Pushing open the soundproof door to the auxiliary booth, Haruka’s first reaction was—
It’s so small.
The area was about a third of that shabby preparation room, just a little more spacious than a typical six-and-a-half-tatami single room.
The walls and ceiling were covered in dark gray acoustic foam panels, like a giant egg carton.
As soon as she stepped in, the sound seemed to get swallowed up, and the air carried a suffocating sense of oppression.
In the center of the room, two condenser microphones faced each other across a table, with a small simple desk in between that could barely hold a script.
There was nothing else except a few bottles of water.
On the wall directly opposite, a thick double-layer soundproof glass window was embedded.
Through the glass, she could vaguely see the recording engineer in the auxiliary control room pushing faders on the mixing console, and Ritsu’s cold and stern back with his arms crossed.
click The scarlet “ON AIR” indicator above her head suddenly lit up, and the small recording studio instantly fell silent.
The recording officially began.
For the first two minutes, things went unusually smoothly.
Wearing heavy monitoring headphones, Takahashi sat in front of the opposite microphone.
In his trademark warm voice, he unhurriedly threw out one lukewarm question after another so safe they made her want to yawn.
“Haruka, after resting for a whole month, what have you been doing at home to pass the time?”
“How’s the preparation for the new single going? Your fans have been waiting forever, you know.”
“The beginning of winter is coming soon. Do you have any secret tips for staying warm to recommend to everyone?”
For questions at this level, she didn’t even need to think—
“I’ve watched a lot of movies at home! I also learned to cook from online tutorials, though I accidentally burned a few things…”
“The recording of the new single is almost finished! I’ll definitely share it with everyone as soon as it’s ready!”
“I recommend trying portable heat packs! They feel great stuck on your lower back! But be careful not to fall asleep with them on—I forgot to take one off once and woke up the next morning feeling like I had a high fever!”
Every answer was sweet, appropriate, and flawless, with an occasional harmless little klutziness that created just the right amount of humor.
Takahashi smiled and played along, occasionally making supportive reactions like “hahaha” or “No way.”
The atmosphere was as harmonious as a sample recording of a morning show.
Haruka secretly breathed a sigh of relief.
‘Is this old fox really going to go easy on me, considering I just recovered from a serious illness and just made my comeback?’ she guessed.
If she could just hold on for another two minutes or so, this session could wrap up smoothly in a harmonious atmosphere of “full of blessings, touching Japan.”
But was that really the case?
Takahashi lowered his head and glanced at the script by his hand.
Then, under Haruka’s slightly stunned gaze, Takahashi reached out and gently pushed the script aside.
He leaned forward slightly, his hands crossed and resting under his chin.
The smile on Takahashi’s face didn’t change.
But Haruka suddenly felt a chill.
“Haruka.”
Takahashi’s tone was still that friendly uncle vibe.
“After the news of your comeback was announced, our program team received tens of thousands of listener responses on social media and the hotline.”
“The vast majority are of course blessings and encouragement, no doubt about that.”
“But—”
Takahashi paused and looked at her quietly.
“Among these voices, there are also some slightly different opinions.”
“Next, I’d like to read a few comments to you. The content might be a bit harsh.”
He cocked his head slightly, extremely considerate, like an elder who truly cared about his junior.
“Of course, you’ve only just recovered. If these questions make you uncomfortable or you don’t want to respond, just give me a gesture anytime, and we’ll move straight to the next topic. It’s totally fine, okay?”
Here it comes.
I knew it.
Haruka silently sighed a long sigh in her heart.
When a host throws out a disclaimer like “you don’t have to answer” into the microphone, it looks like they’re giving you an out, but in reality, you have no choice at all.
That so-called “you don’t have to answer” from the host is usually just part of the program’s flow.
This so-called “way out” wasn’t left for her at all—it was for the listeners out there to see.
“It’s fine, Mr. Takahashi.”
Struggling to suppress the turmoil in her heart, far from backing down, Haruka instead leaned half an inch closer to the microphone.
“Please read them.”
Takahashi nodded and pulled a printed sheet from beside him.
“First one. From X user ‘NightCat_07’.”
“‘To be blunt, who knows if Hoshino Haruka is really fully recovered from her injuries rushing to make a comeback at this point? It’s just her agency cashing in on the public’s sympathy and riding the wave of the car accident while it’s still hot. This so-called miraculous recovery is just milking money. This is such an ugly look.'”
