Chapter 37
What’s it like to go from failing to passing an exam in a single day?
Miss An: Thank you for the invitation. I’m personally involved, so I’ll remain anonymous. I can only say it was very sudden, without a shred of warning. It felt like my feelings were being played with. I want to sing a song for the director: “The two of us are so unfair, love and hate are all controlled by you…”
Looking back at the directors Fan An had worked with since her debut, they were all well-known, with popular works and excellent reputations.
But upon careful consideration, she was shocked to realize that not a single one of them was a normal person.
Director Matsuzaka, a genius at location scouting, a pioneer in rushing headfirst into death. His operations were as fierce as a tiger, delivering twenty-four heads to Gin. From then on, he and Fan An were separated by life and death, never to meet again.
Director Kawamura, who had appeared at a cemetery with a shovel at the beginning. A man lost in his own art. When an actor is sacrificed to the heavens, his powers become boundless.
Director Yuko, resourceful and cunning, a master of the yin-yang script, deceiving everyone equally. If you asked, the answer was always “you just don’t understand the creator’s intent.”
Besides the fact that none of them were normal, these three also had one thing in common:
They all liked Fan An.
They admired her very much.
Suspect An: Is this a real-life case of birds of a feather flocking together?
She didn’t understand. She took a big gulp.
The empty glass was placed on the bar. The dark-haired girl raised her arms and shouted, “Another one!”
She had passed the audition. A big celebration was in order!
The girl’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes as bright as stars. Stared at by such a gaze, no one could refuse.
Amuro Tooru poured her a drink. The aroma of Bourbon whisky lingered in the girl’s cascading black hair. She was enveloped in an intoxicating fragrance.
The blond young man felt a little thirsty. He had driven here and couldn’t drink. He poured himself a glass of ice water.
“To celebrate An’an’s great victory,” the two glasses clinked together. “Cheers!”
The cold, strong liquor went down his throat, burning into a scorching fire. The more he drank, the thirstier he got. The thirstier he got, the more he drank.
An’an tilted her head back. The whisky she couldn’t swallow in time trickled down her neck, creating a glistening stream.
She casually wiped it with her palm. The glass tilted forward and clinked against Amuro’s. “I want more.”
The girl’s happiness was overflowing. Amuro could completely understand her joy at this turn of events. He was also very happy for An’an. It was great that she could get what she wanted.
A bar was a place to drown one’s sorrows, and also a place to celebrate with a drink. Compared to her listless state, Amuro preferred her happy, head-shaking appearance.
Although An’an had just said she had reached her limit, today was a happy day. Letting her drink a little more should, probably, maybe, be fine, right?
At this moment, the blond Public Security officer did not know what consequences his indulgent, wishful thinking would bring.
An’an was an honest person. When she said she had reached her limit, she really had. There was no faking it.
After a few glasses of Bourbon, An’an rubbed her burning cheeks and mused, “I feel like a freshly steamed bun.”
No, she wasn’t an ordinary steamed bun. She was a noble, fermented rice wine steamed bun!
“I am the fermented rice wine steamed bun, Miss An, whose value has skyrocketed after playing the lead role,” the girl sat up straight and introduced herself seriously. “My friend from a foreign land, what variety are you?”
The blond, dark-skinned Amuro was speechless. “…”
Is she so drunk she’s starting to talk nonsense?
“An’an’s drinking etiquette is surprisingly good,” Amuro thought. Much more well-behaved than her wild sleeping posture.
She wasn’t loud or disruptive when she was drunk. She just sat obediently, her face in her hands, her mind, which had turned to mush, thinking about how to make the “Miss An” brand of fermented rice wine steamed buns bigger and stronger, to beat the Totsuki Ten and the Super Chefs.
Cute.
“That’s it for today,” Amuro said, cleaning up the bar. The newly opened bottle of Bourbon was almost empty. An’an had indeed drunk a lot.
He said goodbye to the owner and walked behind the dark-haired girl, gently pushing her shoulder. “An’an, we should go back.”
