MMB Chapter 129 Women's War and Peace
Chapter 129 Women's War and Peace
Chapter 129 Women's War and Peace
"Click".
The sound of the seatbelt buckling was particularly crisp in the enclosed car.
Nanako Matsushima gripped the steering wheel tightly with both hands, her knuckles turning white from the force. Her back was ramrod straight, almost stiff, and her eyes were fixed on the rearview mirror, yet she dared not linger on its surface for more than half a second.
The back seat was very quiet.
Kitahara Nobumasa calmly flipped through the entertainment section of the day's Tokyo Sports newspaper.
Today he wore a dark turtleneck sweater under a soft cashmere coat, and his signature gold-rimmed glasses perched on his nose.
He appears gentle and harmless.
"It's a bit hot in the car."
Kitahara Shin suddenly spoke, his gaze never leaving the newspaper.
"Ah! Yes! I'm sorry!"
Nanako shuddered in fright and frantically tried to adjust the air conditioning knob, but she used too much force and accidentally turned on the windshield wipers.
"Splash—splash"
On a bright sunny day, the windshield wipers swung wildly across the dry windshield, making a screeching sound.
The atmosphere in the carriage instantly became extremely awkward.
Nanako felt her face must be as red as a monkey's bottom. She frantically turned off the windshield wipers, huddled in the driver's seat, wishing she could just evaporate on the spot.
"Um—teacher, I'm sorry, I—"
"Focus on driving."
Kitahara Shin closed the newspaper, pushed up his glasses, and said, "These hands of yours are for gripping the steering wheel, not for performing acrobatics for me."
"yes!"
Nanako answered loudly, quickly straightened her posture, and looked straight ahead.
Looking in the rearview mirror, she saw that Kitahara Shin wasn't angry. Instead, he was staring blankly at the street scene outside the window, his fingers unconsciously tapping a certain rhythm on his knee.
The rhythm was very chaotic.
It seems that even gods have their troubles.
Actually, she never gets to touch the steering wheel normally.
The two brothers, Da Long and Er Hu, usually drive for Kitahara Shin. Although they look like door gods and are intimidating, their driving skills are top-notch; they drive more steadily than a boat.
Recently, this teacher suddenly got interested and said something like, "If you want to act well, you must first learn how to serve people," and also said, "Observing the people in the back seat from the driver's seat is the first step in eye contact training."
So, the car keys were simply tossed into her hand.
They called it "immersive teaching," but in reality, they were just using her, this future female star, as a free temporary assistant and driver.
Nanako sighed inwardly and tightened her grip on the steering wheel.
Bear with it.
Who could blame them but Kitahara Shin? He was their teacher. Although they hadn't formally become his students, they both tacitly accepted this relationship.
Noon.
Fuji Television, Studio 3 lounge.
Kitahara Shin finished recording the show in the morning and accepted the lunchbox handed to him by the staff.
This wasn't pork chop rice from the TV station; it was a "love lunch" delivered by that black Toyota Century earlier.
Wrapped in a pink silk handkerchief were two crooked little dogs embroidered on it—the stitches were clearly the work of Akina Nakamori, full of her "clumsy efforts."
Nanako, sitting next to him, swallowed hard, her eyes filled with curiosity.
Is this the legendary "bento made by a Showa-era geisha"?
Kitahara Shin untied the tightly tied bow and opened the lid.
"Wow----"
Nanako couldn't help but exclaim in surprise.
It has to be said that this bento box is ridiculously good-looking.
On the left is a neatly arranged plate of rice, topped with a smiley face made of seaweed; on the right is a golden tamagoyaki (Japanese rolled omelet), and even two exquisitely carved red sausages shaped like rabbits with forked ears.
Full color and flavor.
She's practically a textbook example of a virtuous wife and loving mother.
"Akina-san—you're amazing!" Nanako said with starry eyes, full of envy. "You can even cut the seaweed so finely; it looks delicious."
Kitahara Shin didn't say anything, he just stared at that perfect "seaweed smiley face".
He chuckled to himself.
sharp?
Could a woman who cuts her hand while peeling an apple and burns through a pot while cooking instant noodles possibly have such knife skills?
This is clearly a top-tier takeout order from some high-end ryotei (traditional Japanese restaurant) that was then packed into her own lunchbox. Only someone as naive as Nanako Matsushima would believe she made it herself.
