Jet-Black Obelisk — Oshi no Ko: Kamiki Hikarus Ambition - Frozen Contract — The Creeping Shadow of Exploitation

The exhaust fan's blades fell silent. In the underground box of a venue, even the presence of evening had yet to reach. The soundproofing material on the walls was blackened with moisture, and exposed pipes showed traces of peeling paint. Ceiling height: two meters forty. In the oppressive space, the lingering scent of the smoke machine, sweat, and old building materials stagnated in layers. Pulse Beat. Kamiki Hikaru sat in his usual spot—front row, slightly left of center—without leaning back against the steel pipe chair. A black long-sleeved cut-and-sew, black jeans. On the ring finger of his left hand, resting on his knee, an iron ring. His right hand lay on his thigh, fingers lightly interlaced. On the stage, a single girl. "—Thank you very much!" Her voice, through the microphone, was absorbed into the small floor. Fifteen people in the audience. For a weekday afternoon, that was on the higher side. Scattered applause rose. Someone called out, "Ai-chan!" Ai responded with a smile that bloomed like a flower. (*This smile.*) Hikaru's obsidian-like eyes seared the sight into memory. Three months had passed since he first set foot in Pulse Beat. The season had shifted from winter's end into spring, and the humidity of spring was beginning to mix with the neon of Shinjuku. Over these three months, Hikaru had come here two, three times a week, every time his child acting work ended. After drama recordings, after variety show meetings—sometimes even turning down work to be here. Just to see this smile. Today, too, Ai wore her amateurish red-checked stage outfit, her bangs pinned back with a hairpin adorned with a star decoration. A delicate body. A slender neck. Every time she moved, her shoulder blades surfaced against her back. She was tired—Hikaru's powers of observation told him so. Beneath the smile, under her eyes, faint dark circles hidden by concealer. In the second half of the second song, her knees trembled for just an instant. And yet, she was smiling. "Good work today, Tomizawa-san." Beside the merchandise table, Hikaru spoke quietly. The owner, Tomizawa Seiichi, was fifty-eight, a former bandman, dressed in a worn-out T-shirt and cargo pants. "Oh, Kamiki-kun. You came again today. You're dedicated." "Work finished early." Tomizawa stroked his stubbled chin and lowered his voice. "Ai-chan's been doing a lot lately. Five shows a week, they say. It's not really my place, but I wonder if they're pushing her a bit too hard..." "—Five shows a week." Hikaru's eyes narrowed sharply. Somewhere in his brain, numbers were calculated. Three months ago, it was three. Then four, and now five. The small agency Ai belonged to—Prop Star. The contract terms he had coaxed out of her. The agency took seventy-five percent of the revenue; transportation and costume costs were self-borne. The penalty fee: five million yen. A legal slave contract. The structure of exploitation rampant in the industry was pressing down on the shoulders of a mere fourteen-year-old girl. "—Hikaru-kun!" A voice called, and he looked up. Ai had already finished changing, now in a thin parka and jeans. In her hands, a handwritten merchandise list and a bundle of stick lights. "You came again today." "...Yeah." His voice, without him even noticing, softened slightly. Ai trotted over, stood in front of the merchandise table, and tilted her head a little. Her bangs swayed, and the star on her hairpin glinted. "Hey, did you know? Today's a birthday." "Yours?" "No, not mine—Pulse Beat's! Tomizawa-san told me before. He said it's exactly ten years today since they opened." Tomizawa scratched his head, looking slightly embarrassed. "Well, yeah. Ten years, huh... This little box has held up pretty well." "Isn't it amazing! Ten years! Ten years ago, I was still at the orphanage—" She caught herself there, mouth snapping shut. A moment of silence. But immediately, Ai smiled again. This time, a smile tinged with just a little embarrassment. "...Um, so, a long time ago, at Christmas, one of the teachers at the home baked a cake. But there were so many of us that each slice was really tiny—and I cried, 'Mine doesn't have a strawberry!'" She laughed as if telling a story about her own failure. But there was no way that story about a child who cried contained only laughter. "Then the kid next to me just plopped their strawberry onto my piece. 'It's okay, you can have it.'" She gazed at her own fingertips. "That's when I thought... I want to become someone who can give things to others, too. Not just strawberries—something bigger." Hikaru felt a gentle warmth spreading deep in his chest at her innocent radiance. At the same time, beneath that warmth, a frozen hatred quietly sharpened its blade. So that no one would notice. But Hikaru's eyes did not miss how, that day, she secretly rubbed her left wrist again and again. Early symptoms of tendonitis. Caused by fatigue. --- A mild spring afternoon. Thin clouds swept across the sky like brushstrokes, the sunlight still soft. Hikaru was on a train heading from Nichiei Television's headquarters in Akasaka to Shinjuku. His own face reflected in the glass. Black hair that seemed to absorb light. Emotionless eyes beneath his bangs. Today's recording had been from the morning—a role playing an eleven-year-old genius boy. He had spoken the scripted lines, shed tears on cue, and the adults had nodded with satisfaction. (*They all know.*) (*They know it's a lie, and they pretend to be deceived.*) Buildings streamed past outside the window. In this city, how many people lived each day telling how many lies? The smartphone in his pocket vibrated. He looked at the screen. The caller: *Ai*. Hikaru tapped the call button without hesitation. "—Hello." "Ah, Hikaru-kun...?" Her voice was trembling. (*She's been crying.