“Second one, an anonymous listener letter to the program’s official email.”
“‘Weren’t the previous reports about the car accident a bit too exaggerated? They said multiple fractures, life-threatening condition. But after only a month’s rest, she’s already bouncing around on a show? This is clearly a ruse of self-inflicted injury cooked up by the agency and the media. I bet her real injuries were just minor scratches, and the agency hyped it up to be serious, then made up a touching story of a comeback despite illness to grab attention and sales. Disgusting, another script from capital.'”
“Third one, the top comment on a Yahoo News article.”
“‘The idol industry is all about youth. It renews as fast as flipping a calendar. She had an accident and rested for a month. How many newbies are waiting in line for a spot? Since God gave her a dignified way out, why not take the hint? Why force her way back and block others’ paths? To put it bluntly, just when others see a glimmer of hope to break through, she comes back. How are they supposed to compete? Instead of this, why not just graduate now while she still has sympathy points? At least she’d leave with a good reputation.'”
When Takahashi finished reading the last word, the recording studio instantly fell silent.
Through the thick double-layer soundproof glass, in the auxiliary control room, Mizutagawa Ritsu’s brows were tightly furrowed.
His gaze was fixed like a nail on Takahashi across the glass.
His hands hanging by his sides had long since clenched into fists, veins bulging on his arms.
He could tell that these three comments were not ordinary hate comments.
Every single one hit the most disgusting points.
Three completely different angles of attack, three extremely vicious ways to stir up emotions.
Taken individually, none of them were hard to deal with; each had its own response.
But combined together, they formed a seamless opinion strangulation chain.
First deny the motive, then deny the facts, and finally deny your value of existence.
What’s most terrifying is that the wording was too clean, the logic too complete.
Each one precisely hit the absolute line of “not quite personal defamation, but full social destructive power,” leaving you with no clear foothold to rebut even if you were full of grievance.
This was definitely not something an ordinary netizen could write.
Ritsu gritted his teeth.
“Paid posters.”
But after just a few seconds, Ritsu slowly loosened his fists.
Because he realized this was completely unsolvable.
This combination punch precisely hit an inexplicable spot: “miracle.”
Haruka’s miraculous comeback was indeed absurdly fake in the eyes of outsiders who didn’t know the truth.
Not to mention the malicious haters and paid posters outside—even he himself, who had stayed up all night outside the ICU with reddened eyes holding the “Critical Condition Notice,” occasionally felt a strong sense of unreality seeing Haruka recover to this level in just one month.
With a car accident of that magnitude, an ordinary person couldn’t even guarantee they’d return to normal for the rest of their lives, let alone in a month.
Yet Haruka was already able to record shows normally.
If he hadn’t personally gone through the whole process with her, he’d probably believe that the car accident that night was just a dream.
But the problem was precisely here.
The truth sometimes looks more like a lie than a lie.
This matter simply couldn’t be explained to the public, because the more you explain, the more fake it sounds.
Public opinion was never a place to present evidence or reason.
The masses only believe what they want to believe.
Once you start trying to prove yourself, you’ve already lost.
Even more fatal, the other side wasn’t here to seek truth or reason from the start.
As long as they successfully stirred public sentiment and made people start doubting, the rest no longer needed explanation.
He didn’t know if the host had colluded with some people with ulterior motives beforehand.
But the host definitely knew what questions would boost ratings.
This was a straightforward open scheme, flawless.
Ritsu closed his eyes.
At this point, there was nothing he could do.
He couldn’t just rush in, grab the other party by the collar, and tell them to stop questioning.
He could only pray silently in his heart.
Pray that Haruka wouldn’t lose her cool, wouldn’t try to refute, and wouldn’t take it seriously.
Just obediently use the standard PR script she’d been taught, put on her professional smile, and casually throw out a few watertight platitudes to muddle through.
Even if it sounded robotic and unpleasant, it was still better than falling into the trap of self-justification.
Inside the recording studio, Takahashi sat quietly opposite the microphone, not saying a word, with no hint of urging.
In the headphones, there was only the extremely faint hiss of equipment noise.
Hoshino Haruka lowered her head, not speaking for a long time.