However, Kitahara Shin did not expose him.
In front of outsiders, one must give one's own clumsy songstress enough face.
His gaze shifted to the corner.
Sure enough, among a pile of exquisite dishes, there was a very conspicuous "green area".
That's a bitter melon.
Moreover, it's the kind of old Okinawan bitter melon with a dark green skin, plump seeds, and an appearance so bitter it makes you question the meaning of life.
The slices were uneven in thickness, with rough edges, clearly cut by a novice. Even worse, the bitter melon looked like it hadn't been cooked at all; it was still crisp and crunchy, and topped with a thick layer of—white pepper powder?
Case solved.
This small compartment is where Akina Nakamori truly "made it herself".
This is a "life-or-death question".
It's an aftershock of last night's chaotic scene.
"That's really impressive."
Kitahara Shin picked up his chopsticks, avoiding the delicious custom-made dishes, and precisely picked up a slice of bitter melon, putting it into his mouth without changing his expression.
"Click."
A crisp chewing sound.
A raw, astringent bitterness exploded in my mouth, followed by the pungent spiciness of white pepper powder.
This taste is like firecrackers exploding on your tongue.
Kitahara Shin chewed without pausing for a moment, not even frowning.
He was like a machine that had lost its sense of taste, mechanically and precisely swallowing the bitter melon slice.
Then came the second piece, and the third piece.
Nanako, watching from the side, sensed something was amiss.
Why would the teacher leave the perfectly good tamagoyaki (Japanese rolled omelet) and only eat that bluish-green bitter melon? And she ate it way too fast, almost like she was destroying evidence.
"Um—Teacher, is it delicious?" she couldn't help but ask.
Kitahara Shin put down his chopsticks, picked up the oolong tea next to him, and took a big gulp to suppress the bitter taste that made him want to ascend to heaven.
He turned to Nanako, a very gentle smile on his face: "Delicious."
"It's just a little bit... cooling."
After saying that, he closed the lunchbox. The bitter melon compartment was empty, but he hadn't touched the other exquisite dishes.
Just then, a small pager next to the black "brick" on the table suddenly emitted a crisp "beep beep" sound.
Kitahara Shin picked up the pager and glanced at the long, narrow LCD screen.
There were no Chinese characters on the screen, only a string of meaningless numerical codes followed by a question mark.
[0—10—10?]
(Note: This is a Japanese phonetic transcription. "0" is A, and "10" is Ma-i. Put together it is A-ma-i? which means "Is it sweet?")
This is a "digital love letter" that belongs exclusively to that era.
Holding the pager, Kitahara Shin could picture the woman hiding at home, looking at the "Complete Guide to Pager Numeric Codes" with a wicked grin.
This was her revenge.
Naïve, clumsy, but incredibly cute.
Kitahara Shin put down his pager, picked up the "big brick" next to him, and skillfully dialed the paging number.
In the days before smartphones, replying to messages was a ritualistic affair—you had to type your feelings into even a single byte of space using the phone keypad.
His long, slender fingers danced rapidly across the stiff mechanical keys, typing in a reply code:
【1—4—1—0—6】
(Note: Ai-shi-te-ru is the common Japanese code for "I love you," and it also represents the clumsy yet direct expression of love in the song "Slow Motion.")
"drop."
Sent successfully.
Kitahara Shin closed the antenna and tossed the brick-like phone back onto the table.
3 PM.
Being Records' recording studio.
Kitahara Shin is here today to discuss the licensing of the theme song for "Yakuza's Wife" with Oshima Nagato.
As soon as I pushed open that heavy soundproof door, a strong smell of coffee and tobacco hit me.
The recording studio was a mess.
The floor was covered with crumpled pieces of waste paper, and the music stand had fallen over and no one was there to help it up.
Izumi Sakai was sitting cross-legged on the carpet in the corner, wearing a faded denim jacket, holding a guitar, and writing and drawing on a piece of paper with her head down.
She was so focused that she didn't even notice someone coming in.
🇧🇷
Her long hair was casually draped down, obscuring most of her face. She had a pen in her mouth, her brows were furrowed, and her toes were tapping unconsciously on the ground.
This is the real Izumi Sakai from ZARD.
Once she enters the world of music, the shy, socially awkward girl next door disappears, leaving only a rampaging soul charging into battle on the battlefield called "rock and roll".
