My Name is Hiroshi Nohara, Star of Neon Film and Television! Chapter 207: Sensation! The Midnight Diner Sensation!

anwhile, in another izakaya in Shinjuku Ward, the critics' late-night drinking session had entered its second round.

"Cheers!"

Frosted beer mugs collided in midair.

"I've made up my mind!" Ono drained the golden liquid in one go, wiped the foam from his lips, and fixed his young face with an expression of absolute resolve. "Tomorrow, I'm returning every last yen of Tokyo City TV's 'publicity fee' — untouched!"

"What?! Returning it?!" Mikami blinked, staring at Ono in surprise.

"That's right! Returning it!" Ono nodded emphatically, fire blazing in his bright eyes. "I may not be anybody important, but I know the difference between real 'art' and real 'healing'! I absolutely refuse to let my pen sing praises for another piece of capital-manufactured garbage!"

"Well said!" Suzuki slamd the table, his normally refined face now flushed with righteous indignation. "Ono's right! We writers should have our own bottom line! That Minamijima Afu and His Beloved Dog — what even was that?! A direct insult to every viewer's intelligence! Tomorrow, I'm returning the money too! And I'm writing a ten-thousand-word manifesto dissecting that disaster from start to finish!"

"Count in!"

"I'm returning mine too!"

"It's ti those capitalists who think they can buy anything with money learn that us writers aren't to be trifled with!"

The izakaya erupted with impassioned declarations.

Everyone caught Ono's fire. Their eyes blazed with indomitable fighting spirit.

Yet amid this glow of idealism, the ever-silent Kimura-senpai let out a quiet chuckle.

"You kids..." He slowly drained the last drop of beer. His clouded eyes shone with hard-won wisdom. "Still too young."

He paused, then set the empty glass down firmly.

"Don't return the money."

"Don't write the manifesto either."

"Kamiki Shunsuke's drama stands no chance against Nohara Hiroshi's Midnight Diner — that's already a fact."

"So there's no need to antagonize Tokyo City TV. What's the harm in tossing them a few complints? We won't be praising the plot — just the visuals, the characters, the pretty idol faces that audiences enjoy."

"After all, we've got bills to pay and families to feed. And even if we wanted to write negative reviews, our publishers wouldn't approve it anyway."

"Better to shift tactics with a light touch. Those idol faces really are quite watchable, aren't they?"

Kimura smiled as he finished.

Everyone raised their eyebrows, exchanged knowing glances, then ultimately lifted their glasses and clinked them together with hearty laughter.

...

The next day, when Tokyo — that never-sleeping beast — once again cracked open its bleary eyes in the pale morning light, the previous night's cocktail of sorrow and idealistic struggle dissolved like post-tide foam, ruthlessly dashed against the beach by a new and noisier wave of reality.

Still-fragrant newspapers blanketed every corner of the city like snow.

The most prominent, most expensive real estate on newsstand and convenience store displays was occupied by ticulously retouched beautiful faces.

Weekly Star Trend's entertainnt front page adopted the near-frenzied tone of a devoted fan, its headline rendered in eye-catching pink art lettering:

【A VISUAL FEAST, A VICTORY OF BEAUTY! Kamiki Shunsuke's Minamijima Afu and His Beloved Dog Premieres — His Sculptural Profile Ignites a New Wave of Screen-Licking Mania!】

"Last night, the ambitious warmth-and-healing drama Minamijima Afu and His Beloved Dog — a production by Tokyo City TV with full backing from Kirin Group's talent agency — officially unveiled its mysteries.

Reigning idol Kamiki Shunsuke once again proved to the world, with his unimpeachable 'national treasure-class' looks, what true 'visual justice' ans.

In the drama, his portrayal of the dream-chasing youth Afu — whether running along the seaside in a simple white shirt or bustling in the kitchen in chef's whites — renders every fra a precision-calculated fashion editorial.

