“Yes, you heard that right. But before we talk about the agency, let’s first go over the two confirmed live performances you had scheduled before the accident. One of them was originally set for the end of November, at a venue in Saitama that can hold fifteen hundred people.”
“A fan meet-and-greet, right?” Haruka interjected.
“Right. Twelve hundred people. Tickets had already gone on sale before you were hospitalized. After the accident, all tickets were refunded. The venue cancellation fee, the ticketing platform’s handling fees, the advance payments already made for stage setup, lighting, and sound—all together, that’s about 3.4 million yen.”
“Uh… why is it so much?”
Ritsu seemed to have anticipated Haruka’s question.
He set down his coffee cup and seamlessly shifted into an extremely professional, explanatory mode.
“The cost structure of a live performance is far more complicated than you imagine. Take the show you did at the end of August, the one-thousand-person venue. Just the rental fee alone was over 900,000 yen. And that was only because the venue manager was an old acquaintance of the President. Under normal circumstances, a venue in that area would cost around 1.3 million yen.”
When Ritsu got to this point, he paused.
He noticed that Haruka was actually listening intently, not just asking on a whim.
So he pulled out a blank sheet of paper and started drawing and writing as he spoke, continuing his detailed explanation in that same matter-of-fact, business-like tone.
“Stage setup—lighting, sound, LED screens, etc.—costs about 1 to 3 million yen. Choreography rehearsals, band or backing tracks, the director, security on the day, and staff personnel fees total up to about 1 to 2 million yen. Plus, advertising costs for posters, online ads, ticketing platform promotions, and so on, come to about 600,000 yen or more.”
Haruka swallowed hard, looking a little shaken.
“And of course, there’s the money spent directly on you—your styling, costumes, transportation, meals. That’s easily another 200,000 to 500,000 yen.”
Ritsu picked up his pen and made a brief summary.
“All together, for a mid-scale live, just the costs alone can reach 3 to 7 million yen. Ticket revenue needs to cover those costs before there’s any profit, and the profit margin for a standard live is usually only 10% to 20%. Some small-scale shows even operate at a loss or just break even. The point of these events isn’t purely to make money. It’s more about maintaining your visibility and fan loyalty.”
“But… that live was scheduled for the end of November. Isn’t the ticket sale period usually a month before the actual show? So wouldn’t it just be the refund cost…”
“Planning for a live starts at least three to four months in advance. Especially the first month, negotiating for the venue, finding all the specialized staff. The costs already put in are unrecoverable. Tickets also have to go on pre-sale a month in advance. With the box office revenue gone to zero, and you still have to pay cancellation and refund fees, the loss is a double hit.”
Haruka fell silent.
She admitted she had been oversimplifying things.
Ritsu showed no signs of stopping.
If anything, he seemed to be getting more into it.
“The other show is a guest appearance at a music festival in the middle of this month. The appearance fee for that is about 800,000 yen. The income isn’t huge, but the main impact is on exposure. That music festival has a live stream, with an estimated audience of over 200,000 people. By missing it, you’ve directly forfeited an opportunity to reach 200,000 potential new fans.”
“But isn’t it in the middle of this month? If I start practicing now, I should be able to…”
“You’re overthinking it. At the time, to put it bluntly, it was questionable whether you’d even make it out of the ICU alive. Besides, the news reports that night put your name directly on the death list. Even though the descriptions were later corrected, it only went from ‘died on the spot’ to ‘alive or dead unknown.’”
For some reason, after hearing Ritsu’s explanation, a line from some unknown drama popped into her head: ‘Alive or dead unknown… that means dead.’
“So, as long as the organizers aren’t idiots, and they see injuries described as ‘alive or dead unknown,’ if they believed you could recover to a stage-ready condition before the live, they’d have to be insane.”
“…”
Then, Ritsu wrote a number on the paper.
“Anyway, for the live performance and event segment, the direct loss is about 4.2 million yen. The loss of exposure is unquantifiable.”
After writing that, Ritsu still didn’t seem ready to stop.
“Next is media and content production.”
He picked up the file and turned to the next page.
It was covered in a dense list.
“Your confirmed schedule before the accident included: featured shoots for two fashion magazines, a regular spot on a radio program, and a guest recording for a late-night variety show. All of the above were either canceled or postponed.”
“For that radio program, you’d been a regular cast member for eight months. The production team showed us the utmost respect and kept your spot open for your return. But for the eight-episode gap, they found a substitute. Listener feedback… wasn’t bad.”
He paused on the words “wasn’t bad.”
Haruka understood the implication of that pause.
She wasn’t stupid, just slow.
Given the industry lecture Ritsu had just given her and the effort she’d put into listening, she could grasp the concept.
A substitute performing “not bad” meant the audience realized, “Hey, I can still listen to this without Hoshino Haruka.”
That was far more frightening than the substitute doing a terrible job.
When you’re there, the audience feels the show is irreplaceable without you.
But a month into your absence, they discover, “Oh, this other person is pretty easy on the ears, too.”
That means when you go back, your presence is no longer “irreplaceable.”
You’ve become an “option.”
From “the one and only” to “an option” takes just one month.