Kitahara Shin didn't disturb her, but simply leaned quietly against the door frame.
About ten minutes later.
"No—the emotion here is wrong—"
Quanshui scratched his hair in frustration, crumpled the piece of paper covered in writing in his hand into a ball, and threw it away casually.
The crumpled paper flew in an arc through the air and landed squarely on Kitahara Shin's shoe.
The spring water paused for a moment.
She looked up from the pair of leather shoes and her gaze met those eyes hidden behind the gold-rimmed glasses.
"ah!"
She sprang up from the ground like a startled rabbit, nearly dropping her guitar.
"Kita--Kitahara-san!"
The cool rock girl from just moments ago suddenly disappeared. Her face was flushed, and she stood there awkwardly, her eyes darting around, wishing she could disappear into the ground.
"Sorry, did I scare you?"
Kitahara Shin bent down, picked up the crumpled paper, unfolded it, and glanced at it.
It was covered in marks of corrections, the handwriting messy and wild.
In the crowded streets, I could only see your back.
Even if the distance is only one centimeter, it is insurmountable.
The words that followed were crossed out, and the ink was so strong that it penetrated the paper, showing how conflicted the writer was at the time.
"Give it back to me!"
The spring water rushed over, snatched the paper, and stuffed it haphazardly into his pocket. His face was so red it was almost bleeding.
She wrote that after she came back last night.
Last night's chaotic scene made her experience for the first time the bittersweet feeling of "wanting to get closer but having to stop."
"Can't write it?" Kitahara Shin asked knowingly.
"Um----"
Quanshui nodded, holding her guitar, her voice barely audible, "It feels like—that emotion is always just a little off. It's right on the tip of my tongue, but I just can't quite grasp it."
Kitahara Shin looked at her.
She kept her head down, her fingers unconsciously tapping the guitar strings.
"Give me your hand," Kitahara Shin suddenly said.
"Why?"
The spring water looked up blankly, but its body obediently stretched out its left hand.
Kitahara Shin grasped her wrist.
Her hands were cold, and her fingertips had calluses from years of playing the violin.
Kitahara Shin took a pen out of his pocket and removed the cap.
The pen tip landed on the back of her hand.
The cool touch made the spring water tremble, but she did not pull her hand away.
She looked at the man's lowered eyes and his serious expression.
"Shh, shh."
The sound of the pen tip gliding across her skin was exceptionally clear in the quiet recording studio. The slight stinging sensation traveled along her nerve endings throughout her body, making half of her body feel numb.
A few seconds later.
Kitahara Shin put away his pen and loosened his grip.
"have a look."
The spring water raised the back of its hand.
The words written above were strong and powerful, exuding an undeniable domineering aura:
If it's something you want, just take it.
The spring was stunned.
She stared at the words, her heart skipped a beat.
This is not a lyric.
This was his response to her "compromising" behavior last night, a form of encouragement, and even—a provocation.
"Rock and roll isn't about wallowing in self-pity."
Kitahara Shin smiled and reached out to ruffle her hair. "Next time, don't just send gifts. If you want to see me, just call me. If you can't get through, keep calling until I answer."
The spring water felt the heat coming from above her head, so hot that the tips of her ears were burning.
She looked at the words on the back of her hand, then at Kitahara Shin.
The inferiority and hesitation that had arisen because of Akina's existence were ignited by these words at this moment, transforming into something even more intense.
She suddenly took a deep breath.
For the first time, those eyes that always avoided eye contact looked directly into Kitahara Shin's eyes.
"next time----"
She bit her lip, her voice still trembling, but with a stubbornness she didn't usually display: "Next time, I'll choose a better time."
"I won't just send a gift and leave anymore."
Kitahara Shin raised an eyebrow.
This little white rabbit seems to be starting to grow teeth.
"I'm really looking forward to it."
three days later.
A giant "GG" sign in front of the Hachiko statue in Shibuya.
Workers are dismantling the previous cosmetics GG store. As the last piece of canvas is removed, a striking giant poster is revealed on one of Tokyo's busiest streets.
That's not your average movie promotional photo.
It was a work of art that could make passersby stop in their tracks and draw the attention of the entire Tokyo entertainment industry.
The poster's background is a pitch-black, rainy night.
