When Hoshino Haruka was still Matsumoto Hidetoshi, her understanding of the idol profession was only at a very superficial level.
Most of it came from manga or anime. Simply put—
A few pretty girls stand on stage, sing and dance, wave at the fans below, smile, sell CDs, hold concerts.
Besides that, in some of the two-dimensional games she played, many games would either release idol-themed outfits for female characters or directly create a character who is an idol, like a certain sniper character from a certain third-person shooter game with a four-letter title.
Their costumes were mostly white-based, gorgeous, and fluffy stage performance outfits.
The accompanying event storylines were usually the classic “decided to become an idol to save someone” kind of standard plot development, where after just a few days of practicing singing and dancing, they could become idols and take the big stage.
She used to have a filter over the idol profession, once thinking it was such a wonderful job—doing what you love while being loved by so many people.
She even wished she could be one.
Well, her words turned out to be a prophecy.
But she wasn’t completely ignorant.
The anime she watched two years ago, titled Oshi no Ko, did give her some insight into the dark side of the industry and how it actually operates.
Things like the pillow business, cyberbullying, the consequences of romance scandals, and so on.
But ultimately, the core of that anime was a story about revenge and identity, with an overall tone that leaned toward romantic comedy, while the workplace and industry descriptions were more like a backdrop.
Moreover, when she watched that anime, she was in the mindset of a “viewer.”
After seeing the descriptions of the dark workplace, at most she would sigh a couple of times and say, “Oh, so the idol industry is this dark,” and then continue watching.
But now, what Ritsu was telling her with a dry digital report was more impactful than any anime or industry analysis article—
An idol isn’t just about “singing and dancing.”
It’s a commercial node.
A core node in a massive commercial network that connects brand partners, TV stations, production committees, ticket platforms, venue operators, record labels, advertising agencies, and fan communities.
On every line of connection flows money, contracts, expectations, and trust.
When this node operates normally, the whole network turns with it.
When this node stops for a month, the whole network goes from vibration to cracks to partial fractures—
And after the fracture, it’s not just a matter of “fix it and it’ll be fine.”
Some lines, once broken, can never be reconnected.
Some partners, once gone, will never turn back.
Some opportunities, once missed, are lost forever.
She used to think an idol’s job was to “shine.”
Now she realized that shining was just the result; the process was an industrial system of countless gears interlocking precisely.
And Hoshino Haruka was the most central gear.
She looked up and met Ritsu’s gaze.
Ritsu was also looking at her.
His pen stopped on the documents, his expression was the standard “report done, awaiting feedback” mode, but there was a thin layer of tension in his eyes.
After all, Ritsu knew Hoshino Haruka too well.
Over the past five years, whenever he told Haruka this kind of “hardcore business information,” her reaction sequence was pretty much set—
First, her eyes would get wider and wider, then her mouth would open, then she would start sighing.
Then she would start complaining, “Why do I have to worry about this as an idol?” “Isn’t this the manager’s job?” “So annoying.”
Finally, she would wrap it up with, “Ahh—I just want to sing and dance properly…”
He had already mentally prepared himself for this chain of moves.
At the moment, Haruka was silent a bit longer than usual, and he just chalked it up to the shock of the car accident slowing her reactions.
So when Haruka slightly opened her mouth, Ritsu had even already pressed the play button in his mind for that “So annoying”—
“Then—”
Haruka’s voice was calm.
“—Manager-san.”
Haruka moved a little closer, her amber eyes looking at him.
There was no panic in her eyes, no complaints, no “So annoying.”
“Will you help me earn this money back?”
Ritsu’s pen stopped.
Haruka continued.
“I know it’s hard. The direct loss of 15 million and the indirect loss of 30 million… hearing those numbers did scare me a bit.”
She showed an apologetic smile, “Honestly, my heart was pounding the whole time I was listening.”
“But—”
Her voice became a little softer.
“Earning money is hard, but with Manager-san here, it doesn’t seem so hard anymore.”
“So I’ll work hard too—recover properly, get back on stage, and take back everything I lost, one piece at a time.”
After finishing these words in one breath, she waited for Ritsu’s reaction, and at the same time, she was waiting in her heart for her “roleplay aftereffects” to kick in, waiting for that sense of alienation of “I’m acting” to rise up, waiting for the Matsumoto Hidetoshi deep inside to jump out and say, “Hey, what kind of cheesy crap are you saying?”
Ritsu opened his mouth, then looked at her again with a slightly narrowed gaze, a look of re-evaluation.
Mizutagawa Ritsu had been in this industry for over a decade.
He had seen all kinds of entertainers—those who were radiant in front of the camera but a mess in private, those who cried and begged during their low points but forgot everyone once they made a comeback, those with astonishing talent but fragile mindsets, and those with average talent but incredible resilience.
He had been managing Hoshino Haruka for five years.
He thought he had completely understood this person.
Every expression, every word, every reaction pattern was as familiar to him as the lines on the back of his own hand.
Including her reaction to “bad news”: first shock, then complaints, and finally using a casual “It’s okay” to write off all negative emotions.
But just now, Haruka didn’t say “So annoying,” didn’t say “Why do I have to worry about this as an idol,” didn’t say “I just want to sing and dance.”
“Will you help me earn this money back?”
That wasn’t something Hoshino Haruka would say.
At least not the Hoshino Haruka from before.
The old Haruka wouldn’t speak like that.
She would use acting cute to relieve pressure, use complaints to release anxiety, use a carefree attitude to cover up her unease.
All of those were her self-protection mechanisms.
But this Haruka now seemed to have removed all those protection mechanisms.
Or rather, she didn’t need them anymore.
For some reason, when Haruka said that sentence, something in his heart was stirred.
Like a string that had been taut for a long time, lightly plucked by a finger.
Ritsu examined this face once more—light chestnut hair, amber eyes, the corners of her mouth still holding the tail of the smile from before, the gauze on her forehead glaringly white under the indoor light.
This was a face he had seen every day for five years, so familiar that aesthetic numbness had almost set in.
As a manager, his job required him to look at Haruka’s face every day without any issues—checking her makeup condition, expression management, camera angles, and so on.
But those were “manager looking at entertainer,” not “Mizutagawa Ritsu looking at Hoshino Haruka.”
He wasn’t quite sure what the difference was.
If he had to explain, one was business, the other was personal.
As for what he saw after looking for so long, it was probably—
Hoshino Haruka had changed.
She had become gentler, quieter, more sensible.
She had become—
More beautiful?
The moment this thought popped up, even he was stunned.
Haruka felt a bit creeped out by his stare, thinking she might have said something out of character.
She uncomfortably fanned her face with her hand.
“What’s wrong, Manager-san? Staring at me for so long… Is there something on my face?”