From “an option” to “expendable” might take just another month.
“And then—”
Ritsu turned to the next page.
“You probably don’t know this, because you were traveling when the contract was signed. I signed it on your behalf.”
Haruka tilted her head.
“You had landed a guest voice role in an anime.”
“Huh?”
“The Production Committee sent an offer at the end of October. It’s a new series airing next February, a slice-of-life show. You were cast as a supporting character who’s an idol. Not a huge role, about three episodes. The pay wasn’t much, but it was your first voice acting job.”
Ritsu’s tone remained steady, but Haruka caught the subtle tightening of his jaw muscles when he said “first.”
“Because of your hospitalization, you couldn’t meet the recording schedule. The Production Committee waited for two weeks but eventually recast the role.”
“…”
“There’s no direct financial loss from this. The pay was only 500,000 yen. But as the first step in ‘Hoshino Haruka expanding into voice acting,’ the strategic value of that opportunity far exceeded 500,000 yen.”
Haruka was sitting on the sofa.
At some point, her back had left the cushion.
She was leaning forward slightly, her hands unconsciously gripping the fabric of her pants.
She had moved from shock to a dazed stupor, unable to find the right words.
Ritsu glanced at her and continued.
“Finally, there’s the overall indirect impact.”
He flipped to the last page of the file.
This page wasn’t covered in dense text and numbers.
It held only a short summary, like the final diagnosis on a medical chart.
“The total direct, quantifiable economic loss from this one month of suspended activity is approximately 15 million yen. The indirect losses—including broken brand partnerships, lost exposure opportunities, and decreased presence in the industry—are conservatively estimated at over 30 million yen.”
Fifteen million yen.
What did that number mean to Matsumoto Hidetoshi? It was roughly the total rent he’d collected over six years.
And yet, this was just the loss caused by Haruka not showing her face for a month.
In other words, if she had been active this month, she could have easily earned over ten million.
“Also—”
Ritsu’s voice dropped slightly here.
“What I just told you about the agency’s situation, the 30% drop in revenue, wasn’t an exaggeration. Like I told you before, your income currently accounts for about one-third of the agency’s total revenue.”
He had learned this information while scrolling through her phone during her hospitalization.
But back then, it was just an abstract number.
It didn’t feel real.
“With you inactive for this month, the agency’s revenue has taken a direct hit.”
Ritsu’s tone was still calm, but the content was not.
“The President probably didn’t mention this to you. I doubt he ever will, but I think you should know.”
He paused here.
“This month, the agency’s cash flow is in the red.”
Haruka’s fingers tightened on her pants again.
“The work of the other talents is proceeding normally. The agency’s fixed expenses haven’t changed—employee salaries, office rent, vehicle maintenance, miscellaneous fees. But on the revenue side, your absence has caused a 30% shortfall. That 30% is the exact piece that pushed the agency from ‘breaking even’ into ‘operating at a loss.’”
“But didn’t Uncle President say we’re a mid-sized agency in the industry? And we have a few veteran seniors and some incredibly talented newcomers. Can’t the agency survive without me?”
Haruka couldn’t help but ask.
“The business logic of a mid-sized agency is fundamentally different from a large one.”
“A large agency has dozens or even hundreds of talents. The risk is spread out—if one talent has a problem, the income from others can cover the gap. It’s like a forest. Cutting down one tree won’t kill the whole forest.”
Ritsu narrowed his eyes and looked at Haruka.
“But you have to understand, our Stras Agency was essentially a small agency a few years ago. It was only after you became our absolute ace that we slowly grew from a small agency into a mid-sized one.”
“…So I’m that good?”
Ritsu ignored her self-absorbed comment.
“Seniority doesn’t guarantee high skill. Otherwise, talents would just succeed by sticking around. Talents still have to rely on their actual ability. Your skill is undeniable.”
“Think of it this way: you’re the big tree in the agency. All the smaller saplings are hanging on you. When the big tree is healthy, the whole ecosystem thrives. But if the big tree falls, even if it’s just for a month, everything that was attached to it starts to shake.”
“The staff get anxious. The business partners get cautious. The competitors swoop in for the kill.”
“Ugh… but I didn’t mean to get hit by a car…”
Ritsu shook his head.
“This one month of absence was just you ‘unluckily lying in a hospital bed.’ But for a commercial system that revolves around you as its absolute core, it’s an 8.0 magnitude earthquake.”
“The President transferred funds from the company’s reserves to cover this month’s shortfall. He definitely doesn’t want you to know about it, but I think you have a right to know.”
“You don’t need to feel guilty about this. The car accident wasn’t your fault. Every business decision the President makes is his own choice. But you need to understand one thing—”
He closed the file.
“You’re not just an idol. You’re the livelihood of thirty-seven people in this agency.”
Ritsu seemed to realize he’d been talking too much.
He closed the file, took a sip of coffee, and intended to give Haruka some time to process.
The room was quiet for a long time.
Haruka leaned against the sofa, saying nothing.
At that moment, her mind was busy reshaping her entire worldview.
“Wow… being an idol is a hundred times more troublesome than I ever imagined…”