Renowned fashion critic Yamamoto Yukiko lavished praise: 'Kamiki-kun's face is itself a perfect work of art. He needs no excess words — a single glance, a single profile, is sufficient to carry an entire story. His dedication in losing ten pounds for the role further demonstrates an idol actor's ultimate pursuit of artistic excellence.'"

...

Urban Style magazine pointed its lens at the drama's costus and styling, its copy dripping with worship of capital's might:

【From Givenchy to Armani — Minamijima Afu Defines a New Generation of Urban Aesthetics! Kamiki Shunsuke as Fashion's New Compass!】

"Rather than calling Minamijima Afu and His Beloved Dog a television drama, it would be more accurate to describe it as a flowing, luxuriously scented fashion show.

The costus worn by lead Kamiki Shunsuke and his ensemble of idol co-stars were almost entirely sponsored by top international labels, their refinent sufficient to put any fashion-focused drama to sha.

Veteran stylist Junbe concurred: 'This drama's styling will undoubtedly set the trend direction for this year's autumn-winter season. It brilliantly rges the natural charm of a southern island with Tokyo's modern minimalism. Every outfit Kamiki Shunsuke wears in the drama is a textbook example of ideal boyfriend style.'"

...

Even the ostensibly objective general newspapers crafted their entertainnt sections with polished, ingratiating care.

"...The drama boasts premium production values, stunning visuals, and a moving score. The cross-species bond between Kamiki Shunsuke and the Akita dog injects a current of warmth into our sowhat cold tropolis. We have every reason to believe this drama will be this sumr's most anticipated family-viewing event."

Between every line: effusive praise for surfaces — visuals, beauty, styling — while plot logic, character depth, and acting substance were, by silent consensus, left entirely unaddressed.

This money-built dia banquet looked so lively, so seemingly bulletproof.

Yet when these carefully packaged words filtered down to the city's true pulse, the chemical reaction they triggered proved laughably impotent.

7:30 AM. The Yamanote Line, packed as tight as a sardine tin.

"Sasaki, did you watch it last night? That new Tokyo City TV drama — the one with Kamiki Shunsuke?" A bespectacled, mild-looking young office worker clung to an overhead strap with one hand while interrogating his half-asleep colleague.

"Yeah, I watched. Course I did." The man called Sasaki yawned, his sleep-deprived face a portrait of existential defeat. "My wife's a hardcore Kamiki Shunsuke fan. She dragged into it. Honestly, if it weren't for dostic harmony, I'd have been asleep by the halfway mark."

"Ha ha, is it that bad?"

"Not 'bad' exactly, just... fake." Sasaki curled his lip with undisguised disdain. "The plot's as stale as a twenty-year-old Korean drama. Country boy cos to Tokyo chasing a dream, gets kicked around, then gets healed by a stray dog. Seriously — what year is this? Still doing that stuff?"

"What about Kamiki Shunsuke? I heard he lost ten pounds for the role. The papers are singing his praises."

"Lost ten pounds? More like he applied ten pounds of foundation!" Sato — the colleague — scoffed. "Start to finish: not a hair out of place, each outfit more expensive than the last, and that expression of his — like wearing a mask. Besides being handso, I got nothing from it. Honestly, I think the Akita dog had more range than he did."

"Pfft — if your wife heard you say that, you'd be fixing your own dinner tonight."

"So what!" Sasaki waved dismissively. Then sothing lit up in his usually tired eyes. "But speaking of which — Tanaka, did you watch it? TV Tokyo's Midnight Diner! After my wife fell asleep, I secretly switched channels, and then... I couldn't stop!"

"Oh? The manga adaptation? How is it? Good?"

"Good doesn't cover it! It's... addictive!" Sasaki's voice dropped to an excited whisper — a stark contrast to his earlier dead-eyed deanor. "I'm telling you — that show is like grabbing a drink at a street stall after work. No grand philosophy, just... comfortable. Soothing. Watching that scarred-face owner make the simplest ho-cooked dishes for exhausted office workers just like us... I'm a grown man and I nearly cried."

