‘What exactly is that Liu Chuancai…?’
All kinds of guesses flashed through her mind, but Haruka currently had no time to verify them one by one.
There was still an old fox sitting in front of her, and her top priority right now was to survive this hurdle.
Haruka’s brain began to spin at full speed.
Under intense concentration, she instantly peeled back the core of this question—on the surface, Takahashi was asking “Has he become gentler?” but in essence, he was probing whether there was any unprofessional romantic change between her and her male manager.
Romantic topics about entertainers are always evergreen first-hand sensational material for the media, especially for idols, which are a “high-risk profession.”
In that episode half a year ago, the reason Hoshino Haruka came out unscathed was because she completely deconstructed the extremely dangerous minefield of “me and my male manager” into a comedy skit.
As long as she continued to stick to the script and drive along the safe track of “slamming the demon boss,” the public would always hear a worker’s tearful grievances and never think of “romance.”
‘Hmm… at least it’s still safe for now.’
Haruka closed her eyes, took a very quick deep breath, and when she opened them again, there was a perfectly appropriate expression of absurdity on her face.
“Gentle?” Her tone was full of disbelief, as if she had heard some fantasy.
“Mr. Takahashi, it seems that even after all this time, you still have some unrealistic fantasies about the word ‘gentle.'”
The corners of Takahashi’s mouth rose slightly.
“Oh? So no change at all?”
“How could it change. The ‘gentle’ content on that person is so low that even precision instruments can’t detect it.”
Haruka said sternly.
“My, my, it seems that even such a serious accident couldn’t soften Mr. Ritsu.”
Takahashi put on a regretful expression.
“Soften? Mr. Takahashi, if you had seen his behavior during my hospitalization, you’d probably be completely hopeless about the word ‘soften.'”
Haruka leaned back into her chair, her tone becoming casual, as if she were venting.
“When I was in the hospital, he really came every day, not a single day missed, came in rain or shine, unwaveringly.”
“Ohh! A manager who cares so much about his entertainer, visiting regardless of the weather, what an amazing bond!”
Takahashi seized the opportunity, deliberately steering the topic toward warmth.
However, Haruka didn’t fall for it.
She gave a cold snort.
“Mr. Takahashi, do you think he came to visit the sick, to bring me flowers and fruit, or to cheer me up in the hospital room?”
“Huh? Wasn’t he?”
“Of course not.”
Haruka paused.
“Every time he appeared, he always only carried that black briefcase. The first words out of his mouth were always: ‘How’s your voice today?'”
Takahashi cooperatively let out a gasp.
“Then he would pull up a chair, sit down by the hospital bed, open his schedule notebook, and start going over the post-discharge schedule with me item by item. I was lying in bed, an IV still in my hand, and he said to me without even looking up: ‘After you’re discharged, this magazine interview can’t be pushed back; you need to give me an answer within this week. The originally scheduled Live for next week had to be canceled, and the fans are very unhappy. You need to reopen as soon as possible and then calm their emotions.'”
Haruka deliberately lowered her voice, imitating Ritsu’s flat, businesslike tone, exactly like a heartless AI broadcaster.
“I told him: ‘Mr. Ritsu, I can barely even sit up by myself.'”
“Then he said: ‘Perfect, it’s not like you can run away anyway, so let’s confirm all of this now.'”
Takahashi finally couldn’t hold it in and burst out with a “pfft” laugh.
“This efficiency… it’s truly admirable.”
“Right, this guy’s work efficiency is always terrifyingly high.”
Haruka pouted.
“But as for the empathy module that a normal human should have, he probably didn’t get it installed at the factory.”
The recording studio was filled with Takahashi’s cheerful laughter.
Outside the glass window, Mizutagawa Ritsu watched the girl chattering away expressionlessly, but the corner of his eye couldn’t help twitching slightly.
He really did bring his briefcase to the hospital room every day, but he never asked about any schedule or forced her to take gigs.
At that time, seeing her on the hospital bed with a respirator, fear and guilt weighed on him so much that he couldn’t speak a single complete sentence.
He could only sit nearby like a block of wood, using the pretense of reviewing documents to hide his helplessness and trembling.
‘This guy…’
To think she used this kind of “fabrication” to casually cover up his pathetic and ridiculous state from back then.
“But—now that you mention it, there’s one thing I’ve always found a bit strange.”
In front of the microphone, Haruka tilted her head slightly, as if recalling some casual detail.
“He comes to the hospital room every day, always only carrying that briefcase. But every time after he leaves, some things inexplicably appear on my nightstand.”
Takahashi stopped laughing and leaned forward slightly.
“Oh?”
“Sometimes it’s a bottle of my favorite peach-flavored fruit tea, sometimes a small box of caramel pudding from the convenience store. Another time, I casually complained to the nurse that the hospital pillow was too flat and my neck hurt, and when I woke up the next day, it had been replaced with a memory foam one.”
“I asked him if he put them there, and without even blinking, he said: ‘I don’t know. Probably the nurse changed it.'”
Haruka let out a soft “pfft.”
“But do you know, Mr. Takahashi? That peach-flavored fruit tea is a very niche brand. Regular convenience stores don’t carry it at all; you have to make a special detour to an old general store in Meguro to buy it.”
“Nurses are not that free.”
As she said this, an extremely faint but incredibly genuine smile involuntarily rippled in Haruka’s eyes.
In the auxiliary control room, Ritsu’s fingers hanging by his side suddenly curled.
So, she knew all along.
He thought he had hidden it well.
Takahashi narrowed his eyes.
Twenty-one years of career had given him an almost terrifying intuition; he could accurately capture the subtle boundary between “image management” and “reality.”
The first half was a natural talk show, but the second half—maybe not so much.
But he was a clever host.
Since the show was nearing its end, there was no need to tear this beautiful window paper.
Playing dumb would make the aftertaste last the longest.
“Ah, I see.”
Takahashi nodded knowingly, his tone laced with teasing.
“So, Mr. Ritsu is actually the type who says nothing but silently gives behind the scenes?”
Haruka’s alarm bells instantly rang loud.
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