The girl didn’t respond.
She didn’t move, as if she were welded to the bar stool, able to sit at the bar until the end of time.
A sense of foreboding rose in Amuro’s heart. It seemed he had spoken too soon when he had praised An’an’s drinking etiquette.
No, no, how could I think so badly of her? An’an is just numb from the alcohol. Her reaction is just a little slow.
Amuro touched her again. “An’an?”
This time, there was a reaction. The girl, whose boot-up speed beat 0.01% of users, slowly turned around.
Her obsidian-like eyes stared at Amuro, filled with an indescribable emotion.
“You…” An’an said slowly, reaching out and cupping the blond young man’s cheeks.
Amuro was at a loss, forced to meet her gaze, their eyes locking.
In the gradually warming, ambiguous atmosphere, the girl suddenly squeezed her hands inwards.
Amuro, who was caught off guard and had his face squeezed into a duck beak, was speechless. “???”
“Why aren’t you bursting with juice?” An’an asked, puzzled, squeezing again and again.
She kneaded the blond young man’s cheeks. “You’re a fake chocolate-crisp custard bun.”
Friends passing by, please stop. Allow her to formally introduce:
At this moment, in this bar, what was unfolding was the ruthless crusade of a noble, fermented rice wine steamed bun against a foreign, chocolate-crisp custard bun.
This is war!
Amuro struggled to escape from An’an’s hands. She was abnormally interested in the mystery of why the chocolate-crisp custard bun wasn’t bursting with juice and refused to take her palms off his cheeks.
“Can we just go home first?” Amuro coaxed. “I’ll make you a real, juice-bursting chocolate-crisp custard bun when we get back.”
He had never heard of such a dish, but it wasn’t a big problem. He believed that Hiro, in heaven, would bless him with his culinary powers.
Hiromitsu: “Achoo!”
An’an, who was easy to coax when she was sober, was even easier to coax when she was drunk. She nodded vigorously and stood up from the bar stool.
The girl took a solemn step.
Then, her left foot tripped her right, and she fell flat on her face without hesitation.
Amuro closed his eyes.
He looked at An’an, whom he had caught at the last moment, and completely gave up on the idea of communicating with a drunk cat.
“I should have done this from the start.”
Amuro picked her up and held her securely in his arms.
The feeling of being lifted into the air made the girl pause. She tilted her head and stared at the distant floor for a long time, then turned her head to look at Amuro.
“I’ve been captured?” she murmured to herself. “Are you going to sell me?”
An’an was so lost in her fermented rice wine steamed bun persona that she couldn’t extricate herself. What a dedicated actress, never forgetting to be in character.
“I’m not selling you,” Amuro said, playing along. “I’m taking you home to eat myself.”
The fate of a fermented rice wine steamed bun is to be eaten. An’an, a beat too late, accepted her clan’s destiny. She was quiet for a long time.
“…Can you eat me a little more gently?” An’an said in a small voice. “It’s best if you take small bites, so I can live a little longer.”
The lifespan of a fermented rice wine steamed bun is only as long as breakfast time. What a sad fact.
“But An’an kneaded my face very hard,” Amuro said, pretending to think. “Should I get my revenge?”
The dark-haired girl looked at him in shock.
To think there was such a vengeful person in the world. A miscalculation.
“Th-then, at most, I’ll let you knead me back,” the girl’s drunk head spun slowly. She did as she said and reached out to grab Amuro’s hand.
She missed, because the blond young man was holding her with both hands.
If she didn’t let him knead her back, she would be retaliated against, eaten in big bites. An’an was going to die soon!
The desire to live sparked a burst of inspiration in the girl. She thought of a brilliant idea.
A soft touch brushed against Amuro’s cheek. His pupils shrank.
The dark-haired girl pressed her cheek against his, rubbing it clumsily.
…Was this what “letting him knead her back” meant?
She was a genius.