"Is it really that impressive?"

"Not one bit of exaggeration!" Sasaki nodded vigorously, his gaze drifting to the speeding cityscape outside the window, eyes full of longing. "After watching it last night, I had one single thought: I want to go to that restaurant and have a damn drink."

...

Noon. A private university cafeteria.

"Misaki! Misaki! Quick, try this! My 'Midnight Diner' replica tamagoyaki!" A girl in a Lolita-style dress proudly pushed her tray — bearing a slightly burnt, sowhat lopsided tamagoyaki — in front of her equally doll-like best friend across the table.

"Whoa — really?! Where did you learn to make this?" The girl called Misaki's eyes lit up.

"Where else? From last night's drama and the manga, obviously!" The girl puffed out her chest with righteous pride, as though she herself were the master-chef Owner. "I'm telling you — the second the first episode ended, I stord into the kitchen and used up every egg in my mom's fridge! Failed a bunch of tis, but I finally got one that looks halfway decent!"

"Amazing! Amazing!" Misaki exclaid in genuine admiration. She gingerly picked up a small piece and popped it in her mouth. The complex fusion of "char" and "raw egg" instantly scrunched her cute little face into a knot.

"So? So? Does it have that 'healing' flavor, just like on TV?"

"Mm... mm! Full of... full of 'depressing' flavor." Misaki struggled to swallow the piece, then produced a smile that looked worse than crying.

"Ha ha ha ha ha!"

Several nearby students who'd also been discussing Midnight Diner broke into good-natured laughter.

"But seriously though," a boy in a baseball cap wandered over, eyeing the two girls with curiosity, "didn't you guys watch Tokyo City TV's Minamijima Afu and His Beloved Dog last night? I heard Kamiki Shunsuke looks amazing in it. Half the girls in our class are losing their minds over him."

"Kamiki Shunsuke?" The two girls exchanged glances, then simultaneously pulled identical expressions of disdain.

"He's handso enough, but... kind of oily." Misaki wrinkled her nose with the unfiltered bluntness unique to youth. "Don't you think his acting is always this 'look how handso I am' expression? Watching it makes cringe so hard I might die."

"Exactly! Exactly!" Her friend joined right in. "I much prefer the Owner from Midnight Diner — that quiet man with the scar and the impossibly gentle soul! THAT's a real man! That mature magnetism — drenched in untold stories — is pure... lethal poison!"

"I even dread about him last night! He made a steaming bowl of cat rice!"

"Wow — you're so lucky!"

...

These spontaneous, life-infused conversations spread like a silent spring rain, subtly perating every corner of the city.

And the authoritative dia that truly shaped public opinion finally dropped all pretense and calculation before this surging tide of genuine sentint, releasing their truest voices.

The Asahi Shimbun's social observation section — abandoning its customary severity — published a near-lyrical article titled: "A Bowl of Ochazuke, Comforting an Entire City's Loneliness."

"...Last night, when Midnight Diner's opening the began, we may not have realized that an entirely new 'urban fable' was quietly being born. It has no grand narrative, no intense conflict. It simply points its cara at the most ordinary souls — those who still cannot sleep deep into the night. It tells us that whether you're a yakuza boss or a struggling singer, whether you face life's crossroads or love's dead end, there is always a light that stays on for you. Always a al waiting for you to co ho. This seemingly simple comfort, in our increasingly atomized modern society, feels so precious — and so... luxurious. Nohara Hiroshi, this young 'cultural monster,' has once again used those eyes that seem to see through the human heart to take our era's pulse with uncanny precision. The prescription he writes is the gentlest, and most effective... dicine."

Even the Japan Economic News — typically concerned only with economics and industry — devoted a rare, large-format column in its cultural industry observation section to the drama.

