Right as I arrived at the station, my cell phone rang. It was Shitara, and it took a small amount of courage to answer the phone.
“Good morning! Kunieda speaking.”
“I went to the newsroom, but you weren’t there. Are you outside?”
“I’m just about to board the elevator.”
“In that case, could I borrow you? Let’s grab coffee at the cafe on the tenth floor.”
“Yes, sir.”
What was it this time? Was I finally getting my pink slip? No, surely I hadn’t done anything to deserve that. I briefly entertained the possibility that Ushio had gotten involved… Well, it wasn’t zero, but he wasn’t generally the overprotective type.
We sat down on opposite sides of a table, and the moment our coffee arrived, Shitara started giggling to himself. “Sorry, it’s just… Tatsuki was pretty funny last night.”
“He was?” Did he invent a fun new pronunciation for something?
“He came and complained to me. Asked me why I was shutting you out.”
Oh, that. I wasn’t being “shut out”—if anything, I got more screen time than ever these days, from “good morning” to “good night.” So quit running your mouth, dipshit!
“He yelled at me, insisting he had a right to know what was going on with you since you’re co-stars. I tell you, the kid’s got balls—I hear he even went straight to Asou about it! Anyway, milk or sugar?”
“No thank you.”
“So then I started thinking… ‘How come Kunieda hasn’t said a word?’”
Oh, now you started thinking? I spat internally. Don’t play dumb, shithead.
“Anyone would at least wonder why they’ve been doing nothing but field work, but you never came to me.”
“Well, I was certain there had to be a good reason for it. And if it’s what’s best for our show, then as an employee, my duty is to follow orders.”
“Ah. So you trust me, in other words.”
“Of course.”
That much wasn’t a lie. Shitara knew how to use his brain, which was what made asking him such a frightening prospect. That was why I got so irritated at Ushio when he told me to do it. He acted like it was easy.
“I see…” He looked at me with watchful eyes, evaluating my every word as he lazily propped his chin in his palm. It felt like I was auditioning for something. “Tell me, Kunieda, what’s the one thing we want to avoid for the good of our show?”
“Well…poor ratings, I would say.”
At this, his eyes turned to ice, and I could practically see the coffee freezing over in his cup. “Wrong. Is that all you’ve got?”
“What…?”
Technical difficulties? Spreading misinformation? Conflict between the cast and crew? Romantic entanglements? With each idea that rose to mind, I knew it was wrong before it ever left my lips. Under the table, I clenched my hands into fists. The silence was brief, and yet my stomach was already knotting up.
“Ignoring our audience,” he said quietly, and the look in his eyes suggested he was judging me for not knowing the answer. “There’s a lot of office politics to navigate when you’re at the helm, and I know it might sound like sappy idealism, but that’s the one point I won’t budge on. If we start planning our show around what somebody else is already doing, it’s all over for us.”
See? This is why I didn’t want to talk to him. He knows exactly what I don’t want to hear.
“I like the way you read the news, Kunieda. Not just because of your skill. You’ve got the kind of voice that folks can listen to while they work. It digs into the mind—in a good way. Makes you perk your ears up. It’s not talent, it’s the firm understanding of information and the desire to convey it to the viewers. Your voice has power.” He paused to take a sip of coffee. “However…”
I didn’t want to hear the rest. If this was Ushio, I would have plugged my ears.
“Y’know, I can’t quite put my finger on it. It seems to me like you still take the job seriously and haven’t let it go to your head, but…ever since this spring, your voice has changed a little. Any idea what that’s about?”
I looked directly into his eyes. “No… I’m sorry, but I have no idea.”
I could hear Ushio’s voice taunting me in my head: Why can’t you just open up to him? But I couldn’t. It simply wasn’t possible for me.
“I see. Well, the fact of the matter is, I can’t hear your voice these days. Now, it’s not our fault that our ratings are on the decline, but it’ll certainly have an impact on the show in the long run, so I wanted to nip it in the bud ASAP. But you know me—I’m not the kind of producer who can give you the advice you need. So instead I took the nuclear option and sent you out into the world for more hands-on experience with the viewers.”
Whatever he was angling for, it sadly wasn’t working—even I could tell. I rose from my chair without ever touching my coffee.
“I apologize, but I need to get ready for the next field report.”
“Right, sorry to bother you while you’re busy… Oh, one last thing.”
“Yes?”
“I know you might be getting a lot of mixed signals right now, but the news team does approve of you. While other anchors make the directors do the footwork and reserve the easy parts for themselves, you do your interviews and fact-checks without hesitation. It’s not always comfortable, yet you never complain. No matter where we send you, you put in the same amount of effort… While I admit it can be frustrating at times, I have a lot of respect for you. You never cease to amaze.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Are you kidding? Outside of work hours, I’m a wreck who explodes like a volcano at the slightest criticism! I’m falling apart across the board, sir!
If I confessed these thoughts, would he let me off the hook? I knew the source of my stress was Kizaki, but even if he were to resign from his show, would I automatically recover? Would the end of Newsment solve my problem?
No, probably not.