Act-Age Rebuild: Reborn into a Showbiz Family's Romantic Comedy!?
In the Yonagi household, dinner is bean sprouts, rice, and a stack of unpaid school lunch notices—and the only thing fifteen-year-old Kei has to her name is her mother's old movie DVDs and a habit of mimicking Audrey Hepburn in the dark. So when she sees an ad for a TV audition with a one-million-yen grand prize, she decides on the spot: she'll win it, pay off the debts, and prove to her sharp-tongued little sister Rei and her eye-rolling little brother Rui that when she says she'll do something
Act-Age Rebuild: Reborn into a Showbiz Family's Romantic Comedy!? - The mysterious genius actor Myoujin Araya appears! From "What was your name again?" to a huge comeback!?
In the corner of the rehearsal room, Kei sat hugging her knees, her forehead pressed against them.
The cold of the concrete floor crept slowly up the backs of her thighs. Only the low hum of the vent filled the tiny space—barely the size of a small bedroom. The tears had stopped coming. The backs of her eyes were dry, and every blink scraped her lids.
Her phone glowed on her knees. Last night's email. *"You're the only one who can protect your family."* The pale blue light of the screen picked out the fine hairs on her fingers. She opened the reply field and rested her thumb on it. Three characters typed, deleted. Three more, deleted. The predictive candidates lined up obediently, then vanished.
(I broke everything.)
The whisper that drifted past her in the office kitchenette—*"Something about a contract at that girl's place."* The senior who'd started to say more, then clamped her mouth shut, her profile turned away. The mud splattered on the hem of Rui's uniform. The brown stain Kei had rubbed at with her toe without even checking the care label. Rei's voice on the other end of the line, repeating *"It's fine, it's fine, it's fine"* three times. Only on the third did her breath tremble.
It's all my fault.
"...Mom."
Her voice scraped against the back of her throat. Even as she called out, she knew it wouldn't reach. Her mother was waiting for visiting day. Six more days until the visit. Six days.
Her face in the mirror was horribly pale. The white of the lights drained the color from her cheeks. When she traced the shadows under her eyes, they shifted like something pooled beneath the skin. Her lips were cracked, split vertically down the middle. She licked them, but the saliva dried almost instantly.
That was when it happened.
"Oh—someone's here."
The door was pushed open from outside. The hinges creaked, and a long strip of fluorescent light from the hallway slid across the floor.
Kei's head snapped up. Her back hit the mirror, and the warmed glass pressed cold against the nape of her neck.
Standing there was a young man.
Messy black hair. Only the right side of the back stuck up, stiff and uncombed. His worn-out hoodie had a frayed left cuff, a single thread dangling from it. The hem of his baggy jeans was still rolled up on the right side only. Sleepy eyes fixed vaguely on Kei, lids half-lowered. Like he'd walked straight out of bed and onto the street.
"...Oh, sorry. The light was on."
He yawned as he said it. His mouth opened wide, and the silver of a back molar caught the light. When it closed, his jaw clicked softly.
"This is Studio Daikokuten's rehearsal room, right? Am I in the right place?"
Kei gave a small nod. Her jaw was still a little stiff.
"...Who are you?"
"Me? Myoujin Araya. Tenkyuu Theater Company."
Myoujin Araya.
The name made Kei's breath catch. Something lodged in the back of her throat.
Tenkyuu Theater Company—a prestigious stage troupe with its own four-hundred-seat venue, the Tenkyuu-za. Its star actor was, if she remembered right, Myoujin Araya. In the theater world they called him a monster—"the chameleon actor who gets possessed." A magazine interview had said his body temperature actually changed when he stepped into a role.
(This is him...)
Kei stared at Araya.
Appearances aside, he looked nothing like a genius actor. His hair was a disaster of bedhead, and the shirt underneath his hoodie was spilling out at the hem. The shirt's edge rippled, stretched out from too many washes.
"Huh. So you're Yonagi Kei."