【From "Akita Dog Economics" to "The Midnight Diner Effect": How Nohara Hiroshi Uses "Emotional Consumption" to Reshape the Cultural Industry Landscape】

"...If Hachiko Monogatari's success represented Nohara Hiroshi's modern repackaging and re-marketing of the traditional emotions of 'loyalty' and 'devotion,' then Midnight Diner's explosion represents his far more precise comrcial monetization of 'loneliness' and 'healing' — more universal, more intimate emotions of the modern urban psyche. He hasn't rely created a television drama — he has created an infinitely expandable 'IP ecosystem' brimming with comrcial potential. From the drama's ratings to manga sales, from opening the downloads to the 'pilgrimage' crowds at the real restaurant... every link forms a perfect comrcial loop. He proves to us that the most sophisticated comrce doesn't sell products — it sells... emotions. And he is indisputably this era's greatest master of selling emotions."

This avalanche of heartfelt praise ford a sharp, bitterly ironic contrast with the previous day's glossy, money-manufactured press releases.

Everyone knew: this war had already been decided on day one.

Nohara Hiroshi — this young "cultural monster" — hadn't even needed to enter the arena himself. His matchless talent had already crushed the seemingly ferocious upstart challenger into absolute dust.

...

TV Tokyo. Production Bureau.

The Nohara Independent Production Departnt's vast workspace — as though injected with so stimulant — crackled with an atmosphere thick enough to crystallize. Every dust mote floating in the light seed to carry its own weight of anticipation and anxiety.

The clock hands were steadily approaching the critical juncture of 9:50 PM.

That was the line — an invisible boundary capable of separating heaven from hell, glory from oblivion.

"How is there still no news...?"

Yamamoto Takeshi — now the TV drama production section chief and the departnt's second-in-command after Nohara Hiroshi — fidgeted like a student awaiting exam results for the first ti. His usually haughty face was a portrait of agitation.

He kept picking up the desk phone, then setting it down. His fingers tapped unconsciously against the dial — a soft "click-click-click" that mimicked a heartbeat's drumroll.

"Yeah... this is taking too long..."

Sato Kenji, seated across from him, was so tense that fine beads of sweat had ford on his palms. His perpetually tired eyes were locked onto the massive wall-mounted TV, as though willing the destiny-determining number to materialize by telekinesis.

"You two — can't you learn a little of the Departnt Manager's composure?"

Kitagawa Yao approached with two cups of hot tea, setting them gently before the pair. Her usually energetic face now wore a perfectly asured air of "been there, done that" nonchalance.

Though her slightly trembling hands betrayed identical inner tension.

"Composure? How can I possibly be composed?!" Yamamoto shot her an exasperated look. He gestured toward the young man who had been sitting quietly on the central sofa this entire ti — who was actually reading a manga — his voice brimming with genuine admiration and... a trace of envy. "Look at the Departnt Manager! Does he look like soone about to go into battle? I actually think he's more relaxed than any of us who are waiting for results!"

"Right?! Right?!" Sato Kenji joined in, gazing at Nohara Hiroshi as though beholding sothing inhuman. "At this point, if tomorrow's papers announced that the Departnt Manager was actually an alien, I wouldn't be the slightest bit surprised."

"Ha ha ha ha ha!"

The office erupted in knowing laughter.

Then — into this charged atmosphere of tension and anticipation — the office's heavy glass door burst open with a bang.

"It's here! It's here! The ratings are in!"

A young data analyst stood in the doorway, panting, his face ablaze with barely contained ecstasy.

He waved a docunt still warm from the fax machine.

"Whoosh—"

Every single person shot to their feet simultaneously.

Every young, vibrant face wore the sa expression: feverish anticipation.

"Quick! Tell us! How much?!" Yamamoto Takeshi was the first to lunge forward, his voice cracking with excitent.

The young employee took a massive breath, forcibly swallowed his surging euphoria, then — in a tone approaching religious reverence — slowly released the number that would drive anyone mad.

"Midnight Diner's premiere rating is—"

He paused, as if giving the coming miracle its most solemn introduction.

"Eighteen point nine percent!"

"BOOM—!"

