged with excitement, though she quickly regained control.

“Miss Hoshino, welcome. The person in charge today will receive you on the fourth floor.”

“Thank you—!” Haruka gave a standard smile.

The elevator held only her and Ritsu.

Ritsu said quietly, “I sent the list of interview questions to them this morning for confirmation.

The main directions are three: the accident and recovery, comeback plans, and a message to fans.

There won’t be too many tricky questions.

But if there’s something you find hard to answer—”

“Watch the manager’s expression?”

“…I’ll be right beside you. Just look at me.”

“Got it.”

“Let’s go.”