Araya looked at her steadily. His lids lifted, just slightly.
"...You know who I am?"
"I know. You're the talk of the town. The forged-contract girl, right?"
Kei's body went rigid. Her spine pressed hard against the mirror.
(Of course he knows.)
(The whole industry knows.)
"...That's right."
Kei nodded faintly. Her fingers clenched around each other on her knees.
"But you didn't write it, did you?"
Kei looked up. Her neck creaked.
"...You believe me?"
"Believe? I can just tell by looking."
Araya leaned in, peering at Kei's face with open curiosity. As he crouched, his hoodie gaped, and the shirt at his waist slipped out another inch.
"You're interesting. What was your name again?"
"...What?"
"Your name. I feel like I just heard it, but I forgot."
Kei's mouth fell open. Her jaw wouldn't obey her.
(I just said my name, didn't I?)
(And you said you knew me, didn't you?)
"...Yonagi Kei."
"Yonagi Kei. Yeah, got it. ...Probably."
"What do you mean, probably?"
The retort slipped out before she could stop it. Her own ears registered it as a little too loud.
"I mean, I forget the names of people I'm not interested in."
"You're not interested in me?"
"Not so far."
Kei was speechless. Her open mouth simply stayed open.
(Isn't this guy way too rude?)
(But somehow I can't hate him.)
"Anyway, I've seen your acting."
Araya plopped himself down in the middle of the rehearsal room. He sat cross-legged, both hands on his knees. The floor creaked faintly under the weight of them both.
"The school drama. That was good."
"...You watched it?"
"I did. I like your acting. That kind of acting."
For a moment, Kei forgot to breathe. It felt as if her lungs had stopped mid-expansion inside her chest.
(He likes it.)
(He likes my acting.)
Something deep in her chest warmed, slowly. The inside of her cracked lips felt just slightly moistened.
"...Thank you."
Kei bowed her head a little. Her hair slid against her cheek.
"But that's dangerous, you know."
"...Dangerous?"
"You use all of yourself in a role. You lend your own emotions to the character. That's exhausting."
Araya's voice was flat, matter-of-fact. As casual as talking about the weather—and yet the edges of his words were strangely precise.
"But that's the only way I know how to do it."
Kei hugged her knees tighter. The warmth of her own body returned to her arms.
"Yeah. That's why it's interesting."
Araya grinned. Only the corners of his mouth lifted; his eyes were still sleepy.
"...Um."
Kei steeled herself and spoke. Her throat was bone-dry.
"I'm in trouble over that contract. Nobody believes me. But I never signed it."
"Yeah, I know. That's why I said I could tell by looking."
"...What?"
"That contract—the handwriting's a little off. Compared to yours."
Kei's eyes went wide. She forgot to blink, and her eyeballs felt cold and still.
"How can you tell something like that?"
"I'm good at remembering handwriting. When I see someone's writing, I can pick out their quirks."
Araya mimed writing on the floor with his finger. The pad of his index finger slid slowly across the concrete.
"Your writing is very careful and earnest. But the writing on that contract is someone trying to copy you, and it's just slightly off. There are traces of practicing it over and over."
"...Traces of practicing it over and over."
Kei swallowed hard. Her throat moved up and down.
"Yeah, and that M.O. too. A co-star of mine got hit by it before. That guy's good at copying signatures. Practices over and over until he nails it, apparently."
Araya said it like he was discussing today's weather.
"...Is that true?"
Kei's voice shook. The end of the sentence didn't dissolve into the air—it just dropped.
"True. That co-star ended up quitting the agency because of the contract, though."
Kei's heart lurched. A heavy thud, like a fist striking the inside of her ribs.
(I wasn't the only one.)
(Someone else got hit by the same trick.)
"...Please, tell me more."
Kei scooted closer to Araya. Her knees scraped the floor, stinging with heat.
"Sure. But first, one thing."
Araya looked straight into Kei's eyes. His lids were properly raised now.