The number detonated like a surgical nuclear strike across the entire office.

"What?!"

"Eighteen point nine?! You're sure you read that right?!"

"How is this possible?! This is the nine o'clock sub-pri slot!"

"I'm dreaming! I have to be dreaming!"

A beat of stunned silence — then the office plunged into a maelstrom of shouting and celebration.

Everyone babbled incoherently. They jumped and cheered and hugged, their joy nearly blowing the ceiling off.

"Eighteen point nine! EIGHTEEN POINT NINE!" Yamamoto Takeshi paced two wild laps around the office, then charged straight at Nohara Hiroshi. His usually proud face was now a canvas of unbridled delirium. "Departnt Manager! You've done it again! Another miracle — one that'll shake the entire Japanese television industry!"

"Indeed, Departnt Manager!" Sato Kenji's tired face flushed crimson, his voice quaking. "For a standard nine o'clock sub-pri slot, cracking ten percent is already a solid result. But we've blasted straight to eighteen point nine! We almost cracked twenty! These are pri-ti, eight o'clock numbers!"

"What do you an 'pri-ti numbers'?" Kitagawa Yao jutted out her chin, radiating shared glory. "I'll have you know — we didn't just break the sub-pri record. We broke pri ti's record right along with it!"

"Huh?!" Everyone froze.

"Look!" Kitagawa grabbed the report and pointed to a specific column, her face blooming with a brilliant smile. "Tonight's eight o'clock pri-ti slot featured a historical drama directed by Production Division Two's Ishihara Masayoshi — First Vassal Under the Lord! Their rating? A asly seventeen point three percent! We absolutely and completely... crushed them!"

"Ha ha ha ha ha!"

Another round of earthshaking laughter erupted.

"I knew it! I knew it!" Yamamoto slapped his thigh, his voice ringing with the sweet relief of vindication. "That Ishihara Masayoshi — riding on his Level 2 director status — has always walked around the Production Bureau like his eyes were on top of his head! Now he finally knows what real talent looks like!"

"Absolutely!" Sato Kenji joined the schadenfreude, his tired face now crinkled with glee. "I heard his production budget was more than double ours! And yet — our Departnt Manager still ground him into the dirt!"

"Which proves: making great TV isn't about money. It's about talent!"

"Exactly! Our Departnt Manager IS talent personified!"

"Alright, everyone, let's not get carried away." Nohara Hiroshi finally looked up from his manga. He surveyed his subordinates — more excited than he was — and allowed a helpless but warm smile. "Director Ishihara is a very accomplished senior colleague. We simply... had a slight advantage in subject matter."

He stood, straightening his simple white T-shirt. His composure and confidence made him radiant.

"I'm heading to Deputy Director Asumi's office. You all keep celebrating."

This was, naturally, the ti to report to leadership.

...

Asumi's office swirled with cigarette smoke and the aroma of tea.

When Nohara Hiroshi pushed through the door, he found not only Asumi and Takada Toshihide, but a sowhat overweight man in his forties, an air of pride etched between his brows.

The face was vaguely familiar.

"Ah, Hiroshi! There you are at last!" Asumi spotted him first, springing from the sofa. His usually cheerful face now practically vibrated with excitent.

He closed the gap in two long strides, clapped Nohara Hiroshi's shoulder, then gestured toward the man beside him — who had also risen, wearing a complex, rueful smile — and made the introduction.

"Co, let introduce you. This is Director Ishihara Masayoshi — the head director of tonight's First Vassal Under the Lord."

"Ah, Director Ishihara." Recognition dawned on Nohara Hiroshi's face. He extended his hand first — perfectly poised between modesty and confidence. "A pleasure. I've long admired your work."

"Too kind, too kind." Ishihara Masayoshi gripped his hand firmly. The genuine rueful smile on his face ford a peculiar contrast with his expression.

