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The first thing everyone in the Japanese film industry knew about Dazai Osamu was that he was a genius.
The second thing they knew was that he was an asshole.
A meticulous, sharp-tongued tyrant with a cigarette perpetually dangling from his lips and eyes that missed nothing, Dazai had built his reputation on destruction. Careers, egos, and sometimes entire productions were torn apart under his direction—only to be reborn as award-winning masterpieces.
Blockbusters. International accolades. Cannes, Venice, the Academy.
And behind every success was a trail of actors who swore they would never work with him again.
Which made the headline splashed across every entertainment site all the more unsurprising:
LEAD ACTOR QUITS DAZAI OSAMU’S NEW FILM MID-PRODUCTION
What was surprising was that the film didn’t collapse immediately after.
Because Dazai Osamu didn’t panic.
He smiled.
The problem—if one could call it that—stood in the middle of the soundstage, bathed in artificial sunset light.
Chuuya Nakahara adjusted the cuff of his jacket with practiced ease, unbothered by the tension curling through the crew like smoke. His hair was a familiar blaze of orange beneath the lights, unmistakable, iconic. His presence alone bent the room around him.
Singer. Lyricist. Performer.
A phenomenon.
Chuuya had conquered the music industry young—too young, some said. He had shelves of awards, sold-out tours, international recognition, and a fanbase so fiercely loyal they’d start wars online over the colour of his microphone.
And now he was here.
Trying to act.
Not dabble. Not cameo.
Act.
“Again,” Dazai said lazily from behind the monitor, chin resting on his bandaged hand. “That was flat.”
Chuuya’s sharp blue eyes snapped toward him.
“Flat?” he repeated. “You told me to play it restrained.”
“I told you to play it honestly,” Dazai replied. “Those are different things.”
A murmur rippled through the crew. Someone coughed. Someone else pretended to adjust equipment they’d already checked twice.
Chuuya exhaled slowly, visibly reigning himself in.
“I did exactly what was written.”
Dazai hummed. “Yes. And that’s the problem.”
Silence.
Chuuya stepped closer to the monitor, boots heavy against the concrete floor. “Say that again.”
Dazai tilted his head, dark eyes gleaming. “You’re performing. I don’t want a performance. I want something ugly. Something raw. Something that looks like it hurts.”
Chuuya’s mouth curled into a sharp, humorless grin. “Funny. That’s what critics said about your personality.”
A few crew members outright froze.
Dazai blinked.
Then—slowly—he laughed.
Low, delighted, dangerous.
“Oh,” he said softly. “You’re interesting.”
Chuuya leaned down, bracing his hands on the edge of the monitor stand, eyes burning. “And you’re not my producer, director-san. You don’t get to talk down to me like I’m some rookie idol who wandered onto your set by mistake.”
Dazai studied him for a long moment.
Not as a singer.
Not as a celebrity.
But as an asset.
And may the Lord help him—the only one he couldn’t afford to lose.
The truth was ugly.
After the lead actor quit—stormed off set, shouting about emotional abuse and “inhumane directing”—the studio panicked. Investors threatened to pull out. Schedules collapsed. Insurance companies circled like vultures.
The film was already bleeding money.
And Chuuya Nakahara?
He was the only reason it was still breathing.
International appeal. Built-in audience. Press fascination. A gamble that had already paid off during test screenings—because no matter what anyone thought of him, the man could act.
Not politely.
Not gently.
But fiercely. Viscerally. Like he poured his soul straight through the camera lens.
Dazai knew it.
Which meant—for the first time in his career—he had to behave.
It started small.
Rewrites tailored specifically to Chuuya’s strengths.
Longer breaks between takes.
A private dressing room far away from the rest of the cast.
Then coffee appeared on Chuuya’s table every morning—exactly how he liked it.
No one said a word about it.
Least of all Dazai.
“Are you bribing me?” Chuuya asked one day, eyeing the cup suspiciously.
Dazai didn’t look up from his script. “Of course not. That would imply desperation.”
“You’re desperate.”
“Mildly,” Dazai admitted cheerfully.
Chuuya scoffed. “Unbelievable.”
And yet—he stayed.
When Chuuya pushed back on a scene, Dazai listened.
When he demanded changes, Dazai made them.
When Chuuya snapped at him in front of the crew, Dazai smiled like a man enjoying a private joke.
It unnerved everyone.
Especially Chuuya.
One night, after a grueling twelve-hour shoot, Chuuya stormed into Dazai’s temporary office.
“You’re manipulating me,” he accused.
Dazai glanced up from his notes. “Yes.”
Chuuya faltered. “You’re… admitting it?”
“Of course,” Dazai said pleasantly. “I manipulate everyone. The difference is that you noticed.”
“That doesn’t bother you?”
“On the contrary,” Dazai replied, eyes glinting. “It makes me want to keep you.”
The air shifted.
Something dangerous curled between them.
“I won’t be owned,” Chuuya warned.
Dazai stood, stepping closer—careful, deliberate, respectful in a way that felt far more threatening than aggression.
“Oh, Chuuya,” he murmured. “I don’t want to own you.”
A pause.
“I want you to stay.”
For the first time since production began, Chuuya didn’t have a sharp retort ready.
The film wrapped to thunderous applause.
Premieres sold out.
Critics raved.
“Nakahara Chuuya delivers a performance so magnetic it redefines his career.”
“Dazai Osamu’s most restrained—and most devastating—work to date.”
Awards followed. Standing ovations. History made.
At the afterparty, Chuuya found Dazai alone on the balcony, city lights burning beneath them.
“You behaved,” Chuuya said.
Dazai smirked. “I did whatever it took.”
Chuuya crossed his arms. “Even changed yourself.”
Dazai looked at him then—truly looked.
“For you?” he said quietly. “I might.”
Chuuya snorted, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Yes,” Dazai agreed softly. “But you stayed.”
And somehow—despite everything—
That was the most dangerous part of all.