*) An alarm rang inside Hikaru's head. "Sorry for calling suddenly. Are you... free right now?" "I'm free. What happened." His voice was so calm it surprised even himself. But the iron ring he gripped with his free hand bit into his finger. "I got a call from the agency... President Dojima said he wants me to come in today, that he has something important to discuss. But, um, he wouldn't tell me the reason... I keep wondering if I did something to make him angry." (*Prop Star's president—Dojima Kengo.*) The name surfaced in his mind. Not a famous businessman. The manager of a small-time production company. Until now, Hikaru had no means to investigate anything beyond his public reputation. "I'm coming now. Where is it." "Huh...? But, Hikaru-kun, your work..." "It's finished." A lie. He had a meeting scheduled for the afternoon. But that didn't matter. "Wait for me in front of the Shibuya office." "...Okay. Thank you." Her voice was trembling just a little—truly just a little—less. --- Shinnan, Shibuya. The building housing Prop Star was a mid-rise apartment complex, about twenty years old. The tiles on the outer wall were soot-stained gray, and the first-floor mailboxes overflowed with flyers. Ai stood where the alley turned in. She wore a trench coat, hugging her own arms. When she looked up, she saw Hikaru with an expression like she was holding back tears. "You really came..." "Yeah." Hikaru stood beside her. Their two shadows lined up on the cracked asphalt. His presence alone released some of the tension from the girl's stiff shoulders. "Let's go." He spoke curtly and pulled open the entrance door to the building. An office that was merely a converted 3LDK on the third floor. When the door opened, a stuffy air assaulted the nose. The smell of cigarettes and old documents. A bleak space with three desks lined up. On the walls, several faded posters of affiliated talents. Ai's was small, tucked away in a corner. In the president's seat at the back, a man sat sprawled arrogantly. Dojima Kengo. Forty-five. A former talent manager. His suit was cheap polyester, the knot of his tie loosened. Lean, with a distinctive aquiline nose. His hair was beginning to thin. On his desk, a cheap triangular nameplate printed with "President." The moment he saw Hikaru, he frowned openly. "...What's this, you brought someone? Ai, I told you to come alone." Ai shrank. "Um... he's an important... friend..." Hikaru took one step forward. Just by stepping forward, the air he carried intimidated the man. "Pardon the intrusion. I'd like to sit in on this meeting. Do you have any objection." A quiet voice. Yet it carried an undeniable weight that didn't seem to belong to a fourteen-year-old. Dojima faltered for an instant, then flashed a vulgar grin. "Heh... Pretty passionate for a kid. And what about your parents?" (*—Transparent sarcasm.*) Hikaru's eyes glinted coldly for just a moment. But the corners of his mouth didn't move a millimeter. "I don't have any. That's none of your concern." Dojima snorted, stood up with a creak of his chair, and pointed to the reception table. "Well, sit down. Sorry I can't offer you coffee—we're perpetually short-staffed here." The sofa's springs were worn out; sitting down made you sink in. Ai sat right next to Hikaru, gripping her own fingers tightly as if to comfort herself. Dojima, with an air of self-importance, pulled a sheet of paper from his desk drawer and slid it across the table. "...Let's get to the point." His tone changed. From the sarcastic lilt of moments before to something businesslike and cold. "This is a draft of a new exclusive contract. The current contract has us holding seventy-five percent of your revenue, but Ai, as you know, Prop Star's finances are a train wreck. Promoting you costs money. We want to make you a CD, get you into bigger venues. So, starting with the next contract, we'll be taking eighty-five percent. Also, we want to book you for event work on Saturdays and Sundays. The pay for those gigs is good. Not a bad deal, right?" Ai's shoulders trembled. "B-but... even now, I have five live shows a week, and physically, I'm already at my limit..." "That's exactly why." Dojima's voice was frozen. "This month, during the battle of the bands, your audience numbers were low. The other talents drew more people. Your name recognition is still nowhere near enough. I'm saying this for your own good. This is for your sake. If you refuse, then according to the current contract, you'll pay the five-million-yen penalty." —The penalty fee. The color drained from Ai's face. She knew the meaning of five million better than anyone. "I'm called the president. Making these kinds of decisions is my job." Under Dojima's desk, a leg bounced restlessly. His fingers trembled slightly as he placed the document. And his clouded eyes as they looked at Ai's radiant talent. He could see it all. *—This man is a coward.* *—He envies Ai's pure talent.* *—He can only gain self-esteem by dominating those in weaker positions than himself.* *—For self-preservation, he will abandon both logic and compassion.* Hikaru noticed one decisive contradiction. "For someone who talks like that, your grasp of the numbers is shallow." His voice cut through the tense air. Dojima furrowed his brow. "Hah?" "Your current talent roster's per-person profitability, by my rough estimate, should be reaching three times the industry average compared to agencies of similar scale. If you raise the exploitation rate further and cause Ai's health to collapse, you will personally destroy your only source of revenue. You are fatally lacking in long-term perspective." Dojima's face reddened visibly. "You little brat...! Don't lecture me about management! What does a privileged child actor like you understand?! A damn kid who coasts on popularity, raised by parents with money and connections, fawned over without ever struggling a day in his life!" —*A privileged child actor.* Hikaru's expression vanished as if frozen. The thin

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Name: Jet-Black Obelisk — Oshi no Ko: Kamiki Hikarus Ambition
Author: Novelia

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