Shima Iwashita, dressed in a pure white kimono, sits regally in the center of the picture. Her expression is aloof and noble, and she holds a bright red oil-paper umbrella in her hand, like a Guanyin statue untouched by the dust of the world.
And at her feet.
-
Shin Kitahara, who plays Kyoji Sanada, is kneeling in the mud.
He was covered in blood, his suit was tattered, and his face, which was always known for its "gentle and refined" manner, was now covered with wounds and mud.
But he did not lower his head.
He was tilting his head back, his eyes burning with a chilling madness that was a mixture of bestiality and divinity.
He was grabbing the hem of Iwashita Shima's white skirt and pulling it to his mouth.
It was a kiss.
A blasphemous kiss imprinted on the muddy hem of a skirt.
In the bottom right corner of the poster, two lines of bright red text were printed:
【The Wife of a Yakuza: The End of Hell】
When a mad dog falls in love with a queen, hell becomes heaven.
"Oh my god————"
Someone in the crowd waiting at the traffic light exclaimed in surprise.
"That's Kitahara-kun!?"
"You're kidding, right? That look in his eyes makes him look like a real psychopath!"
"So exciting—why am I blushing when I see something so dirty?"
The crowd began to stir, and many young girls took out their cameras and started snapping pictures of the poster.
The visual impact of that poster was overwhelming. The extreme contrast between pristine whiteness and extreme filth, nobility and baseness, indifference and madness, created a perfect closed loop of sexual tension.
Inside the nanny van by the roadside.
Nanako Matsushima stared blankly at the huge poster through the car window.
She glanced at the mad dog-like man on the poster, then at Kitahara Shin, who was sitting in the back seat with his eyes closed, seemingly resting.
"What's wrong? Are you scared?"
Kitahara Shin didn't open his eyes, and his voice was lazy.
No—no.
Nanako swallowed hard, turned her head, looked at herself in the rearview mirror, and tried to imitate the look in Kitahara Shin's eyes on the poster.
She narrowed her eyes and her lips twitched, trying to convey that "mad love".
result-
A face that looked like it had been constipated for three days appeared in the rearview mirror.
"Don't waste your energy."
Kitahara Shin sighed. "You're going to play a queen of Japanese dramas, not an escaped patient from a mental hospital. You can't learn that look, and you don't need to."
He opened his eyes and glanced at Nanako through the rearview mirror: "You'll be a master when you learn to look at producers who want to sexually harass you with that look of disdain, like they're trash."
Nanako paused for a moment.
The way you look at trash?
Looking at the man's calm face in the rearview mirror, her desire to follow him grew even stronger.
"Yes, teacher!"
That evening.
Press conference for the premiere of "Yakuza's Wife" at the Imperial Hotel Tokyo.
The flashes of light were like a storm, illuminating the entire venue as if it were daytime.
Kitahara Shin, dressed in a well-tailored black suit, stood next to Iwashita Shima. He had reverted to his former self as a polite Heisei-era nobleman, with an impeccable smile on his face.
But the reporters' questions came flying at me like knives.
"Kitahara-san! Does the pose on the poster hint at a potentially daring and explicit scene in this film?"
"I heard that you actually contacted yakuza organizations to experience the role?"
"What was your relationship like with Iwashita-senpai on set? There were rumors that you two got too immersed in your roles?"
One tricky question after another was thrown out.
Iwashita Shima maintained her aloof demeanor, utterly refusing to answer these pointless questions.
Kitahara Shin adjusted his glasses.
With a slight thought, the [Writer's Plain Glasses] in the equipment bar glowed faintly.
He took a step forward and stood in front of Iwashita Shima.
"Regarding the scale," he smiled at the reporter who asked the question, but his eyes were devoid of warmth, "I think that the nakedness of the soul is more visually appealing than the nakedness of the body."
"As for my relationship with Iwashita-senpai—"
He turned his head and glanced at the empress beside him.
Iwashita Shima was also looking at him at the same time.
Their eyes met for a second in the air.
Kitahara Shin turned back to the camera, and a hint of unfathomable wickedness suddenly appeared in his gentle smile: "In this story, we are each other's prey."
"As for whether we'll sink together in hell or burn hell to ashes, you'll have to go to the movie theater to find out."
The entire audience erupted in uproar.
The flashes started going off even more frantically.
Kitahara Shin stood in the center of that sea of light, bathed in the cacophony of camera shutters.