It is said that there are two types of drunk people: one who doesn’t remember what happened after they sober up, and another who remembers everything, replaying it in their mind like a revolving lantern.
Amuro didn’t know which type An’an was. If she remembered, their relationship might become very awkward, which was something Amuro didn’t want.
But if she didn’t remember, it would be a little annoying.
“It’s just cheek to cheek,” Amuro said, not knowing if he was talking to himself or someone else. “It’s nothing.”
He carried the girl to the white Mazda. The moment An’an saw the passenger seat, it was like seeing a cat’s nest. She comfortably snuggled into the seat.
The cool breeze from the open window was pleasant, cooling her alcohol-flushed cheeks.
Her: “Look, the chocolate-crisp custard bun is driving.”
“…” Amuro called her helplessly. “An’an.”
The girl giggled, a mischievous laugh.
She had been full of energy when she first got in the car, but after a while, the undigested alcohol began to take effect. The girl’s eyelids grew heavy, her head nodding like a pecking chicken.
The bar wasn’t far from the Trojan Horse Apartments. Before An’an could fall completely asleep, the white Mazda drove into the apartment parking lot.
The inertia from braking woke the half-asleep girl. Amuro would have preferred her to stay asleep.
That way, he could have just carried her upstairs, instead of debating with a drunk cat about the necessity of her walking up on her own.
A person who could turn a straight line into Brownian motion. Amuro’s trust in her safe landing was zero.
He pulled the girl, who was determined to walk into a wall, back for the third time and didn’t let go of her hand.
An’an, her hand held firmly, was still full of energy. The mischievous drunk discovered that as long as she deliberately walked towards a dangerous place, the blond young man would pull her back, and they would bump into each other.
Like bumper cars. Fun. She loved it.
There were only a few floors, and the elevator was fast, but Amuro still felt that the way home was too long.
They were just one step away from victory. The two of them stood at the door of An’an’s apartment, the dawn of victory in sight.
Amuro: “Where’s the key?”
The girl tilted her head and took a hairpin from her hair, handing it to him.
“Just kidding,” just as Amuro was about to give up and resort to the crooked idea of picking the lock, An’an magically took back the hairpin. “I brought the key.”
“Guess if the key is in the left pocket or the right pocket,” she let out a small hiccup. “If you guess right, I’ll be a good girl and go home to sleep. If you guess wrong…”
Amuro raised an eyebrow. “If I guess wrong, An’an will sleep on the street, under a bridge?”
To use a threatening tone to make him play a guessing game, and to use her own safety as a bet. Did she really think he would be threatened?
…Well, he would.
Whether the key was in the left or right pocket was impossible to tell with the naked eye. Amuro chose to use his hands directly.
After all, the referee was a drunk who couldn’t even walk straight. She couldn’t catch him cheating and could only be bullied by the contestant.
An’an had wanted to say, “If you guess wrong, I’ll sleep in the hallway and quietly, quietly hang myself at your door in the dead of night.”—Who said her threats weren’t powerful enough?
But now, a blatant thief was rummaging through her pockets. She would not allow such rampant cheating.
The super-uncooperative girl had increased the difficulty of the dawn of victory. After a lot of struggle, Amuro finally felt a jagged metal object in her right pocket.
Now, all he had to do was insert the key into the keyhole, turn it, and this tug-of-war would be over.
Amuro couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief.
Suddenly, a cool, moist touch brushed past his cheek.
Trapped in the blond young man’s arms, the struggling, writhing An’an still didn’t know what had happened.
Seeing that her key had been snatched, she looked up angrily. “I told you, no cheating! You…”
Her eyes were covered. She could only hear the low gasps in the quiet night.
Her fluttering eyelashes brushed against Amuro’s palm, bringing a fatal itch.
The eyes are the clearest mirror.
The moment the dark-haired girl looked up, Amuro saw himself in her pupils.
A blurry lipstick mark was smeared on the blond young man’s cheek, leaving an ambiguous color.
The one he had chosen himself. The beautiful crimson.