"Departnt Manager Nohara, please don't tease a defeated man." He shook his head, his voice carrying resignation, self-deprecation, and bone-deep respect. "Honestly, before today, I knew you were formidable — knew you were a monster. But deep down, a stubborn part of refused to concede. I thought: I'm a Level 2 director who's been making dramas for twenty years. Surely I can't lose to a twenty-three-year-old?"

He paused, exhaling a breath that seed to carry away every last shred of pride and defiance.

"But after watching your Midnight Diner tonight... I'm done resisting." He looked at Nohara Hiroshi, a storm of complex emotions in his eyes. "Your ability to find profound truth in the mundane, your precision in touching the subtlest fibers of the human heart — it leaves an old hand like so far behind I can only watch the dust settle. I'm thoroughly, unreservedly convinced."

"You honor , Director Ishihara." Nohara Hiroshi smiled calmly. "I caught a bit of your First Vassal Under the Lord — it's expertly produced and the performances have real intensity. An excellent work."

Professional courtesy — everyone spoke it.

"Please, Departnt Manager Nohara, don't gild the lily." Ishihara waved him off with a bitter laugh. He released the handshake, drew back, and offered a solemn, formal bow. "I ca tonight for one reason: to see with my own eyes what the legendary 'monster' who turns dross into gold actually looks like. Now I've seen him. And I... lose willingly."

With that, he said no more. He bowed again to Asumi and Takada Toshihide, then turned and departed — his stride slightly forlorn, yet carrying itself with unmistakable grace.

Watching his receding figure, Asumi and Takada exchanged an amused glance.

"The man knows how to lose with dignity." Asumi shook his head with a smile, then turned to Nohara Hiroshi, pride shining in his eyes. "But really, Hiroshi — you've given us one hell of a surprise again! Eighteen point nine percent! When I got the call, I thought the data departnt had been drinking and misread the numbers!"

"Indeed, Hiroshi." Takada Toshihide's admiration was genuine. "This result is truly staggering. I almost feel it's no longer just a number — it's a signal. A signal declaring that our TV Tokyo will achieve total dominance over the entire Kanto region's drama market!"

"Perhaps it can go even higher." Nohara Hiroshi rely smiled, tossing off the remark as though it were nothing.

"What?! Even higher?!" Asumi and Takada's eyes went wide.

"Mm." Nohara Hiroshi nodded. He gazed at the neon-studded, galaxy-like nightscape outside the window, those clear eyes carrying a depth that saw beyond the surface. "Today was Friday, after all. Many people probably had work events or were still commuting ho. By tomorrow — Saturday night — I believe even more people will be willing to sit before their TVs and watch our 'Midnight Diner' — the drama that heals the soul."

"Good! Then we'll be waiting for the good news!" Asumi's voice rang with certainty.

Yet amid this feverish optimism, Nohara Hiroshi suddenly shifted course.

"By the way, Deputy Director Asumi, Executive Director Takada." He regarded them both, a barely perceptible gravity flickering through his calm eyes. "Has the premiere rating co in for Tokyo City TV's Minamijima Afu and His Beloved Dog?"

The mont the question left his lips, the room's easy atmosphere froze solid.

The smiles slowly faded from Asumi's and Takada Toshihide's faces, replaced by a deeper solemnity.

"It has." Takada Toshihide nodded. He picked up a second docunt from the desk and handed it to Nohara Hiroshi, wariness barely detectable in his voice. "Ten point seven percent."

"Ten point seven?" Nohara Hiroshi studied the figure, one eyebrow lifting slightly.

"Yes." Asumi sighed heavily, his cheerful deanor giving way to resignation. "It can't match your Midnight Diner, of course. But for a brand-new station with a brand-new drama, this is a very respectable result. More importantly, I've heard the show is getting excellent word-of-mouth among young female viewers. They're all saying Kamiki Shunsuke has reached new heights of handsoness."

"It seems this battle will be tougher than we thought." Takada Toshihide's expression grew heavier.

They understood: this wasn't rely a ratings competition. It was a factional war.

And they had only just fired the opening shot.