"What was your name again?"
"...Yonagi Kei."
Kei sighed. The breath she let out was a little long.
"Yeah, Yonagi Kei. This time I've got it."
"Really?"
"Probably."
"Don't say probably!"
The words burst out of her. Her voice bounced off the rehearsal room walls, and a little dust drifted down.
(He's supposed to be a genius, right?)
(So why is he this much of a lost cause?)
And yet, strangely, the tension had drained from her shoulders. The area around her collarbone felt suddenly lighter.
She'd thought she was at rock bottom.
Like she was alone at the bottom of a pitch-black pit.
But now it felt like a little light was shining in from above the pit. The hum of the vent sounded just slightly quieter than before.
"...Thank you, Myoujin-san."
Kei bowed her head once more. The tips of her hair brushed the floor.
"Just Araya's fine."
"...Araya-san."
"Yeah. So—what was your name again?"
"You forgot already!?"
Kei's voice rose. Her throat stung a little.
"No, I remember. Yonagi Kei, right? I'm joking."
"...You definitely just remembered it right now, didn't you."
"Eh, what's a little detail between friends?"
Araya said it breezily, slapping his hands down on his knees.
Kei heaved a deep sigh. Her shoulders rose and fell dramatically.
(This guy is completely impossible to pin down.)
But strangely, it didn't feel bad.
If anything, she felt a little better. The cold in her fingertips had vanished without her noticing.
——
Kei told Kuroyama about what she'd heard from Araya right away. She half-ran down the hallway, her sneakers squeaking against the linoleum.
"...Handwriting analysis?"
Kuroyama looked at Kei with a troubled face. The crease between his brows was one line deeper than usual.
In Studio Daikokuten's reception room, Kuroyama had spread a copy of the contract across the desk. He was aligning the edges of the paper with meticulous precision.
"Yes. The handwriting on that contract isn't mine. Araya-san said so. He said there are traces of practicing it over and over."
"Myoujin Araya said that?"
Kuroyama's eyes widened slightly. The rim of his glasses caught the light.
"Yes. And apparently that man from Yorukage used the same trick on another young actor in the past."
Kuroyama was silent for a while. He tapped the copy on the desk twice, three times. The dry sound carved itself clearly into the quiet of the room.
"...Understood. I'll contact a professional appraiser immediately."
"Really!?"
Kei's voice lifted. The shoulders that had been slumped against the chair pulled forward again.
"Yeah. If you're that certain, it's worth looking into. But it'll take time to get results. Until then, you don't do anything."
"...Nothing?"
"Nothing. Don't act on your own. Understood?"
Kuroyama's voice was stern. The end of his sentence dropped onto the desk like a stone.
"...Yes."
Kei nodded obediently. Her hands, resting on her knees, clenched tight.
(But this means we can move forward, at least a little.)
(Maybe I can prove I'm innocent.)
A small light of hope kindled in Kei's chest. The inside of her dry lips felt moistened again, just slightly.
——
That was when it happened.
"Oh my, am I interrupting?"
The reception room door opened quietly. The hinges didn't make a sound.
Softly curled chestnut hair that fell long past her shoulders. Gem-like eyes, large and tinged with violet. A small star bracelet on her left wrist. With every step, the stars swayed faintly.
A perfect smile.
"Chiyoko-san!?"
"Kei-chan, you're looking a little better. I'm glad."
Chiyoko slid smoothly into the seat beside Kei. The chair didn't even creak. The scent of her perfume subtly changed the air—not too sweet, not too sharp.
"...Why are you here?"
"I heard you were asking for handwriting analysis. There's something I can help with."
Chiyoko picked up the contract copy from the desk. Her white fingertips pinched the edge of the paper gently.
"I've always been good at imitating people's handwriting. Kei-chan's handwriting and the contract's handwriting—they're subtly different."
Chiyoko gazed at the signature line on the contract. Her blink fell once, slowly.
"This signature shows signs of being practiced over and over.
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